THE SMALL HOUSE AT ALLINGTON. Anthony Trollope
we are to lose you. But it’s a great thing for you to be going up to London.”
“Well, yes. I suppose it is. I’d sooner remain here, though.”
“What! stay here, doing nothing! I am sure you would not.”
“Of course, I should like to do something. I mean—”
“You mean that it is painful to part with old friends; and I’m sure that we all feel that at parting with you. But you’ll have a holiday sometimes, and then we shall see you.”
“Yes; of course, I shall see you then. I think, Lily, I shall care more about seeing you than anybody.”
“Oh, no, John. There’ll be your own mother and sister.”
“Yes; there’ll be mother and Mary, of course. But I will come over here the very first day,—that is, if you’ll care to see me?”
“We shall care to see you very much. You know that. And—dear John, I do hope you’ll be happy.”
There was a tone in her voice as she spoke which almost upset him; or, I should rather say, which almost put him up upon his legs and made him speak; but its ultimate effect was less powerful. “Do you?” said he, as he held her hand for a few happy seconds. “And I’m sure I hope you’ll always be happy. Goodbye, Lily.” Then he left her, returning to the house, and she continued her walk, wandering down among the trees in the shrubbery, and not showing herself for the next half hour. How many girls have some such lover as that,—a lover who says no more to them than Johnny Eames then said to Lily Dale, who never says more than that? And yet when, in after years, they count over the names of all who have loved them, the name of that awkward youth is never forgotten.
That farewell had been spoken nearly two years since, and Lily Dale was then seventeen. Since that time, John Eames had been home once, and during his month’s holiday had often visited Allington. But he had never improved upon that occasion of which I have told. It had seemed to him that Lily was colder to him than in old days, and he had become, if anything, more shy in his ways with her. He was to return to Guestwick again during this autumn; but, to tell honestly the truth in the matter, Lily Dale did not think or care very much for his coming. Girls of nineteen do not care for lovers of one-and-twenty, unless it be when the fruit has had the advantage of some forcing apparatus or southern wall.
John Eames’s love was still as hot as ever, having been sustained on poetry, and kept alive, perhaps, by some close confidence in the ears of a brother clerk; but it is not to be supposed that during these two years he had been a melancholy lover. It might, perhaps, have been better for him had his disposition led him to that line of life. Such, however, had not been the case. He had already abandoned the flute on which he had learned to sound three sad notes before he left Guestwick, and, after the fifth or sixth Sunday, he had relinquished his solitary walks along the towing-path of the Regent’s Park Canal. To think of one’s absent love is very sweet; but it becomes monotonous after a mile or two of a towing-path, and the mind will turn away to Aunt Sally, the Cremorne Gardens, and financial questions. I doubt whether any girl would be satisfied with her lover’s mind if she knew the whole of it.
“I say, Caudle, I wonder whether a fellow could get into a club?”
This proposition was made, on one of those Sunday walks, by John Eames to the friend of his bosom, a brother clerk, whose legitimate name was Cradell, and who was therefore called Caudle by his friends.
“Get into a club? Fisher in our room belongs to a club.”
“That’s only a chess-club. I mean a regular club.”
“One of the swell ones at the West End?” said Cradell, almost lost in admiration at the ambition of his friend.
“I shouldn’t want it to be particularly swell. If a man isn’t a swell, I don’t see what he gets by going among those who are. But it is so uncommon slow at Mother Roper’s.” Now Mrs Roper was a respectable lady, who kept a boarding-house in Burton Crescent, and to whom Mrs Eames had been strongly recommended when she was desirous of finding a specially safe domicile for her son. For the first year of his life in London John Eames had lived alone in lodgings; but that had resulted in discomfort, solitude, and, alas! in some amount of debt, which had come heavily on the poor widow. Now, for the second year, some safer mode of life was necessary. She had learned that Mrs Cradell, the widow of a barrister, who had also succeeded in getting her son into the Income-tax Office, had placed him in charge of Mrs Roper; and she, with many injunctions to that motherly woman, submitted her own boy to the same custody.
“And about going to church?” Mrs Eames had said to Mrs Roper.
“I don’t suppose I can look after that, ma’am,” Mrs Roper had answered, conscientiously. “Young gentlemen choose mostly their own churches.”
“But they do go?” asked the mother, very anxious in her heart as to this new life in which her boy was to be left to follow in so many things the guidance of his own lights.
“They who have been brought up steady do so, mostly.”
“He has been brought up steady, Mrs Roper. He has, indeed. And you won’t give him a latchkey?”
“Well, they always do ask for it.”
“But he won’t insist, if you tell him that I had rather that he shouldn’t have one.”
Mrs Roper promised accordingly, and Johnny Eames was left under her charge. He did ask for the latchkey, and Mrs Roper answered as she was bidden. But he asked again, having been sophisticated by the philosophy of Cradell, and then Mrs Roper handed him the key. She was a woman who plumed herself on being as good as her word, not understanding that any one could justly demand from her more than that. She gave Johnny Eames the key, as doubtless she had intended to do; for Mrs Roper knew the world, and understood that young men without latchkeys would not remain with her.
“I thought you didn’t seem to find it so dull since Amelia came home,” said Cradell.
“Amelia! What’s Amelia to me? I have told you everything, Cradell, and yet you can talk to me about Amelia Roper!”
“Come now, Johnny—.” He had always been called Johnny, and the name had gone with him to his office. Even Amelia Roper had called him Johnny on more than one occasion before this. “You were as sweet to her the other night as though there were no such person as L. D. in existence.” John Eames turned away and shook his head. Nevertheless, the words of his friend were grateful to him. The character of a Don Juan was not unpleasant to his imagination, and he liked to think that he might amuse Amelia Roper with a passing word, though his heart was true to Lilian Dale. In truth, however, many more of the passing words had been spoken by the fair Amelia than by him.
Mrs Roper had been quite as good as her word when she told Mrs Eames that her household was composed of herself, of a son who was in an attorney’s office, of an ancient maiden cousin, named Miss Spruce, who lodged with her, and of Mr Cradell. The divine Amelia had not then been living with her, and the nature of the statement which she was making by no means compelled her to inform Mrs Eames that the young lady would probably return home in the following winter. A Mr and Mrs Lupex had also joined the family lately, and Mrs Roper’s house was now supposed to be full.
And it must be acknowledged that Johnny Eames had, in certain unguarded moments, confided to Cradell the secret of a second weaker passion for Amelia. “She is a fine girl,—a deuced fine girl!” Johnny Eames had said, using a style of language which he had learned since he left Guestwick and Allington. Mr Cradell, also, was an admirer of the fair sex; and, alas! that I should say so, Mrs Lupex, at the present moment, was the object of his admiration. Not that he entertained the slightest idea of wronging Mr Lupex,—a man who was a scene-painter, and knew the world. Mr Cradell admired Mrs Lupex as a connoisseur, not simply as a man. “By heavens! Johnny, what a figure that woman has!” he said, one morning, as they were walking to their office.
“Yes; she stands well on her pins.”
“I