Guestwick Cottage, December, 186—
MY DEAR JOHN, I am much obliged to you for going to Jones’s. I send stamps for two shillings and fourpence, which is what I owe to you. It used only to be two shillings and twopence, but they say everything has got to be dearer now, and I suppose pills as well as other things. Only think of Pritchard coming to me, and saying she wanted her wages raised, after living with me for twenty years! I was very angry, and scolded her roundly; but as she acknowledged she had been wrong, and cried and begged my pardon, I did give her two guineas a year more.
I saw dear Lily just for a moment on Sunday, and upon my word I think she grows prettier every year. She had a young friend with her—a Miss Crawley—who, I believe, is the cousin I have heard you speak of. What is this sad story about her father, the clergyman? Mind you tell me all about it.
It is quite true what I told you about the De Courcys. Old Lady De Courcy is in London, and Mr. Crosbie is going to law with her about his wife’s money. He has been at it in one way or the other ever since poor Lady Alexandrina died. I wish she had lived, with all my heart. For though I feel sure that our Lily will never willingly see him again, yet the tidings of her death disturbed her, and set her thinking of things that were fading from her mind. I rated her soundly, not mentioning your name, however; but she only kissed me, and told me in her quiet drolling way that I didn’t mean a word of what I said.
You can come here whenever you please after the tenth of January. But if you come early in January you must go to your mother first, and come to me for the last week of your holiday. Go to Blackie’s in Regent Street, and bring me down all the colours in wool that I ordered. I said you would call. And tell them at Dolland’s the last spectacles don’t suit at all, and I won’t keep them; they had better send me down, by you, one or two more pairs to try. And you had better see Smithers and Smith, in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, No 57—but you have been there before—and beg them to let me know how my poor dear brother’s matters are to be settled at last. As far as I can see I shall be dead before I shall know what income I have got to spend. As to my cousins at the manor, I never see them; and as to talking to them about business, I should not dream of it. She hasn’t come to me since she first called, and she may be quite sure I shan’t go to her till she does. Indeed I think we shall like each other apart quite as much as we should together. So let me know when you’re coming, and pray don’t forget to call at Blackie’s; nor yet at Dolland’s, which is much more important than the wool, because of my eyes getting so weak. But what I want you specially to remember is about Smithers and Smith. How is a woman to live if she doesn’t know how much she has got to spend?
Believe me to be, my dear John, Your most sincere friend, Julia De Guest.
Lady Julia always directed her letters for her young friend to his office, and there he received the one now given to the reader. When he had read it he made a memorandum as to the commissions, and then threw himself back in his arm-chair to think over the tidings communicated to him. All the facts stated he had known before; that Lady De Courcy was in London, and that her son-in-law, Mr. Crosbie, whose wife—Lady Alexandrina—had died some twelve months since at Baden Baden, was at variance with her respecting money which he supposed to be due to him. But there was that in Lady Julia’s letter that was wormwood to him. Lily Dale was again thinking of this man, whom she had loved in the old days, and who had treated her with monstrous perfidy! It was all very well for Lady Julia to be sure that Lily Dale would never desire to see Mr. Crosbie again; but John Eames was by no means equally certain that it would be so. “The tidings of her death disturbed her!” said Johnny, repeating to himself certain words out of the old lady’s letter. “I know they disturbed me. I wish she could have lived for ever. If he ever ventures to show himself within ten miles of Allington, I’ll see if I cannot do better than I did the last time I met him!” Then there came a knock at the door, and the private secretary, finding himself to be somewhat annoyed by the disturbance at such a moment, bade the intruder enter in an angry voice. “Oh, it’s you, Cradell, is it? What can I do for you?” Mr. Cradell, who now entered, and who, as before said, was an old ally of John Eames, was a clerk of longer standing in the department than his friend. In age he looked to be much older, and he had left with him none of that appearance of the gloss of youth which will stick for many years to men who are fortunate in their worldly affairs. Indeed it may be said that Mr. Cradell was almost shabby in his outward appearance, and his brow seemed to be laden with care, and his eyes were dull and heavy.
