The Small House at Allington, Anthony Trollope [best ebook reader for chromebook .txt] 📗

well come and dine with us tomorrow. Lady Buffle is most anxious to know you. There’ll be one or two with us. I did ask my friend Dumbello, but there’s some nonsense going on in the House, and he thinks that he can’t get away.” Johnny was more gracious than Lord Dumbello, and accepted the invitation. “I wonder what Lady Buffle will be like?” he said to himself, as he walked away from the office.

He had turned into the Great Western Hotel, not as yet knowing where to look for a home; and there we will leave him, eating his solitary mutton-chop at one of those tables which are so comfortable to the eye, but which are so comfortless in reality. I speak not now with reference to the excellent establishment which has been named, but to the nature of such tables in general. A solitary mutton-chop in an hotel coffee-room is not a banquet to be envied by any god; and if the mutton-chop be converted into soup, fish, little dishes, big dishes, and the rest, the matter becomes worse and not better. What comfort are you to have, seated alone on that horsehair chair, staring into the room and watching the waiters as they whisk about their towels? No one but an Englishman has ever yet thought of subjecting himself to such a position as that! But here we will leave John Eames, and in doing so I must be allowed to declare that only now, at this moment, has he entered on his manhood. Hitherto he has been a hobbledehoy⁠—a calf, as it were, who had carried his calfishness later into life than is common with calves; but who did not, perhaps, on that account, give promise of making a worse ox than the rest of them. His life hitherto, as recorded in these pages, had afforded him no brilliant success, had hardly qualified him for the role of hero which he has been made to play. I feel that I have been in fault in giving such prominence to a hobbledehoy, and that I should have told my story better had I brought Mr. Crosbie more conspicuously forward on my canvas. He at any rate has gotten to himself a wife⁠—as a hero always should do; whereas I must leave my poor friend Johnny without any matrimonial prospects.

It was thus that he thought of himself as he sat moping over his solitary table in the hotel coffee-room. He acknowledged to himself that he had not hitherto been a man; but at the same time he made some resolution which, I trust, may assist him in commencing his manhood from this date.

LX Conclusion

It was early in June that Lily went up to her uncle at the Great House, pleading for Hopkins⁠—pleading that to Hopkins might be restored all the privileges of head gardener at the Great House. There was some absurdity in this, seeing that he had never really relinquished his privileges; but the manner of the quarrel had been in this wise.

There was in those days, and had been for years, a vexed question between Hopkins and Jolliffe the bailiff on the matter of⁠—stable manure. Hopkins had pretended to the right of taking what he required from the farmyard, without asking leave of anyone. Jolliffe in return had hinted, that if this were so, Hopkins would take it all. “But I can’t eat it,” Hopkins had said. Jolliffe merely grunted, signifying by the grunt, as Hopkins thought, that though a gardener couldn’t eat a mountain of manure fifty feet long and fifteen high⁠—couldn’t eat in the body⁠—he might convert it into things edible for his own personal use. And so there had been a great feud. The unfortunate squire had of course been called on to arbitrate, and having postponed his decision by every contrivance possible to him, had at last been driven by Jolliffe to declare that Hopkins should take nothing that was not assigned to him. Hopkins, when the decision was made known to him by his master, bit his old lips, and turned round upon his old heel, speechless. “You’ll find it’s so at all other places,” said the squire, apologetically. “Other places!” sneered Hopkins. Where would he find other gardeners like himself? It is hardly necessary to declare that from that moment he resolved that he would abide by no such order. Jolliffe on the next morning informed the squire that the order had been broken, and the squire fretted and fumed, wishing that Jolliffe were well buried under the mountain in question. “If they all is to do as they like,” said Jolliffe, “then nobody won’t care for nobody.” The squire understood that an order if given must be obeyed, and therefore, with many inner groanings of the spirit, resolved that war must be waged against Hopkins.

On the following morning he found the old man himself wheeling a huge barrow of manure round from the yard into the kitchen-garden. Now, on ordinary occasions, Hopkins was not required to do with his own hands work of that description. He had a man under him who hewed wood, and carried water, and wheeled barrows⁠—one man always, and often two. The squire knew when he saw him that he was sinning, and bade him stop upon his road.

“Hopkins,” he said, “why didn’t you ask for what you wanted, before you took it?” The old man put down the barrow on the ground, looked up in his master’s face, spat into his hands, and then again resumed his barrow. “Hopkins, that won’t do,” said the squire. “Stop where you are.”

“What won’t do?” said Hopkins, still holding the barrow from the ground, but not as yet progressing.

“Put it down, Hopkins,” and Hopkins did put it down. “Don’t you know that you are flatly disobeying my orders?”

“Squire, I’ve been here about this place going on nigh seventy years.”

“If you’ve been going on a hundred and seventy it wouldn’t do that there should