The Small House at Allington
beast to market any better than a child. By-the-by, they have put you
into a public office, haven't they?"
"Yes, my lord."
"And a very good thing, too,--a very good thing, indeed. But why were
you asleep in the wood? It isn't warm, you know. I call it rather
cold." And the earl stopped, and looked at him, scrutinizing him, as
though resolved to inquire into so deep a mystery.
"I was taking a walk, and thinking of something, I sat down."
"Leave of absence, I suppose?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Have you got into trouble? You look as though you were in trouble.
Your poor father used to be in trouble."
"I haven't taken to farming," said Johnny, with an attempt at a
smile.
"Ha, ha, ha,--quite right. No, don't take to farming. Unless you
learn it, you know, you might just as well take to shoemaking;--just
the same. You haven't got into trouble, then; eh?"
"No, my lord, not particularly."
"Not particularly! I know very well that young men do get into
trouble when they get up to London. If you want any--any advice, or
that sort of thing, you may come to me; for I knew your father well.
Do you like shooting?"
"I never did shoot anything."
"Well, perhaps better not. To tell the truth, I'm not very fond of
young men who take to shooting without having anything to shoot at.
By-the-by, now I think of it, I'll send your mother some game." It
may, however, here be fair to mention that game very often came
from Guestwick Manor to Mrs. Eames. "And look here, cold pheasant
for breakfast is the best thing I know of. Pheasants at dinner are
rubbish,--mere rubbish. Here we are at the house. Will you come in
and have a glass of wine?"
But this John Eames declined, pleasing the earl better by doing
so than he would have done by accepting it. Not that the lord was
inhospitable or insincere in his offer, but he preferred that such a
one as John Eames should receive his proffered familiarity without
too much immediate assurance. He felt that Eames was a little in awe
of his companion's rank, and he liked him the better for it. He liked
him the better for it, and was a man apt to remember his likings. "If
you won't come in, good-by," and he gave Johnny his hand.
"Good evening, my lord," said Johnny.
"And remember this; it is the deuce of a thing to have rheumatism in
your loins. I wouldn't go to sleep under a tree, if I were you,--not
in October. But you're always welcome to go anywhere about the
place."
"Thank you, my lord."
"And if you should take to shooting,--but I dare say you won't; and
if you come to trouble, and want advice, or that sort of thing, write
to me. I knew your father well." And so they parted, Eames returning
on his road towards Guestwick.
For some reason, which he could not define, he felt better after
his interview with the earl. There had been something about the fat,
good-natured, sensible old man, which had cheered him, in spite of
his sorrow. "Pheasants for dinner are rubbish,--mere rubbish," he
said to himself, over and over again, as he went along the road;
and they were the first words which he spoke to his mother, after
entering the house.
"I wish we had some of that sort of rubbish," said she.
"So you will, to-morrow;" and then he described to her his interview.
"The earl was, at any rate, quite right about lying upon the ground.
I wonder you can be so foolish. And he is right about your poor
father too. But you have got to change your boots; and we shall be
ready for dinner almost immediately."
But Johnny Eames, before he sat down to dinner, did write his letter
to Amelia, and did go out to post it with his own hands,--much to his
mother's annoyance. But the letter would not get itself written in
that strong and appropriate language which had come to him as he was
roaming through the woods. It was a bald letter, and somewhat
cowardly withal.
DEAR AMELIA [the letter ran],--I have received both of
yours; and did not answer the first because I felt that
there was a difficulty in expressing what I wish to say;
and now it will be better that you should allow the
subject to stand over till I am back in town. I shall be
there in ten days from this. I have been quite well, and
am so; but of course am much obliged by your inquiries.
I know you will think this very cold; but when I tell you
everything, you will agree with me that it is best. If I
were to marry, I know that we should be unhappy, because
we should have nothing to live on. If I have ever said
anything to deceive you, I beg your pardon with all my
heart;--but perhaps it will be better to let the subject
remain till we shall meet again in London.
Believe me to be
Your most sincere friend,
And I may say admirer,--[Oh, John Eames!]
JOHN EAMES.
CHAPTER XV.
THE LAST DAY.
Last days are wretched days; and so are last moments wretched
moments. It is not the fact that the parting is coming which makes
these days and moments so wretched, but the feeling that something
special is expected from them, which something they always fail to
produce. Spasmodic periods of pleasure, of affection, or even of
study, seldom fail of disappointment when premeditated. When last
days are coming, they should be allowed to come and to glide away
without special notice or mention. And as for last moments, there
should be none such. Let them ever be ended, even before their
presence has been acknowledged.
