THE SECOND VISIT TO THE GUESTWICK BRIDGE.
Bell had declared that her sister would be very happy to see John
Eames if he would go over to Allington, and he had replied that of
course he would go there. So much having been, as it were, settled,
he was able to speak of his visit as a matter of course at the
breakfast-table, on the morning after the earl's dinner-party.
"I must get you to come round with me, Dale, and see what I am
doing to the land," the earl said. And then he proposed to order
saddle-horses. But the squire preferred walking, and in this way they
were disposed of soon after breakfast.
John had it in his mind to get Bell to himself for half an hour,
and hold a conference with her; but it either happened that Lady
Julia was too keen in her duties as a hostess, or else, as was more
possible, Bell avoided the meeting. No opportunity for such an
interview offered itself, though he hung about the drawing-room all
the morning. "You had better wait for luncheon, now," Lady Julia said
to him about twelve. But this he declined; and taking himself away
hid himself about the place for the next hour and a half. During this
time he considered much whether it would be better for him to ride or
walk. If she should give him any hope, he could ride back triumphant
as a field-marshal. Then the horse would be delightful to him. But
if she should give him no hope,--if it should be his destiny to be
rejected utterly on that morning,--then the horse would be terribly
in the way of his sorrow. Under such circumstances what could he do
but roam wide about across the fields, resting when he might choose
to rest, and running when it might suit him to run. "And she is not
like other girls," he thought to himself. "She won't care for my
boots being dirty." So at last he elected to walk.
"Stand up to her boldly, man," the earl had said to him. "By George,
what is there to be afraid of? It's my belief they'll give most to
those who ask for most. There's nothing sets 'em against a man like
being sheepish." How the earl knew so much, seeing that he had not
himself given signs of any success in that walk of life, I am not
prepared to say. But Eames took his advice as being in itself good,
and resolved to act upon it. "Not that any resolution will be of any
use," he said to himself, as he walked along. "When the moment comes
I know that I shall tremble before her, and I know that she'll see
it; but I don't think it will make any difference in her."
He had last seen her on the lawn behind the Small House, just at that
time when her passion for Crosbie was at the strongest. Eames had
gone thither impelled by a foolish desire to declare to her his
hopeless love, and she had answered him by telling him that she loved
Mr. Crosbie better than all the world besides. Of course she had done
so, at that time; but, nevertheless, her manner of telling him had
seemed to him to be cruel. And he also had been cruel. He had told
her that he hated Crosbie,--calling him "that man," and assuring her
that no earthly consideration should induce him to go into "that
man's house." Then he had walked away moodily wishing him all manner
of evil. Was it not singular that all the evil things which he, in
his mind, had meditated for the man, had fallen upon him. Crosbie
had lost his love! He had so proved himself to be a villain that his
name might not be so much as mentioned! He had been ignominiously
thrashed! But what good would all this be if his image were still
dear to Lily's heart? "I told her that I loved her then," he said to
himself, "though I had no right to do so. At any rate I have a right
to tell her now."
When he reached Allington he did not go in through the village and up
to the front of the Small House by the cross street, but turned by
the church gate and passed over the squire's terrace, and by the end
of the Great House through the garden. Here he encountered Hopkins.
"Why, if that b'aint Mr. Eames!" said the gardener. "Mr. John, may I
make so bold!" and Hopkins held out a very dirty hand, which Eames of
course took, unconscious of the cause of this new affection.
"I'm just going to call at the Small House, and I thought I'd come
this way."
"To be sure; this way, or that way, or any way, who's so welcome, Mr.
John? I envies you; I envies you more than I envies any man. If I
could a got him by the scuff of the neck, I'd a treated him jist like
any wermin;--I would, indeed! He was wermin! I ollays said it. I
hated him ollays; I did indeed, Mr. John, from the first moment when
he used to be nigging away at them foutry balls, knocking them in
among the rhododendrons, as though there weren't no flower blossoms
for next year. He never looked at one as though one were a Christian;
did he, Mr. John?"
"I wasn't very fond of him myself, Hopkins."
