The Chronicles of Barsetshire

by Anthony Trollope

  “Your friend Sark spoke to Lord Brock about it,” said Fiasco. Now the Earl of Sark was a young nobleman of much influence at the present moment, and Lord Brock was the Prime Minister. “You should thank Lord Sark.”

  “Had as much to do with it as if my footman had spoken,” said Sir Raffle.

  “I am very much obliged to the Board for their good opinion,” said Crosbie, gravely. “I am obliged to Lord Sark as well—and also to your footman, Sir Raffle, if, as you seem to say, he has interested himself in my favour.”

  “I didn’t say anything of the kind,” said Sir Raffle. “I thought it right to make you understand that it was my opinion, given, of course, officially, which prevailed with the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Well, gentlemen, as I shall be wanted in the city, I will say good morning to you. Is my carriage ready, Boggs?” Upon which the attendant messenger opened the door, and the great Sir Raffle Buffle took his final departure from the scene of his former labours.

  “As to the duties of your new office”—and Mr. Optimist continued his speech, taking no other notice of the departure of his enemy than what was indicated by an increased brightness of his eye and a more satisfactory tone of voice—”you will find yourself quite familiar with them.”

  “Indeed he will,” said Butterwell.

  “And I am quite sure that you will perform them with equal credit to yourself, satisfaction to the department, and advantage to the public. We shall always be glad to have your opinion on any subject of importance that may come before us; and as regards the internal discipline of the office, we feel that we may leave it safely in your hands. In any matter of importance you will, of course, consult us, and I feel very confident that we shall go on together with great comfort and with mutual confidence.” Then Mr. Optimist looked at his brother commissioners, sat down in his arm-chair, and taking in his hands some papers before him, began the routine business of the day.

  It was nearly five o’clock when, on this special occasion, the secretary returned from the board-room to his own office. Not for a moment had the weight been off his shoulders while Sir Raffle had been bragging or Mr. Optimist making his speech. He had been thinking, not of them, but of Lily Dale; and though they had not discovered his thoughts, they had perceived that he was hardly like himself.

  “I never saw a man so little elated by good fortune in my life,” said Mr. Optimist.

  “Ah, he’s got something on his mind,” said Butterwell. “He’s going to be married, I believe.”

  “If that’s the case, it’s no wonder he shouldn’t be elated,” said Major Fiasco, who was himself a bachelor.

  When in his own room again, Crosbie at once seized on a sheet of note-paper, as though by hurrying himself on with it he could get that letter to Allington written. But though the paper was before him, and the pen in his hand, the letter did not, would not, get itself written. With what words was he to begin it? To whom should it be written? How was he to declare himself the villain which he had made himself? The letters from his office were taken away every night shortly after six, and at six o’clock he had not written a word. “I will do it at home to-night,” he said, to himself, and then, tearing off a scrap of paper, he scratched those few lines which Lily received, and which she had declined to communicate to her mother or sister. Crosbie, as he wrote them, conceived that they would in some way prepare the poor girl for the coming blow—that they would, at any rate, make her know that all was not right; but in so supposing he had not counted on the constancy of her nature, nor had he thought of the promise which she had given him that nothing should make her doubt him. He wrote the scrap, and then taking his hat walked off through the gloom of the November evening up Charing Cross and St. Martin’s Lane, towards the Seven Dials and Bloomsbury into regions of the town with which he had no business, and which he never frequented. He hardly knew where he went or wherefore. How was he to escape from the weight of the burden which was now crushing him? It seemed to him as though he would change his position with thankfulness for that of the junior clerk in his office, if only that junior clerk had upon his mind no such betrayal of trust as that of which he was guilty.

  At half-past seven he found himself at Sebright’s, and there he dined. A man will dine, even though his heart be breaking. Then he got into a cab, and had himself taken home to Mount Street. During his walk he had sworn to himself that he would not go to bed that night till the letter was written and posted. It was twelve before the first words were marked on the paper, and yet he kept his oath. Between two and three, in the cold moonlight, he crawled out and deposited his letter in the nearest post-office.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  John Eames Returns to Burton Crescent

  John Eames and Crosbie returned to town on the same day. It will be remembered how Eames had assisted Lord De Guest in the matter of the bull, and how great had been the earl’s gratitude on the occasion. The memory of this, and the strong encouragement which he received from his mother and sister for having made such a friend by his gallantry, lent some slight satisfaction to his last hours at home. But his two misfortunes were too serious to allow of anything like real happiness. He was leaving Lily behind him, engaged to be married to a man whom he hated, and he was returning to Burton Crescent, where he would have to face Amelia Roper—Amelia either in her rage or in her love. The prospect of Amelia in her rage was very terrible to him; but his greatest fear was of Amelia in her love. He had in his letter declined matrimony; but what if she talked down all his objections, and carried him off to church in spite of himself!

  When he reached London and got into a cab with his portmanteau, he could hardly fetch up courage to bid the man drive him to Burton Crescent. “I might as well go to an hotel for the night,” he said to himself, “and then I can learn how things are going on from Cradell at the office.” Nevertheless, he did give the direction to Burton Crescent, and when it was once given felt ashamed to change it. But, as he was driven up to the well-known door, his heart was so low within him that he might almost be said to have lost it. When the cabman demanded whether he should knock, he could not answer; and when the maid-servant at the door greeted him, he almost ran away.

