“That would be hardly possible,” said Mrs. Dale. “It only wants three weeks—and with the house in such a condition!”
“James is joking,” said Bell.
“I was not joking at all,” said the doctor.
“Why not send for Mr. Boyce, and carry her off at once on a pillion behind you?” said Lily. “It’s just the sort of thing for primitive people to do, like you and Bell. All the same, Bell, I do wish you could have been married from this house.”
“I don’t think it will make much difference,” said Bell.
“Only if you would have waited till summer we would have had such a nice party on the lawn. It sounds so ugly, being married from lodgings; doesn’t it, mamma?”
“It doesn’t sound at all ugly to me,” said Bell.
“I shall always call you Dame Commonplace when you’re married,” said Lily.
Then they had tea, and after tea Dr. Crofts got on his horse and rode back to Guestwick.
“Now may I talk about him?” said Lily, as soon as the door was closed behind his back.
“No; you may not.”
“As if I hadn’t known it all along! And wasn’t it hard to bear that you should have scolded me with such pertinacious austerity, and that I wasn’t to say a word in answer!”
“I don’t remember the austerity,” said Mrs. Dale.
“Nor yet Lily’s silence,” said Bell.
“But it’s all settled now,” said Lily, “and I’m downright happy. I never felt more satisfaction—never, Bell!”
“Nor did I,” said her mother; “I may truly say that I thank God for this good thing.”
CHAPTER LI
John Eames Does Things Which He Ought Not to Have Done
John Eames succeeded in making his bargain with Sir Raffle Buffle. He accepted the private-secretaryship on the plainly expressed condition that he was to have leave of absence for a fortnight towards the end of April. Having arranged this he took an affectionate leave of Mr. Love, who was really much affected at parting with him, discussed valedictory pots of porter in the big room, over which many wishes were expressed that he might be enabled to compass the length and breadth of old Ruffle’s feet, uttered a last cutting joke at Mr. Kissing as he met that gentleman hurrying through the passages with an enormous ledger in his hands, and then took his place in the comfortable arm-chair which FitzHoward had been forced to relinquish.
“Don’t tell any of the fellows,” said Fitz, “but I’m going to cut the concern altogether. My governor wouldn’t let me stop here in any other place than that of private secretary.”
“Ah, your governor is a swell,” said Eames.
“I don’t know about that,” said FitzHoward. “Of course he has a good deal of family interest. My cousin is to come in for St. Bungay at the next election, and then I can do better than remain here.”
“That’s a matter of course;” said Eames. “If my cousin were Member for St. Bungay, I’d never stand anything east of Whitehall.”
“And I don’t mean,” said FitzHoward. “This room, you know, is all very nice; but it is a bore coming into the City every day. And then one doesn’t like to be rung for like a servant. Not that I mean to put you out of conceit with it.”
“It will do very well for me,” said Eames. “I never was very particular.” And so they parted, Eames assuming the beautiful arm-chair and the peril of being asked to carry Sir Raffle’s shoes, while FitzHoward took the vacant desk in the big room till such time as some member of his family should come into Parliament for the borough of St. Bungay.
But Eames, though he drank the porter, and quizzed FitzHoward, and gibed at Kissing, did not seat himself in his new arm-chair without some serious thoughts. He was aware that his career in London had not hitherto been one on which he could look back with self-respect. He had lived with friends whom he did not esteem; he had been idle, and sometimes worse than idle; and he had allowed himself to be hampered by the pretended love of a woman for whom he had never felt any true affection, and by whom he had been cozened out of various foolish promises which even yet were hanging over his head. As he sat with Sir Raffle’s notes before him, he thought almost with horror of the men and women in Burton Crescent. It was now about three years since he had first known Cradell, and he shuddered as he remembered how very poor a creature was he whom he had chosen for his bosom friend. He could not make for himself those excuses which we can make for him. He could not tell himself that he had been driven by circumstances to choose a friend, before he had learned to know what were the requisites for which he should look. He had lived on terms of closest intimacy with this man for three years, and now his eyes were opening themselves to the nature of his friend’s character. Cradell was in age three years his senior. “I won’t drop him,” he said to himself; “but he is a poor creature.” He thought, too, of the Lupexes, of Miss Spruce, and of Mrs. Roper, and tried to imagine what Lily Dale would do if she found herself among such people. It would be impossible that she should ever so find herself. He might as well ask her to drink at the bar of a gin shop as to sit down in Mrs. Roper’s drawing-room. If destiny had in store for him such good fortune as that of calling Lily his own, it was necessary that he should altogether alter his mode of life.