"Of course you weren't very fond of him. Who was?--only she, poor
young lady. She'll be better now, Mr. John, a deal better. He wasn't
a wholesome lover,--not like you are. Tell me, Mr. John, did you give
it him well when you got him? I heard you did;--two black eyes, and
all his face one mash of gore!" And Hopkins, who was by no means a
young man, stiffly put himself into a fighting attitude.
Eames passed on over the little bridge, which seemed to be in a state
of fast decay, unattended to by any friendly carpenter, now that the
days of its use were so nearly at an end; and on into the garden,
lingering on the spot where he had last said farewell to Lily. He
looked about as though he expected still to find her there; but there
was no one to be seen in the garden, and no sound to be heard. As
every step brought him nearer to her whom he was seeking, he became
more and more conscious of the hopelessness of his errand. Him she
had never loved, and why should he venture to hope that she would
love him now? He would have turned back had he not been aware that
his promise to others required that he should persevere. He had said
that he would do this thing, and he would be as good as his word. But
he hardly ventured to hope that he might be successful. In this frame
of mind he slowly made his way up across the lawn.
"My dear, there is John Eames," said Mrs. Dale, who had first seen
him from the parlour window.
"Don't go, mamma."
"I don't know; perhaps it will be better that I should."
"No, mamma, no; what good can it do? It can do no good. I like him as
well as I can like any one. I love him dearly. But it can do no good.
Let him come in here, and be very kind to him; but do not go away and
leave us. Of course I knew he would come, and I shall be very glad to
see him."
Then Mrs. Dale went round to the other room, and admitted her visitor
through the window of the drawing-room. "We are in terrible
confusion, John, are we not?"
"And so you are really going to live in Guestwick?"
"Well, it looks like it, does it not? But, to tell you a
secret,--only it must be a secret; you must not mention it at
Guestwick Manor; even Bell does not know;--we have half made up our
minds to unpack all our things and stay where we are."
Eames was so intent on his own purpose, and so fully occupied with
the difficulty of the task before him, that he could hardly receive
Mrs. Dale's tidings with all the interest which they deserved.
"Unpack them all again," he said. "That will be very troublesome. Is
Lily with you, Mrs. Dale?"
"Yes, she is in the parlour. Come and see her." So he followed Mrs.
Dale through the hall, and found himself in the presence of his love.
"How do you do, John?" "How do you do, Lily?" We all know the way
in which such meetings are commenced. Each longed to be tender and
affectionate to the other,--each in a different way; but neither knew
how to throw any tenderness into this first greeting. "So you're
staying at the Manor House," said Lily.
"Yes; I'm staying there. Your uncle and Bell came yesterday
afternoon."
"Have you heard about Bell?" said Mrs. Dale.
"Oh, yes; Mary told me. I'm so glad of it. I always liked Dr. Crofts
very much. I have not congratulated her, because I didn't know
whether it was a secret. But Crofts was there last night, and if it
is a secret he didn't seem to be very careful about keeping it."
"It is no secret," said Mrs. Dale. "I don't know that I am fond
of such secrets." But as she said this, she thought of Crosbie's
engagement, which had been told to every one, and of its
consequences.
"Is it to be soon?" he asked.
"Well, yes; we think so. Of course nothing is settled."
"It was such fun," said Lily. "James, who took, at any rate, a year
or two to make his proposal, wanted to be married the next day
afterwards."
"No, Lily; not quite that."
"Well, mamma, it was very nearly that. He thought it could all be
done this week. It has made us so happy, John! I don't know anybody I
should so much like for a brother. I'm very glad you like him;--very
glad. I hope you'll be friends always." There was some little
tenderness in this,--as John acknowledged to himself.
"I'm sure we shall,--if he likes it. That is, if I ever happen to see
him. I'll do anything for him I can if he ever comes up to London.
Wouldn't it be a good thing, Mrs. Dale, if he settled himself in
London?"
"No, John; it would be a very bad thing. Why should he wish to rob me
of my daughter?"
Mrs. Dale was speaking of her eldest daughter; but the very allusion
to any such robbery covered John Eames's face with a blush, made him
hot up to the roots of his hair, and for the moment silenced him.
"You think he would have a better career in London?" said Lily,
speaking under the influence of her superior presence of mind.
She had certainly shown defective judgment in desiring her mother not
to leave them alone; and of this Mrs. Dale soon felt herself aware.