“I thought I’d just come in and ask you how you are,” said Cradell.
“I’m pretty well, thank you; and how are you?”
“Oh, I’m pretty well—in health, that is. You see one has so many things to think of when one has a large family. Upon my word, Johnny, I think you’ve been lucky to keep out of it.”
“I have kept out of it, at any rate; haven’t I?”
“Of course; living with you as much as I used to do, I know the whole story of what kept you single.”
“Don’t mind about that, Cradell; what is it you want?”
“I mustn’t let you suppose, Johnny, that I’m grumbling about my lot. Nobody knows better than you what a trump I got in my wife.”
“Of course you did—an excellent woman.”
“And if I cut you out a little there, I’m sure you never felt malice against me for that.”
“Never for a moment, old fellow.”
“We all have our luck, you know.”
“Your luck has been a wife and family. My luck has been to be a bachelor.”
“You may say a family,” said Cradell. “I’m sure that Amelia does the best she can; but we are desperately pushed sometimes—desperately pushed. I never was so bad, Johnny, as I am now.”
“So you said last time.”
“Did I? I don’t remember it. I didn’t think I was so bad then. But, Johnny, if you can let me have one more fiver now I have made arrangements with Amelia how I’m to pay you off by thirty shillings a month—as I get my salary. Indeed I have. Ask her else.”
“I’ll be shot if I do.”
“Don’t say that, Johnny.”
“It’s no good your Johnnying me, for I won’t be Johnnyed out of another shilling. It comes too often, and there’s no reason why I should do it. And what’s more, I can’t afford it. I’ve people of my own to help.”
“But oh, Johnny, we all know how comfortable you are. And I’m sure no one rejoiced as I did when the money was left to you. If it had been myself I could hardly have thought more of it. Upon my solemn word and honour if you’ll let me have it this time, it shall be the last.”
“Upon my word and honour then, I won’t. There must be an end to everything.”
Although Mr. Cradell would probably, if pressed, have admitted the truth of this last assertion, he did not seem to think that the end had as yet come to his friend’s benevolence. It certainly had not come to his own importunity. “Don’t say that, Johnny; pray don’t.”
“But I do say it.”
“When I told Amelia yesterday evening that I didn’t like to go to you again, because of course a man has feelings, she told me to mention her name. ‘I’m sure he’d do it for my sake,’ she said.”
“I don’t believe she said anything of the kind.”
“Upon my word she did. You ask her.”
“And if she did, she oughtn’t to have said it.”
“Oh, Johnny, don’t speak in that way of her. She’s my wife, and you know what your own feelings were once. But look here—we are in that state at home at this moment, that I must get money somewhere before I go home. I must, indeed. If you’ll let me have three pounds this once, I’ll never ask you again. I’ll give you a written promise if you like, and I’ll pledge myself to pay it back by thirty shillings a time out of the next two months’ salary. I will, indeed.” And then Mr. Cradell began to cry. But when Johnny at last took out his cheque-book and
wrote a cheque for three pounds, Mr. Cradell’s eyes glistened with joy. “Upon my word I am so much obliged to you! You are the best fellow that ever lived. And Amelia will say the same when she hears of it.”
“I don’t believe she’ll say anything of the kind, Cradell. If I remember anything of her, she has a stouter heart than that.” Cradell admitted that his wife had a stouter heart than himself, and then made his way back to his own part of the office.
