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

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?”

“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, goodbye,” 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