The thing had to be done, and no little precautionary measure, such
as this of Mrs. Dale's enforced presence, would prevent it. Of this
Mrs. Dale was well aware; and she felt, moreover, that John was
entitled to an opportunity of pleading his own cause. It might be
that such opportunity would avail him nothing, but not the less
should he have it of right, seeing that he desired it. But yet Mrs.
Dale did not dare to get up and leave the room. Lily had asked her
not to do so, and at the present period of their lives all Lily's
requests were sacred. They continued for some time to talk of Crofts
and his marriage; and when that subject was finished, they discussed
their own probable,--or, as it seemed now, improbable,--removal to
Guestwick. "It's going too far, mamma," said Lily, "to say that you
think we shall not go. It was only last night that you suggested it.
The truth is, John, that Hopkins came in and discoursed with the
most wonderful eloquence. Nobody dared to oppose Hopkins. He made us
almost cry; he was so pathetic."
"He has just been talking to me, too," said John, "as I came through
the squire's garden."
"And what has he been saying to you?" said Mrs. Dale.
"Oh, I don't know; not much." John, however, remembered well, at this
moment, all that the gardener had said to him. Did she know of that
encounter between him and Crosbie? and if she did know of it, in what
light did she regard it?
They had sat thus for an hour together, and Eames was not as yet an
inch nearer to his object. He had sworn to himself that he would not
leave the Small House without asking Lily to be his wife. It seemed
to him as though he would be guilty of falsehood towards the earl if
he did so. Lord De Guest had opened his house to him, and had asked
all the Dales there, and had offered himself up as a sacrifice at the
cruel shrine of a serious dinner-party, to say nothing of that easier
and lighter sacrifice which he had made in a pecuniary point of view,
in order that this thing might be done. Under such circumstances
Eames was too honest a man not to do it, let the difficulties in his
way be what they might.
He had sat there for an hour, and Mrs. Dale still remained with her
daughter. Should he get up boldly and ask Lily to put on her bonnet
and come out into the garden? As the thought struck him, he rose and
grasped at his hat. "I am going to walk back to Guestwick," said he.
"It was very good of you to come so far to see us."
"I was always fond of walking," he said. "The earl wanted me to ride,
but I prefer being on foot when I know the country, as I do here."
"Have a glass of wine before you go."
"Oh, dear, no. I think I'll go back through the squire's fields, and
out on the road at the white gate. The path is quite dry now."
"I dare say it is," said Mrs. Dale.
"Lily, I wonder whether you would come as far as that with me."
As the request was made Mrs. Dale looked at her daughter almost
beseechingly. "Do, pray do," said he; "it is a beautiful day for
walking."
The path proposed lay right across the field into which Lily had
taken Crosbie when she made her offer to let him off from his
engagement. Could it be possible that she should ever walk there
again with another lover? "No, John," she said; "not to-day, I think.
I am almost tired, and I had rather not go out."
"It would do you good," said Mrs. Dale.
"I don't want to be done good to, mamma. Besides, I should have to
come back by myself."
"I'll come back with you," said Johnny.
"Oh, yes; and then I should have to go again with you. But, John,
really I don't wish to walk to-day." Whereupon John Eames again put
down his hat.
"Lily," said he; and then he stopped. Mrs. Dale walked away to the
window, turning her back upon her daughter and visitor. "Lily, I have
come over here on purpose to speak to you. Indeed, I have come down
from London only that I might see you."
"Have you, John?"
"Yes, I have. You know well all that I have got to tell you. I loved
you before he ever saw you; and now that he has gone, I love you
better than I ever did. Dear Lily!" and he put out his hand to her.
"No, John; no," she answered.
"Must it be always no?"
"Always no to that. How can it be otherwise? You would not have me
marry you while I love another!"
"But he is gone. He has taken another wife."
"I cannot change myself because he is changed. If you are kind to me
you will let that be enough."
"But you are so unkind to me!"
"No, no; oh, I would wish to be so kind to you! John, here; take my
hand. It is the hand of a friend who loves you, and will always love
you. Dear John, I will do anything,--everything for you but that."
"There is only one thing," said he, still holding her by the hand,
but with his face turned from her.
