JOHN EAMES TAKES A WALK.
John Eames watched the party of cavaliers as they rode away from
his mother's door, and then started upon a solitary walk, as soon
as the noise of the horses' hoofs had passed away out of the street.
He was by no means happy in his mind as he did so. Indeed, he was
overwhelmed with care and trouble, and as he went along very gloomy
thoughts passed through his mind. Had he not better go to Australia,
or Vancouver's Island, or--? I will not name the places which the
poor fellow suggested to himself as possible terminations of the long
journeys which he might not improbably be called upon to take. That
very day, just before the Dales had come in, he had received a second
letter from his darling Amelia, written very closely upon the heels
of the first. Why had he not answered her? Was he ill? Was he untrue?
No; she would not believe that, and therefore fell back upon the
probability of his illness. If it was so, she would rush down to
see him. Nothing on earth should keep her from the bedside of her
betrothed. If she did not get an answer from her beloved John by
return of post, she would be down with him at Guestwick by the
express train. Here was a position for such a young man as John
Eames! And of Amelia Roper we may say that she was a young woman who
would not give up her game, as long as the least chance remained of
her winning it. "I must go somewhere," John said to himself, as he
put on his slouched hat and wandered forth through the back streets
of Guestwick. What would his mother say when she heard of Amelia
Roper? What would she say when she saw her?
He walked away towards the Manor, so that he might roam about the
Guestwick woods in solitude. There was a path with a stile, leading
off from the high road, about half a mile beyond the lodges through
which the Dales had ridden up to the house, and by this path John
Eames turned in, and went away till he had left the Manor house
behind him, and was in the centre of the Guestwick woods. He knew
the whole ground well, having roamed there ever since he was first
allowed to go forth upon his walks alone. He had thought of Lily Dale
by the hour together, as he had lost himself among the oak-trees; but
in those former days he had thought of her with some pleasure. Now he
could only think of her as of one gone from him for ever; and then
he had also to think of her whom he had taken to himself in Lily's
place.
Young men, very young men,--men so young that it may be almost a
question whether or no they have as yet reached their manhood,--are
more inclined to be earnest and thoughtful when alone than they ever
are when with others, even though those others be their elders. I
fancy that, as we grow old ourselves, we are apt to forget that it
was so with us; and, forgetting it, we do not believe that it is
so with our children. We constantly talk of the thoughtlessness of
youth. I do not know whether we might not more appropriately speak of
its thoughtfulness. It is, however, no doubt, true that thought will
not at once produce wisdom. It may almost be a question whether such
wisdom as many of us have in our mature years has not come from the
dying out of the power of temptation, rather than as the results of
thought and resolution. Men, full fledged and at their work, are, for
the most part, too busy for much thought; but lads, on whom the work
of the world has not yet fallen with all its pressure,--they have
time for thinking.
And thus John Eames was thoughtful. They who knew him best accounted
him to be a gay, good-hearted, somewhat reckless young man, open to
temptation, but also open to good impressions; as to whom no great
success could be predicated, but of whom his friends might fairly
hope that he might so live as to bring upon them no disgrace and
not much trouble. But, above all things, they would have called him
thoughtless. In so calling him, they judged him wrong. He was ever
thinking,--thinking much of the world as it appeared to him, and of
himself as he appeared to the world; and thinking, also, of things
beyond the world. What was to be his fate here and hereafter? Lily
Dale was gone from him, and Amelia Roper was hanging round his neck
like a millstone! What, under such circumstances, was to be his fate
here and hereafter?
We may say that the difficulties in his way were not as yet very
great. As to Lily, indeed, he had no room for hope; but, then,
his love for Lily had, perhaps, been a sentiment rather than a
passion. Most young men have to go through that disappointment,
and are enabled to bear it without much injury to their prospects
or happiness. And in after-life the remembrance of such love is a
blessing rather than a curse, enabling the possessor of it to feel
that in those early days there was something within him of which he
had no cause to be ashamed. I do not pity John Eames much in regard
to Lily Dale. And then, as to Amelia Roper,--had he achieved but a
tithe of that lady's experience in the world, or possessed a quarter
of her audacity, surely such a difficulty as that need not have stood
much in his way! What could Amelia do to him if he fairly told her
that he was not minded to marry her? In very truth he had never
promised to do so. He was in no way bound to her, not even by honour.
Honour, indeed, with such as her! But men are cowards before women
until they become tyrants; and are easy dupes, till of a sudden they
recognize the fact that it is pleasanter to be the victimizer than
the victim,--and as easy. There are men, indeed, who never learn the
latter lesson.
