The Last Chronicle of Barset. Anthony Trollope
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has been at it in one way or the other ever since poor Lady Alexandrina died. I wish she had lived, with all my heart. For though I feel sure that our Lily will never willingly see him again, yet the tidings of her death disturbed her, and set her thinking of things that were fading from her mind. I rated her soundly, not mentioning your name, however; but she only kissed me, and told me in her quiet drolling way that I didn’t mean a word of what I said.
You can come here whenever you please after the tenth of January. But if you come early in January you must go to your mother first, and come to me for the last week of your holiday. Go to Blackie’s in Regent Street, and bring me down all the colours in wool that I ordered. I said you would call. And tell them at Dolland’s the last spectacles don’t suit at all, and I won’t keep them. They had better send me down, by you, one or two more pairs to try. And you had better see Smithers and Smith, in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, No. 57—but you have been there before,—and beg them to let me know how my poor dear brother’s matters are to be settled at last. As far as I can see I shall be dead before I shall know what income I have got to spend. As to my cousins at the manor, I never see them; and as to talking to them about business, I should not dream of it. She hasn’t come to me since she first called, and she may be quite sure I shan’t go to her till she does. Indeed I think we shall like each other apart quite as much as we should together. So let me know when you’re coming, and pray don’t forget to call at Blackie’s; nor yet at Dolland’s, which is much more important than the wool, because of my eyes getting so weak. But what I want you specially to remember is about Smithers and Smith. How is a woman to live if she doesn’t know how much she has got to spend?
Believe me to be, my dear John,
Your most sincere friend,
Julia De Guest.
Lady Julia always directed her letters for her young friend to his office, and there he received the one now given to the reader. When he had read it he made a memorandum as to the commissions, and then threw himself back in his armchair to think over the tidings communicated to him. All the facts stated he had known before; that Lady De Courcy was in London, and that her son-in-law, Mr. Crosbie, whose wife,—Lady Alexandrina,—had died some twelve months since at Baden Baden, was at variance with her respecting money which he supposed to be due to him. But there was that in Lady Julia’s letter which was wormwood to him. Lily Dale was again thinking of this man, whom she had loved in old days, and who had treated her with monstrous perfidy! It was all very well for Lady Julia to be sure that Lily Dale would never desire to see Mr. Crosbie again; but John Eames was by no means equally certain that it would be so. “The tidings of her death disturbed her!” said Johnny, repeating to himself certain words out of the old lady’s letter. “I know they disturbed me. I wish she could have lived for ever. If he ever ventures to show himself within ten miles of Allington, I’ll see if I cannot do better than I did the last time I met him!” Then there came a knock at the door, and the private secretary, finding himself to be somewhat annoyed by the disturbance at such a moment, bade the intruder enter in angry voice. “Oh, it’s you, Cradell, is it? What can I do for you?” Mr. Cradell, who now entered, and who, as before said, was an old ally of John Eames, was a clerk of longer standing in the department than his friend. In age he looked to be much older, and he had left with him none of that appearance of the gloss of youth which will stick for many years to men who are fortunate in their worldly affairs. Indeed it may be said that Mr. Cradell was almost shabby in his outward appearance, and his brow seemed to be laden with care, and his eyes were dull and heavy.
“I thought I’d just come in and ask you how you are,” said Cradell.
“I’m pretty well, thank you; and how are you?”
“Oh, I’m pretty well,—in health, that is. You see one has so many things to think of when one has a large family. Upon my word, Johnny, I think you’ve been lucky to keep out of it.”
“I have kept out of it, at any rate; haven’t I?”
“Of course; living with you as much as I used to do, I know the whole story of what has kept you single.”
“Don’t mind about that, Cradell; what is it you want?”
“I mustn’t let you suppose, Johnny, that I’m grumbling about my lot. Nobody knows better than you what a trump I got in my wife.”
“Of course you did;—an excellent woman.”
“And if I cut you out a little there, I’m sure you never felt malice against me for that.”
“Never for a moment, old fellow.”
“We all have our luck, you know.”
“Your luck has been a wife and family. My luck has been to be a bachelor.”
“You may say a family,” said Cradell. “I’m sure that Amelia does the best she can; but we are desperately pushed some times,—desperately pushed. I never was so bad, Johnny, as I am now.”
“So you said the last time.”
“Did I? I don’t remember it. I didn’t think I was so bad then. But, Johnny, if you can let me have one more fiver now I have made arrangements with Amelia how I’m to pay you off by thirty shillings a month,—as I get my salary. Indeed I have. Ask her else.”
“I’ll be shot if I do.”
“Don’t say that, Johnny.”
“It’s no good your Johnnying me, for I won’t be Johnnyed out of another shilling. It comes too often, and there’s no reason why I should do it. And what’s more, I can’t afford it. I’ve people of my own to help.”
“But oh, Johnny, we all know how comfortable you are. And I’m sure no one rejoiced as I did when the money was left to you. If it had been myself I could hardly have thought more of it. Upon my solemn word and honour if you’ll let me have it this time, it shall be the last.”
“Upon my word and honour then, I won’t. There must be an end to everything.”
Although Mr. Cradell would probably, if pressed, have admitted the truth of this last assertion, he did not seem to think that the end had as yet come to his friend’s benevolence. It certainly had not come to his own importunity. “Don’t say that, Johnny; pray don’t.”
“But I do say it.”
“When I told Amelia yesterday evening that I didn’t like to go to you again, because of course a man has feelings, she told me to mention her name. ‘I’m sure he’d do it for my sake,’ she said.”
“I don’t believe she said anything of the kind.”
“Upon my word she did. You ask her.”
“And if she did, she oughtn’t to have said it.”
“Oh, Johnny, don’t speak in that way of her. She’s my wife, and you know what your own feelings were once. But look here,—we are in that state at home at this moment, that I must get money somewhere before I go home. I must, indeed. If you’ll let me have three pounds this once, I’ll never ask you again. I’ll give you a written promise if you like, and I’ll pledge myself to pay it back by thirty shillings a time out of the two next months’ salary. I will, indeed.” And then Mr. Cradell began to cry. But when Johnny at last took out his cheque-book and wrote a cheque for three pounds, Mr. Cradell’s eyes glistened with joy. “Upon my word I am so much obliged to you! You are the best fellow that ever lived. And Amelia will say the same when she hears of it.”
“I don’t believe she’ll say anything of the kind, Cradell. If I remember anything of her, she has a stouter heart than that.” Cradell admitted that his wife had a stouter heart than himself, and then made his way back to his own part of the office.
This little interruption to the current of Mr. Eames’s thoughts was, I think, for the good of the service, as, immediately on his friend’s departure, he went to his work; whereas, had not he been thus called away from his reflections about Miss Dale, he would have sat thinking