The Small House at Allington
"Good-by, Amelia. Try to make him a good wife and then you'll
be happy." She turned up her nose at this, assuming a look of
unutterable scorn. But she said nothing further, and then he left
the room. At the parlour door he met Mrs. Roper, and had his parting
words with her.
"I am so glad you came," said she. "It was just that word you said
that made Miss Spruce stay. Her money is so ready, you know! And
so you've had it all out with her about Cradell. She'll make him a
good wife, she will indeed;--much better than you've been giving her
credit for."
"I don't doubt she'll be a very good wife."
"You see, Mr. Eames, it's all over now, and we understand each other;
don't we? It made me very unhappy when she was setting her cap at
you; it did indeed. She is my own daughter, and I couldn't go against
her;--could I? But I knew it wasn't in any way suiting. Laws, I know
the difference. She's good enough for him any day of the week, Mr.
Eames."
"That she is,--Saturdays or Sundays," said Johnny, not knowing
exactly what he ought to say.
"So she is; and if he does his duty by her she won't go astray in
hers by him. And as for you, Mr. Eames, I am sure I've always felt it
an honour and a pleasure to have you in the house; and if ever you
could use a good word in sending to me any of your young men, I'd do
by them as a mother should; I would indeed. I know I've been to blame
about those Lupexes, but haven't I suffered for it, Mr. Eames? And it
was difficult to know at first; wasn't it? And as to you and Amelia,
if you would send any of your young men to try, there couldn't be
anything more of that kind, could there? I know it hasn't all been
just as it should have been;--that is as regards you; but I should
like to hear you say that you've found me honest before you went. I
have tried to be honest, I have indeed."
Eames assured her that he was convinced of her honesty, and that
he had never thought of impugning her character either in regard
to those unfortunate people, the Lupexes, or in reference to other
matters. "He did not think," he said, "that any young men would
consult him as to their lodgings; but if he could be of any service
to her, he would." Then he bade her good-by, and having bestowed
half-a-sovereign on the faithful Jemima, he took a long farewell of
Burton Crescent. Amelia had told him not to come and see her when she
should be married, and he had resolved that he would take her at her
word. So he walked off from the Crescent, not exactly shaking the
dust from his feet, but resolving that he would know no more either
of its dust or of its dirt. Dirt enough he had encountered there
certainly, and he was now old enough to feel that the inmates of Mrs.
Roper's house had not been those among whom a resting-place for his
early years should judiciously have been sought. But he had come out
of the fire comparatively unharmed, and I regret to say that he felt
but little for the terrible scorchings to which his friend had been
subjected and was about to subject himself. He was quite content to
look at the matter exactly as it was looked at by Mrs. Roper. Amelia
was good enough for Joseph Cradell--any day of the week. Poor
Cradell, of whom in these pages after this notice no more will be
heard! I cannot but think that a hard measure of justice was meted
out to him, in proportion to the extent of his sins. More weak and
foolish than our friend and hero he had been, but not to my knowledge
more wicked. But it is to the vain and foolish that the punishments
fall;--and to them they fall so thickly and constantly that the
thinker is driven to think that vanity and folly are of all sins
those which may be the least forgiven. As for Cradell I may declare
that he did marry Amelia, that he did, with some pride, take the
place of master of the house at the bottom of Mrs. Roper's table, and
that he did make himself responsible for all Mrs. Roper's debts. Of
his future fortunes there is not space to speak in these pages.
Going away from the Crescent Eames had himself driven to his office,
which he reached just as the men were leaving it, at four o'clock.
Cradell was gone, so that he did not see him on that afternoon; but
he had an opportunity of shaking hands with Mr. Love, who treated
him with all the smiling courtesy due to an official bigwig,--for
a private secretary, if not absolutely a big-wig, is semi-big, and
entitled to a certain amount of reverence;--and he passed Mr. Kissing
in the passage, hurrying along as usual with a huge book under
his arm. Mr. Kissing, hurried as he was, stopped his shuffling
feet; but Eames only looked at him, hardly honouring him with the
acknowledgment of a nod of his head. Mr. Kissing, however, was
not offended; he knew that the private secretary of the First
Commissioner had been the guest of an earl; and what more than a nod
could be expected from him? After that John made his way into the
august presence of Sir Raffle, and found that great man putting on
his shoes in the presence of FitzHoward. FitzHoward blushed; but the
shoes had not been touched by him, as he took occasion afterwards to
inform John Eames.
Sir Raffle was all smiles and civility. "Delighted to see you
back, Eames: am, upon my word; though I and FitzHoward have got on
capitally in your absence; haven't we, FitzHoward?"
"Oh, yes," drawled FitzHoward. "I haven't minded it for a time, just
while Eames has been away."