In truth his hobbledehoyhood was dropping off from him, as its old skin drops from a snake. Much of the feeling and something of the knowledge of manhood was coming on him, and he was beginning to recognise to himself that the future manner of his life must be to him a matter of very serious concern. No such thought had come near him when he first established himself in London. It seems to me that in this respect the fathers and mothers of the present generation understand but little of the inward nature of the young men for whom they are so anxious. They give them credit for so much that it is impossible they should have, and then deny them credit for so much that they possess! They expect from them when boys the discretion of men—that discretion which comes from thinking; but will not give them credit for any of that power of thought which alone can ultimately produce good conduct. Young men are generally thoughtful—more thoughtful than their seniors; but the fruit of their thought is not as yet there. And then so little is done for the amusement of lads who are turned loose into London at nineteen or twenty. Can it be that any mother really expects her son to sit alone evening after evening in a dingy room drinking bad tea, and reading good books? And yet it seems that mothers do so expect—the very mothers who talk about the thoughtlessness of youth! O ye mothers who from year to year see your sons launched forth upon the perils of the world, and who are so careful with your good advice, with under flannel shirting, with books of devotion and tooth-powder, does it never occur to you that provision should be made for amusement, for dancing, for parties, for the excitement and comfort of women’s society? That excitement your sons will have, and if it be not provided by you of one kind, will certainly be provided by themselves of another kind. If I were a mother sending lads out into the world, the matter most in my mind would be this—to what houses full of nicest girls could I get them admission, so that they might do their flirting in good company.
Poor John Eames had been so placed that he had been driven to do his flirting in very bad company, and he was now fully aware that it had been so. It wanted but two days to his departure for Guestwick Manor, and as he sat breathing a while after the manufacture of a large batch of Sir Raffle’s notes, he made up his mind that he would give Mrs. Roper notice before he started, that on his return to London he would be seen no more in Burton Crescent. He would break his bonds altogether asunder, and if there should be any penalty for such breaking he would pay it in what best manner he might be able. He acknowledged to himself that he had been behaving badly to Amelia, confessing, indeed, more sin in that respect than he had in truth committed; but this, at any rate, was clear to him, that he must put himself on a proper footing in that quarter before he could venture to speak to Lily Dale.
As he came to a definite conclusion on this subject the little handbell which always stood on Sir Raffle’s table was sounded, and Eames was called into the presence of the great man. “Ah,” said Sir Raffle, leaning back in his arm-chair, and stretching himself after the great exertions which he had been making—”Ah, let me see! You are going out of town the day after to-morrow.”
“Yes, Sir Raffle, the day after to-morrow.”
“Ah! it’s a great annoyance—a very great annoyance. But on such occasions I never think of myself. I never have done so, and don’t suppose I ever shall. So you’re going down to my old friend De Guest?”
Eames was always angered when his new patron Sir Raffle talked of his old friendship with the earl, and never gave the Commissioner any encouragement. “I am going down to Guestwick,” said he.
“Ah! yes; to Guestwick Manor? I don’t remember that I was ever there. I dare say I may have been, but one forgets those things.”
“I never heard Lord De Guest speak of it.”
“Oh, dear, no. Why should his memory be better than mine? Tell him, will you, how very glad I shall be to renew our old intimacy. I should think nothing of running down to him for a day or two in the dull time of the year—say in September or October. It’s rather a coincidence our both being interested about you—isn’t it?”
“I’ll be sure to tell him.”
“Mind you do. He’s one of our most thoroughly independent noblemen, and I respect him very highly. Let me see; didn’t I ring my bell? What was it I wanted? I think I rang my bell.”
“You did ring your bell.”
“Ah, yes; I know. I am going away, and I wanted my—would you tell Rafferty to bring me—my boots?” Whereupon Johnny rang the bell—not the little handbell, but the other bell. “And I shan’t be here to-morrow,” continued Sir Raffle. “I’ll thank you to send my letters up to the square; and if they should send down from the Treasury—but the Chancellor would write, and in that case you’ll send up his letter at once by a special messenger, of course.”
“Here’s Rafferty,” said Eames, determined that he would not even sully his lips with speaking of Sir Raffle’s boots.
“Oh, ah, yes; Rafferty, bring me my boots.”
“Anything else to say?” asked Eames.
“No, nothing else. Of course you’ll be careful to leave everything straight behind you.”
“Oh, yes; I’ll leave it all straight.” Then Eames withdrew, so that he might not be present at the interview between Sir Raffle and his boots. “He’ll not do,” said Sir Raffle to himself. “He’ll never do. He’s not quick enough—has no go in him. He’s not man enough for the place. I wonder why the earl has taken him by the hand in that way.”