But Lily Dale had not yet been taught these lessons by her world's
experience, and she expected that this sweetest cup of which she had
ever drank should go on being sweet--sweeter and still sweeter--as
long as she could press it to her lips. How the dregs had come to
mix themselves with the last drops we have already seen; and on that
same day--on the Monday evening--the bitter task still remained; for
Crosbie, as they walked about through the gardens in the evening,
found other subjects on which he thought it necessary to give her
sundry hints, intended for her edification, which came to her with
much of the savour of a lecture. A girl, when she is thoroughly in
love, as surely was the case with Lily, likes to receive hints as
to her future life from the man to whom she is devoted; but she
would, I think, prefer that such hints should be short, and that the
lesson should be implied rather than declared;--that they should, in
fact, be hints and not lectures. Crosbie, who was a man of tact, who
understood the world and had been dealing with women for many years,
no doubt understood all this as well as we do. But he had come to
entertain a notion that he was an injured man, that he was giving
very much more than was to be given to him, and that therefore he
was entitled to take liberties which might not fairly be within
the reach of another lover. My reader will say that in all this he
was ungenerous. Well; he was ungenerous. I do not know that I have
ever said that much generosity was to be expected from him. He had
some principles of right and wrong under the guidance of which it
may perhaps be hoped that he will not go utterly astray; but his
past life had not been of a nature to make him unselfish. He was
ungenerous, and Lily felt it, though she would not acknowledge it
even to herself. She had been very open with him,--acknowledging the
depth of her love for him; telling him that he was now all in all to
her; that life without his love would be impossible to her: and in a
certain way he took advantage of these strong avowals, treating her
as though she were a creature utterly in his power;--as indeed she
was.
On that evening he said no more of Johnny Eames, but said much of
the difficulty of a man establishing himself with a wife in London,
who had nothing but his own moderate income on which to rely. He did
not in so many words tell her that if her friends could make up for
her two or three thousand pounds,--that being much less than he had
expected when he first made his offer,--this terrible difficulty
would be removed; but he said enough to make her understand that the
world would call him very imprudent in taking a girl who had nothing.
And as he spoke of these things, Lily remaining for the most part
silent as he did so, it occurred to him that he might talk to her
freely of his past life,--more freely than he would have done had he
feared that he might lose her by any such disclosures. He had no fear
of losing her. Alas! might it not be possible that he had some such
hope!
He told her that his past life had been expensive; that, though he
was not in debt, he had lived up to every shilling that he had, and
that he had contracted habits of expenditure which it would be almost
impossible for him to lay aside at a day's notice. Then he spoke of
entanglements, meaning, as he did so, to explain more fully what were
their nature,--but not daring to do so when he found that Lily was
altogether in the dark as to what he meant. No; he was not a generous
man,--a very ungenerous man. And yet, during all this time, he
thought that he was guided by principle. "It will be best that I
should be honest with her," he said to himself. And then he told
himself, scores of times, that when making his offer he had expected,
and had a right to expect, that she would not be penniless. Under
those circumstances he had done the best he could for her--offering
her his heart honestly, with a quick readiness to make her his own
at the earliest day that she might think possible. Had he been more
cautious, he need not have fallen into this cruel mistake; but she,
at any rate, could not quarrel with him for his imprudence. And
still he was determined to stand by his engagement and willing to
marry her, although, as he the more thought of it, he felt the more
strongly that he would thereby ruin his prospects, and thrust beyond
his own reach all those good things which he had hoped to win. As
he continued to talk to her he gave himself special credit for his
generosity, and felt that he was only doing his duty by her in
pointing out to her all the difficulties which lay in the way of
their marriage.
At first Lily said some words intended to convey an assurance that
she would be the most economical wife that man ever had, but she soon
ceased from such promises as these. Her perceptions were keen, and
she discovered that the difficulties of which he was afraid were
those which he must overcome before his marriage, not any which might
be expected to overwhelm him after it. "A cheap and nasty ménage
would be my aversion," he said to her. "It is that which I want to
avoid,--chiefly for your sake." Then she promised him that she would
wait patiently for his time--"even though it should be for seven
years," she said, looking up into his face and trying to find there
some sign of approbation. "That's nonsense," he said. "People are
not patriarchs now-a-days. I suppose we shall have to wait two years.
And that's a deuce of a bore,--a terrible bore." And there was that
in the tone of his voice which grated on her feelings, and made her
wretched for the moment.
As he parted with her for the night on her own side of the little
bridge which led from one garden to the other, he put his arm round
her to embrace her and kiss her, as he had often done at that spot.
It had become a habit with them to say their evening farewells there,
and the secluded little nook amongst the shrubs was inexpressibly
dear to Lily. But on the present occasion she made an effort to avoid
his caress. She turned from him--very slightly, but it was enough,
and he felt it. "Are you angry with me?" he said. "Oh, no! Adolphus;
how can I be angry with you?" And then she turned to him and gave
him her face to kiss almost before he had again asked for it. "He