This little interruption to the current of Mr. Eames’s thoughts was, I think, for the good for the service, as immediately on his friend’s departure he went to his work; whereas, had not he been called away from his reflections about Miss Dale, he would have sat thinking about her affairs probably for the rest of the morning. As it was, he really did write a dozen notes in answer to as many private letters addressed to his chief, Sir Raffle Buffle, in all of which he made excellently-worded false excuses for the non-performance of various requests made to Sir Raffle by the writers. “He’s about the best hand at it that I know,” said Sir Raffle, one day, to the secretary; “otherwise you may be sure I shouldn’t keep him there.” “I will allow that he is clever,” said the secretary. “It isn’t cleverness, so much as tact. It’s what I call tact. I hadn’t been long in the service before I mastered it myself; and now that I’ve been at the trouble to teach him I don’t want to have the trouble to teach another. But upon my word he must mind his p‘s and q‘s; upon my word, he must; and you had better tell him so.” “The fact is, Mr. Kissing,” said the private secretary the next day to the secretary—Mr. Kissing was at that time secretary to the board of commissioners for the receipt of income tax—”The fact is, Mr. Kissing, Sir Raffle should never attempt to write a letter himself. He doesn’t know how to do it. He always says twice too much, and yet not half enough. I wish you’d tell him so. He won’t believe me.” From which it will be seen Mr. Eames was proud of his special accomplishment, but did not feel any gratitude to the master who assumed to himself the glory of having taught him. On the present occasion John Eames wrote all his letters before he thought again of Lily Dale, and was able to write them without interruption, as the chairman was absent for the day at the Treasury—or perhaps at his club. Then, when he had finished, he rang his bell, and ordered some sherry and soda-water, and stretched himself before the fire—as though his exertions in the public service had been very great—and seated himself comfortably in his arm-chair, and lit a cigar, and again took out Lady Julia’s letter.
As regarded the cigar, it may be said that both Sir Raffle and Mr. Kissing had given orders that on no account should cigars be lit within the precincts of the Income-tax Office. Mr. Eames had taken upon himself to understand that such orders did not apply to a private secretary, and was well aware that Sir Raffle knew his habit. To Mr. Kissing, I regret to say, he put himself in opposition whenever and wherever opposition was possible; so that men in the office said that one of the two must go at last. “But Johnny can do anything, you know, because he has got money.” That was too frequently the opinion finally expressed among the men.
So John Eames sat down, and drank his soda-water, and smoked his cigar, and read his letter; or, rather, simply that paragraph of the letter which referred to Miss Dale. “The tidings of her death have disturbed her, and set her thinking again of things that were fading from her mind.” He understood it all. And yet how could it possibly be so? How could it be that she should not despise a man—despise him if she did not hate him—who had behaved as this man had behaved to her? It was now four years since this Crosbie had been engaged to Miss Dale, and had jilted her so heartlessly as to incur the disgust of every man in London who had heard the story. He had married an earl’s daughter, who had left him within a few months of their marriage, and now Mr. Crosbie’s noble wife was dead. The wife was dead, and simply because the man was free again, he, John Eames, was to be told that Miss Dale’s mind was “disturbed”, and that her thoughts were going back to things which had faded from her memory, and which should have been long since banished altogether from such holy ground.
If Lily Dale were now to marry Mr. Crosbie, anything so perversely cruel as the fate of John Eames would never yet have been told in romance. That was his own idea on the matter as he sat smoking his cigar. I have said that he was proud of his constancy, and yet, in some sort, he was also ashamed of it. He acknowledged the fact of his love, and believed himself to have out-Jacobed Jacob; but he felt that it was hard for a man who had risen in the world as he had done to be made a plaything of by a foolish passion. It was now four years ago—that affair of Crosbie—and Miss Dale should have accepted him long since. Half-a-dozen times he had made up his mind to be very stern to her; and he had written somewhat sternly—but the first moment that he saw her he was conquered again. “And now that brute will reappear, and everything will be wrong again,” he said to himself. If the brute did reappear, something should happen of which the world should hear the tidings. So he lit another cigar, and began to think what that something should be.