Soon after the little episode of the boots Eames left his office, and walked home alone to Burton Crescent. He felt that he had gained a victory in Sir Raffle’s room, but the victory there had been easy. Now he had another battle on his hands, in which, as he believed, the achievement of victory would be much more difficult. Amelia Roper was a person much more to be feared than the Chief Commissioner. He had one strong arrow in his quiver on which he would depend, if there should come to him the necessity of giving his enemy a death-wound. During the last week she had been making powerful love to Cradell, so as to justify the punishment of desertion from a former lover. He would not throw Cradell in her teeth if he could help it; but it was incumbent on him to gain a victory, and if the worst should come to the worst, he must use such weapons as destiny and the chance of war had given him.
He found Mrs. Roper in the dining-room as he entered, and immediately began his work. “Mrs. Roper,” he said, “I’m going out of town the day after to-morrow.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Eames, we know that. You’re going as a visitor to the noble mansion of the Earl De Guest.”
“I don’t know about the mansion being very noble, but I’m going down into the country for a fortnight. When I come back—”
“When you come back, Mr. Eames, I hope you’ll find your room a deal more comfortable. I know it isn’t quite what it should be for a gentleman like you, and I’ve been thinking for some time past—”
“But, Mrs. Roper, I don’t mean to come back here any more. It’s just that that I want to say to you.”
“Not come back to the crescent!”
“No, Mrs. Roper. A fellow must move sometimes, you know; and I’m sure I’ve been very constant to you for a long time.”
“But where are you going, Mr. Eames?”
“Well; I haven’t just made up my mind as yet. That is, it will depend on what I may do—on what friends of mine may say down in the country. You’ll not think I’m quarrelling with you, Mrs. Roper.”
“It’s them Lupexes as have done it,” said Mrs. Roper, in her deep distress.
“No, indeed, Mrs. Roper, nobody has done it.”
“Yes, it is; and I’m not going to blame you, Mr. Eames. They’ve made the house unfit for any decent young gentleman like you. I’ve been feeling that all along; but it’s hard upon a lone woman like me, isn’t it, Mr. Eames?”
“But, Mrs. Roper, the Lupexes have had nothing to do with my going.”
“Oh, yes, they have; I understand it all. But what could I do, Mr. Eames? I’ve been giving them warning every week for the last six months; but the more I give them warning, the more they won’t go. Unless I were to send for a policeman, and have a row in the house—”
“But I haven’t complained of the Lupexes, Mrs. Roper.”
“You wouldn’t be quitting without any reason, Mr. Eames. You are not going to be married in earnest, are you, Mr. Eames?”
“Not that I know of.”
“You may tell me; you may, indeed. I won’t say a word—not to anybody. It hasn’t been my fault about Amelia. It hasn’t really.”
“Who says there’s been any fault?”
“I can see, Mr. Eames. Of course it didn’t do for me to interfere. And if you had liked her, I will say I believe she’d have made as good a wife as any young man ever took; and she can make a few pounds go farther than most girls. You can understand a mother’s feelings; and if there was to be anything, I couldn’t spoil it; could I, now?”
“But there isn’t to be anything.”
“So I’ve told her for months past. I’m not going to say anything to blame you; but young men ought to be very particular; indeed they ought.” Johnny did not choose to hint to the disconsolate mother that it also behoved young women to be very particular, but he thought it. “I’ve wished many a time, Mr. Eames, that she had never come here; indeed I have. But what’s a mother to do? I couldn’t put her outside the door.” Then Mrs. Roper raised her apron up to her eyes, and began to sob.
“I’m very sorry if I’ve made any mischief,” said Johnny.
“It hasn’t been your fault,” continued the poor woman, from whom, as her tears became uncontrollable, her true feelings forced themselves and the real outpouring of her feminine nature. “Nor it hasn’t been my fault. But I knew what it would come to when I saw how she was going on; and I told her so. I knew you wouldn’t put up with the likes of her.”
“Indeed, Mrs. Roper, I’ve always had a great regard for her, and for you too.”
“But you weren’t going to marry her. I’ve told her so all along, and I’ve begged her not to do it—almost on my knees I have; but she wouldn’t be said by me. She never would. She’s always been that wilful that I’d sooner have her away from me than with me. Though she’s a good young woman in the house—she is, indeed, Mr. Eames—and there isn’t a pair of hands in it that works so hard; but it was no use my talking.”
“I don’t think any harm has been done.”
“Yes, there has; great harm. It has made the place not respectable. It’s the Lupexes is the worst. There’s Miss Spruce, who has been with me for nine years—ever since I’ve had the house—she’s been telling me this morning that she means to go into the country. It’s all the same thing. I understand it. I can see it. The house isn’t respectable, as it should be; and your mamma, if she were to know all, would have a right to be angry with me. I did mean to be respectable, Mr. Eames; I did indeed.”