"Nay; do not say so. Are you worse off than I am? I could not have
that one thing, and I was nearer to my heart's longings than you have
ever been. I cannot have that one thing; but I know that there are
other things, and I will not allow myself to be broken-hearted."
"You are stronger than I am," he said.
"Not stronger, but more certain. Make yourself as sure as I am, and
you, too, will be strong. Is it not so, mamma?"
"I wish it could be otherwise;--I wish it could be otherwise! If you
can give him any hope--"
"Mamma!"
"Tell me that I may come again,--in a year," he pleaded.
"I cannot tell you so. You may not come again,--not in this way. Do
you remember what I told you before, in the garden; that I loved him
better than all the world besides? It is still the same. I still love
him better than all the world. How, then, can I give you any hope?"
"But it will not be so for ever, Lily."
"For ever! Why should he not be mine as well as hers when that for
ever comes? John, if you understand what it is to love, you will say
nothing more of it. I have spoken to you more openly about this than
I have ever done to anybody, even to mamma, because I have wished to
make you understand my feelings. I should be disgraced in my own eyes
if I admitted the love of another man, after--after--. It is to me
almost as though I had married him. I am not blaming him, remember.
These things are different with a man."
She had not dropped his hand, and as she made her last speech was
sitting in her old chair with her eyes fixed upon the ground. She
spoke in a low voice, slowly, almost with difficulty; but still the
words came very clearly, with a clear, distinct voice which caused
them to be remembered with accuracy, both by Eames and Mrs. Dale. To
him it seemed to be impossible that he should continue his suit after
such a declaration. To Mrs. Dale they were terrible words, speaking
of a perpetual widowhood, and telling of an amount of suffering
greater even than that which she had anticipated. It was true that
Lily had never said so much to her as she had now said to John
Eames, or had attempted to make so clear an exposition of her own
feelings. "I should be disgraced in my own eyes if I admitted the
love of another man!" They were terrible words, but very easy to be
understood. Mrs. Dale had felt, from the first, that Eames was coming
too soon, that the earl and the squire together were making an effort
to cure the wound too quickly after its infliction; that time should
have been given to her girl to recover. But now the attempt had been
made, and words had been forced from Lily's lips, the speaking of
which would never be forgotten by herself.
"I knew that it would be so," said John.
"Ah, yes; you know it, because your heart understands my heart. And
you will not be angry with me, and say naughty, cruel words, as you
did once before. We will think of each other, John, and pray for each
other; and will always love one another. When we do meet let us be
glad to see each other. No other friend shall ever be dearer to me
than you are. You are so true and honest! When you marry I will tell
your wife what an infinite blessing God has given her."
"You shall never do that."
"Yes, I will. I understand what you mean; but yet I will."
"Good-by, Mrs. Dale," he said.
"Good-by, John. If it could have been otherwise with her, you should
have had all my best wishes in the matter. I would have loved you
dearly as my son; and I will love you now." Then she put up her lips
and kissed his face.
"And so will I love you," said Lily, giving him her hand again. He
looked longingly into her face as though he had thought it possible
that she also might kiss him: then he pressed her hand to his lips,
and without speaking any further farewell, took up his hat and left
the room.
"Poor fellow!" said Mrs. Dale.
"They should not have let him come," said Lily. "But they don't
understand. They think that I have lost a toy, and they mean to be
good-natured, and to give me another." Very shortly after that Lily
went away by herself, and sat alone for hours; and when she joined
her mother again at tea-time, nothing further was said of John
Eames's visit.
He made his way out by the front door, and through the churchyard,
and in this way on to the field through which he had asked Lily to
walk with him. He hardly began to think of what had passed till he
had left the squire's house behind him. As he made his way through
the tombstones he paused and read one, as though it interested him.
He stood a moment under the tower looking up at the clock, and then
pulled out his own watch, as though to verify the one by the other.
He made, unconsciously, a struggle to drive away from his thoughts
the facts of the late scene, and for some five or ten minutes he
succeeded. He said to himself a word or two about Sir Raffle and his
letters, and laughed inwardly as he remembered the figure of Rafferty
bringing in the knight's shoes. He had gone some half mile upon his
way before he ventured to stand still and tell himself that he had
failed in the great object of his life.