"You're much too idle to keep at it, I know; but your bread will be
buttered for you elsewhere, so it doesn't signify. My compliments to
the duchess when you see her." Then FitzHoward went. "And how's my
dear old friend?" asked Sir Raffle, as though of all men living Lord
De Guest were the one for whom he had the strongest and the oldest
love. And yet he must have known that John Eames knew as much about
it as he did himself. But there are men who have the most lively
gratification in calling lords and marquises their friends, though
they know that nobody believes a word of what they say,--even though
they know how great is the odium they incur, and how lasting is the
ridicule which their vanity produces. It is a gentle insanity which
prevails in the outer courts of every aristocracy; and as it brings
with itself considerable annoyance and but a lukewarm pleasure, it
should not be treated with too keen a severity.
"And how's my dear old friend?" Eames assured him that his dear old
friend was all right, that Lady Julia was all right, that the dear
old place was all right. Sir Raffle now spoke as though the "dear
old place" were quite well known to him. "Was the game doing pretty
well? Was there a promise of birds?" Sir Raffle's anxiety was
quite intense, and expressed with almost familiar affection. "And,
by-the-by, Eames, where are you living at present?"
"Well, I'm not settled. I'm at the Great Western Railway Hotel at
this moment."
"Capital house, very; only it's expensive if you stay there the whole
season." Johnny had no idea of remaining there beyond one night, but
he said nothing as to this. "By-the-by, you might as well come and
dine with us to-morrow. Lady Buffle is most anxious to know you.
There'll be one or two with us. I did ask my friend Dumbello, but
there's some nonsense going on in the House, and he thinks that he
can't get away." Johnny was more gracious than Lord Dumbello, and
accepted the invitation. "I wonder what Lady Buffle will be like?" he
said to himself, as he walked away from the office.
He had turned into the Great Western Hotel, not as yet knowing where
to look for a home; and there we will leave him, eating his solitary
mutton-chop at one of those tables which are so comfortable to the
eye, but which are so comfortless in reality. I speak not now with
reference to the excellent establishment which has been named, but
to the nature of such tables in general. A solitary mutton-chop in
an hotel coffee-room is not a banquet to be envied by any god; and
if the mutton-chop be converted into soup, fish, little dishes,
big dishes, and the rest, the matter becomes worse and not better.
What comfort are you to have, seated alone on that horsehair chair,
staring into the room and watching the waiters as they whisk about
their towels? No one but an Englishman has ever yet thought of
subjecting himself to such a position as that! But here we will leave
John Eames, and in doing so I must be allowed to declare that only
now, at this moment, has he entered on his manhood. Hitherto he
has been a hobbledehoy,--a calf, as it were, who had carried his
calfishness later into life than is common with calves; but who did
not, perhaps, on that account, give promise of making a worse ox than
the rest of them. His life hitherto, as recorded in these pages, had
afforded him no brilliant success, had hardly qualified him for the
role of hero which he has been made to play. I feel that I have been
in fault in giving such prominence to a hobbledehoy, and that I
should have told my story better had I brought Mr. Crosbie more
conspicuously forward on my canvas. He at any rate has gotten to
himself a wife--as a hero always should do; whereas I must leave my
poor friend Johnny without any matrimonial prospects.
It was thus that he thought of himself as he sat moping over his
solitary table in the hotel coffee-room. He acknowledged to himself
that he had not hitherto been a man; but at the same time he made
some resolution which, I trust, may assist him in commencing his
manhood from this date.
CHAPTER LX.
CONCLUSION.
It was early in June that Lily went up to her uncle at the Great
House, pleading for Hopkins,--pleading that to Hopkins might be
restored all the privileges of head gardener at the Great House.
There was some absurdity in this, seeing that he had never really
relinquished his privileges; but the manner of the quarrel had been
in this wise.
There was in those days, and had been for years, a vexed question
between Hopkins and Jolliffe the bailiff on the matter of--stable
manure. Hopkins had pretended to the right of taking what he required
from the farmyard, without asking leave of any one. Jolliffe in
return had hinted, that if this were so, Hopkins would take it all.
"But I can't eat it," Hopkins had said. Jolliffe merely grunted,
signifying by the grunt, as Hopkins thought, that though a gardener
couldn't eat a mountain of manure fifty feet long and fifteen
high--couldn't eat in the body,--he might convert it into things
edible for his own personal use. And so there had been a great feud.
The unfortunate squire had of course been called on to arbitrate, and
having postponed his decision by every contrivance possible to him,
had at last been driven by Jolliffe to declare that Hopkins should
take nothing that was not assigned to him. Hopkins, when the decision
was made known to him by his master, bit his old lips, and turned
round upon his old heel, speechless. "You'll find it's so at all
other places," said the squire, apologetically. "Other places!"
sneered Hopkins. Where would he find other gardeners like himself?
It is hardly necessary to declare that from that moment he resolved
that he would abide by no such order. Jolliffe on the next morning
informed the squire that the order had been broken, and the squire
fretted and fumed, wishing that Jolliffe were well buried under the
mountain in question. "If they all is to do as they like," said
Jolliffe, "then nobody won't care for nobody." The squire understood
that an order if given must be obeyed, and therefore, with many inner
groanings of the spirit, resolved that war must be waged against
Hopkins.
On the following morning he found the old man himself wheeling a huge
barrow of manure round from the yard into the kitchen-garden. Now, on