But, though the cause for fear was so slight, poor John Eames was
thoroughly afraid. Little things which, in connection with so deep
a sorrow as his, it is almost ridiculous to mention, added to his
embarrassments, and made an escape from them seem to him to be
impossible. He could not return to London without going to Burton
Crescent, because his clothes were there, and because he owed to Mrs.
Roper some small sum of money which on his return to London he would
not have immediately in his pocket. He must therefore meet Amelia,
and he knew that he had not the courage to tell a girl, face to face,
that he did not love her, after he had been once induced to say that
he did do so. His boldest conception did not go beyond the writing
of a letter in which he would renounce her, and removing himself
altogether from that quarter of the town in which Burton Crescent was
situated. But then about his clothes, and that debt of his? And what
if Amelia should in the meantime come down to Guestwick and claim
him? Could he in his mother's presence declare that she had no right
to make such claim? The difficulties, in truth, were not very great,
but they were too heavy for that poor young clerk from the Income-tax
Office.
You will declare that he must have been a fool and a coward. Yet
he could read and understand Shakspeare. He knew much,--by far too
much,--of Byron's poetry by heart. He was a deep critic, often
writing down his criticisms in a lengthy journal which he kept. He
could write quickly, and with understanding; and I may declare that
men at his office had already ascertained that he was no fool. He
knew his business, and could do it,--as many men failed to do who
were much less foolish before the world. And as to that matter of
cowardice, he would have thought it the greatest blessing in the
world to be shut up in a room with Crosbie, having permission to
fight with him till one of them should have been brought by stress
of battle to give up his claim to Lily Dale. Eames was no coward. He
feared no man on earth. But he was terribly afraid of Amelia Roper.
He wandered about through the old Manor woods very ill at ease. The
post from Guestwick went out at seven, and he must at once make up
his mind whether or no he would write to Amelia on that day. He must
also make up his mind as to what he would say to her. He felt that he
should at least answer her letter, let his answer be what it might.
Should he promise to marry her,--say, in ten or twelve years' time?
Should he tell her that he was a blighted being, unfit for love, and
with humility entreat of her that he might be excused? Or should he
write to her mother, telling her that Burton Crescent would not suit
him any longer, promising her to send the balance on receipt of his
next payment, and asking her to send his clothes in a bundle to the
Income-tax Office? Or should he go home to his own mother, and boldly
tell it all to her?
He at last resolved that he must write the letter, and as he composed
it in his mind he sat himself down beneath an old tree which stood on
a spot at which many of the forest tracks met and crossed each other.
The letter, as he framed it here, was not a bad letter, if only he
could have got it written and posted. Every word of it he chose with
precision, and in his mind he emphasized every expression which told
his mind clearly and justified his purpose. "He acknowledged himself
to have been wrong in misleading his correspondent, and allowing her
to imagine that she possessed his heart. He had not a heart at her
disposal. He had been weak not to write to her before, having been
deterred from doing so by the fear of giving her pain; but now he
felt that he was bound in honour to tell her the truth. Having
so told her, he would not return to Burton Crescent, if it would
pain her to see him there. He would always have a deep regard for
her,"--Oh, Johnny!--"and would hope anxiously that her welfare in
life might be complete." That was the letter, as he wrote it on the
tablets of his mind under the tree; but the getting it put on to
paper was a task, as he knew, of greater difficulty. Then, as he
repeated it to himself, he fell asleep.
"Young man," said a voice in his ears as he slept. At first the voice
spoke as a voice from his dream without waking him, but when it was
repeated, he sat up and saw that a stout gentleman was standing over
him. For a moment he did not know where he was, or how he had come
there; nor could he recollect, as he saw the trees about him, how
long he had been in the wood. But he knew the stout gentleman well
enough, though he had not seen him for more than two years. "Young
man," said the voice, "if you want to catch rheumatism, that's the
way to do it. Why, it's young Eames, isn't it?"
[ILLUSTRATION: "Why, it's young Eames."]
"Yes, my lord," said Johnny, raising himself up so that he was now
sitting, instead of lying, as he looked up into the earl's rosy face.
"I knew your father, and a very good man he was; only he shouldn't
have taken to farming. People think they can farm without learning
the trade, but that's a very great mistake. I can farm, because I've
learned it. Don't you think you'd better get up?" Whereupon Johnny
raised himself to his feet. "Not but what you're very welcome to lie
there if you like it. Only, in October, you know--"
"I'm afraid I'm trespassing, my lord," said Eames. "I came in off the
path, and--"
"You're welcome; you're very welcome. If you'll come up to the house,
I'll give you some luncheon." This hospitable offer, however, Johnny
declined, alleging that it was late, and that he was going home to
dinner.
"Come along," said the earl. "You can't go any shorter way than by
the house. Dear, dear, how well I remember your father. He was a much
cleverer man than I am,--very much; but he didn't know how to send a
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.