Yes; he had failed: and he acknowledged to himself, with bitter
reproaches, that he had failed, now and for ever. He told himself
that he had obtruded upon her in her sorrow with an unmannerly love,
and rebuked himself as having been not only foolish but ungenerous.
His friend the earl had been wont, in his waggish way, to call him
the conquering hero, and had so talked him out of his common sense
as to have made him almost think that he would be successful in his
suit. Now, as he told himself that any such success must have been
impossible, he almost hated the earl for having brought him to this
condition. A conquering hero, indeed! How should he manage to sneak
back among them all at the Manor House, crestfallen and abject in his
misery? Everybody knew the errand on which he had gone, and everybody
must know of his failure. How could he have been such a fool as to
undertake such a task under the eyes of so many lookers-on? Was it
not the case that he had so fondly expected success, as to think only
of his triumph in returning, and not of his more probable disgrace?
He had allowed others to make a fool of him, and had so made a fool
of himself that now all hope and happiness were over for him. How
could he escape at once out of the country,--back to London? How
could he get away without saying a word further to any one? That was
the thought that at first occupied his mind.
He crossed the road at the end of the squire's property, where the
parish of Allington divides itself from that of Abbot's Guest in
which the earl's house stands, and made his way back along the copse
which skirted the field in which they had encountered the bull, into
the high woods which were at the back of the park. Ah, yes; it had
been well for him that he had not come out on horseback. That ride
home along the high road and up to the Manor House stables would,
under his present circumstances, have been almost impossible to him.
As it was, he did not think it possible that he should return to
his place in the earl's house. How could he pretend to maintain his
ordinary demeanour under the eyes of those two old men? It would be
better for him to get home to his mother,--to send a message from
thence to the Manor, and then to escape back to London. So thinking,
but with no resolution made, he went on through the woods, and down
from the hill back towards the town till he again came to the little
bridge over the brook. There he stopped and stood a while with
his broad hand spread over the letters which he had cut in those
early days, so as to hide them from his sight. "What an ass I have
been,--always and ever!" he said to himself.
It was not only of his late disappointment that he was thinking, but
of his whole past life. He was conscious of his hobbledehoyhood,--of
that backwardness on his part in assuming manhood which had rendered
him incapable of making himself acceptable to Lily before she had
fallen into the clutches of Crosbie. As he thought of this he
declared to himself that if he could meet Crosbie again he would
again thrash him,--that he would so belabour him as to send him out
of the world, if such sending might possibly be done by fair beating,
regardless whether he himself might be called upon to follow him.
Was it not hard that for the two of them,--for Lily and for him
also,--there should be such punishment because of the insincerity of
that man? When he had thus stood upon the bridge for some quarter of
an hour, he took out his knife, and, with deep, rough gashes in the
wood, cut out Lily's name from the rail.
He had hardly finished, and was still looking at the chips as they
were being carried away by the stream, when a gentle step came close
up to him, and turning round, he saw that Lady Julia was on the
bridge. She was close to him, and had already seen his handiwork.
"Has she offended you, John?" she said.
"Oh, Lady Julia!"
"Has she offended you?"
"She has refused me, and it is all over."
[ILLUSTRATION: "She has refused me, and it is all over."]
"It may be that she has refused you, and that yet it need not be all
over. I am sorry that you have cut out the name, John. Do you mean to
cut it out from your heart?"
"Never. I would if I could, but I never shall."
"Keep to it as to a great treasure. It will be a joy to you in after
years, and not a sorrow. To have loved truly, even though you shall
have loved in vain, will be a consolation when you are as old as I
am. It is something to have had a heart."
"I don't know. I wish that I had none."
"And, John;--I can understand her feeling now; and indeed, I thought
all through that you were asking her too soon; but the time may yet
come when she will think better of your wishes."
"No, no; never. I begin to know her now."
"If you can be constant in your love you may win her yet. Remember
how young she is; and how young you both are. Come again in two
years' time, and then, when you have won her, you shall tell me that
I have been a good old woman to you both."
"I shall never win her, Lady Julia." As he spoke these last words
the tears were running down his cheeks, and he was weeping openly in
presence of his companion. It was well for him that she had come upon
him in his sorrow. When he once knew that she had seen his tears, he
could pour out to her the whole story of his grief; and as he did so
she led him back quietly to the house.