As he did so he heard a loud noise, as of harsh, rattling winds in the next room, and he knew that Sir Raffle had come back from the Treasury. There was a creaking of boots, and a knocking of chairs, and a ringing of bells, and then a loud angry voice—a voice that was very harsh, and on this occasion very angry. Why had not his twelve o’clock letters been sent up to him to the West End? Why not? Mr. Eames knew all about it. Why did Mr. Eames know all about it? Why had not Mr. Eames sent them up? Where was Mr. Eames? Let Mr. Eames be sent to him. All which Mr. Eames heard standing with the cigar in his mouth and his back to the fire. “Somebody has been bullying old Buffle, I suppose. After all he has been up at the Treasure to-day,” said Eames to himself. But he did not stir till the messenger had been to him, nor even then at once. “All right, Rafferty,” he said; “I’ll go in just now.” Then he took half-a-dozen more whiffs from the cigar, threw the remainder into the fire, and opened the door which communicated between his room and Sir Raffle’s.
The great man was standing with two unopened epistles in his hand. “Eames,” said he, “here are letters—” Then he stopped himself, and began upon another subject. “Did I not give express orders that I would have no smoking in the office?”
“I think Mr. Kissing said something about it, sir.”
“Mr. Kissing! It was not Mr. Kissing at all. It was I. I gave the order myself.”
“You’ll find it began with Mr. Kissing.”
“It did not begin with Mr. Kissing; it began and ended with me. What are you going to do, sir?” John Eames stepped towards the bell, and his hand was already on the bell-pull.
“I was going to ring for the papers, sir.”
“And who told you to ring for the papers? I don’t want the papers. The papers won’t show anything. I suppose my word may be taken without the papers. Since you’re so fond of Mr. Kissing—”
“I’m not fond of Mr. Kissing at all.”
“You’ll have to go back to him, and let somebody come here who will not be too independent to obey my orders. Here are two most important letters have been lying here all day, instead of being sent up to me at the Treasury.”
“Of course they have been lying there. I thought you were at the club.”
“I told you I should go to the Treasury. I have been there all morning with the chancellor,”—when Sir Raffle spoke officially of the chancellor he was not supposed to mean the Lord Chancellor—”and here I find letters which I particularly wanted lying upon my desk now. I must put an end to this kind of thing. I must, indeed. If you like the outer office better say so at once, and you can go.”
“I’ll think about it, Sir Raffle.”
“Think about it! What do you mean by thinking about it? But I can’t talk about that now. I’m very busy, and shall be here till past seven. I suppose you can stay?”
“All night, if you wish it, sir.”
“Very well. That will do for the present.—I wouldn’t have had these letter
s delayed for twenty pounds.”
“I don’t suppose it would have mattered one straw if both of them remained unopened till next week.” This last little speech, however, was not made aloud to Sir Raffle, but by Johnny to himself in the solitude of his own room.
Very soon after that he went away, Sir Raffle having discovered that one of the letters in question required his immediate return to the West End. “I’ve changed my mind about staying. I shan’t stay now. I should have done if these letters had reached me as they ought.”
“Then I suppose I can go?”
“You can do as you like about that,” said Sir Raffle.
Eames did do as he liked, and went home, or to his club; and as he went he resolved that he would put an end, and at once, to the present trouble of his life. Lily Dale should accept him or reject him; and, taking either the one or the other alternative, she should hear a bit of his mind plainly spoken.
CHAPTER XVI
Down at Allington
It was Christmas-time down at Allington, and at three o’clock on Christmas Eve, just as the darkness of the early winter evening was coming on, Lily Dale and Grace Crawley were seated together, one above the other, on the steps leading up to the pulpit in Allington Church. They had been working all day at the decorations of the church, and they were now looking round them at the result of their handiwork. To an eye unused to the gloom the place would have been nearly dark; but they could see every corner turned by the ivy sprigs, and every line on which the holly-leaves were shining. And the greeneries of the winter had not been stuck up in the old-fashioned, idle way, a bough just fastened up here and a twig inserted there; but everything had been done with some meaning, with some thought towards the original architecture of the building. The Gothic lines had been followed, and all the lower arches which it had been possible to reach with an ordinary ladder had been turned as truly with the laurel cuttings as they had been turned originally with the stone.
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