  “Who’s at home?” said he, asking the question in a very low voice.

  “There’s missus,” said the girl, “and Miss Spruce, and Mrs. Lupex. He’s away somewhere, in his tantrums again; and there’s Mr. —”

  “Is Miss Roper here?” he said, still whispering.

  “Oh, yes! Miss Mealyer’s here,” said the girl, speaking in a cruelly loud voice. “She was in the dining-room just now, putting out the table. Miss Mealyer!” And the girl, as she called out the name, opened the dining-room door. Johnny Eames felt that his knees were too weak to support him.

  But Miss Mealyer was not in the dining-room. She had perceived the advancing cab of her sworn adorer, and had thought it expedient to retreat from her domestic duties, and fortify herself among her brushes and ribbons. Had it been possible that she should know how very weak and cowardly was the enemy against whom she was called upon to put herself in action, she might probably have fought her battle somewhat differently, and have achieved a speedy victory, at the cost of an energetic shot or two. But she did not know. She thought it probable that she might obtain power over him and manage him; but it did not occur to her that his legs were so weak beneath him that she might almost blow him over with a breath. None but the worst and most heartless of women know the extent of their own power over men—as none but the worst and most heartless of men know the extent of their power over women. Amelia Roper was not a good specimen of the female sex, but there were worse women than her.

  “She ain’t there, Mr. Eames; but you’ll see her in the drawen-room,” said the girl. “And it’s she’ll be glad to see you back again, Mr. Eames.” But he scrupulously passed the door of the upstairs sitting-room, not even looking within it, and contrived to get himself into his own chamber without having encountered anybody. “Here’s yer ‘ot water, M
r. Eames,” said the girl, coming up to him after an interval of half-an-hour, “and dinner’ll be on the table in ten minutes. Mr. Cradell is come in, and so is missus’s son.”

  It was still open to him to go out and dine at some eating-house in the Strand. He could start out, leaving word that he was engaged, and so postpone the evil hour. He had almost made up his mind to do so, and certainly would have done it, had not the sitting-room door opened as he was on the landing-place. The door opened, and he found himself confronting the assembled company. First came Cradell, and leaning on his arm, I regret to say, was Mrs. Lupex—Egyptia conjux! Then there came Miss Spruce with young Roper; Amelia and her mother brought up the rear together. There was no longer question of flight now; and poor Eames, before he knew what he was doing, was carried down into the dining-room with the rest of the company. They were all glad to see him, and welcomed him back warmly, but he was so much beside himself that he could not ascertain whether Amelia’s voice was joined with the others. He was already seated at table, and had before him a plate of soup, before he recognised the fact that he was sitting between Mrs. Roper and Mrs. Lupex. The latter lady had separated herself from Mr. Cradell as she entered the room. “Under all the circumstances perhaps it will be better for us to be apart,” she said. “A lady can’t make herself too safe; can she, Mrs. Roper? There’s no danger between you and me, is there, Mr. Eames—specially when Miss Amelia is opposite?” The last words, however, were intended to be whispered into his ear.

  But Johnny made no answer to her; contenting himself for the moment with wiping the perspiration from his brow. There was Amelia opposite to him, looking at him—the very Amelia to whom he had written, declining the honour of marrying her. Of what her mood towards him might be, he could form no judgment from her looks. Her face was simply stern and impassive, and she seemed inclined to eat her dinner in silence. A slight smile of derision had passed across her face as she heard Mrs. Lupex whisper, and it might have been discerned that her nose, at the same time, became somewhat elevated; but she said not a word.

  “I hope you’ve enjoyed yourself, Mr. Eames, among the vernal beauties of the country,” said Mrs. Lupex.

  “Very much, thank you,” he replied.

  “There’s nothing like the country at this autumnal season of the year. As for myself, I’ve never been accustomed to remain in London after the breaking up of the beau monde. We’ve usually been to Broadstairs, which is a very charming place, with most elegant society, but now—” and she shook her head, by which all the company knew that she intended to allude to the sins of Mr. Lupex.

  “I’d never wish to sleep out of London for my part,” said Mrs. Roper. “When a woman’s got a house over her head, I don’t think her mind’s ever easy out of it.”

  She had not intended any reflection on Mrs. Lupex for not having a house of her own, but that lady immediately bristled up. “That’s just what the snails say, Mrs. Roper. And as for having a house of one’s own, it’s a very good thing, no doubt, sometimes; but that’s according to circumstances. It has suited me lately to live in lodgings, but there’s no knowing whether I mayn’t fall lower than that yet, and have—” but here she stopped herself, and looking over at Mr. Cradell nodded her head.

  “And have to let them,” said Mrs. Roper. “I hope you’ll be more lucky with your lodgers than I have been with some of mine. Jemima, hand the potatoes to Miss Spruce. Miss Spruce, do let me send you a little more gravy? There’s plenty here, really.” Mrs. Roper was probably thinking of Mr. Todgers.

  “I hope I shall,” said Mrs. Lupex. “But, as I was saying, Broadstairs is delightful. Were you ever at Broadstairs, Mr. Cradell?”

  “Never, Mrs. Lupex. I generally go abroad in my leave. One sees more of the world, you know. I was at Dieppe last June, and found that very delightful—though rather lonely. I shall go to Ostend this year; only December is so late for Ostend. It was a deuced shame my getting December, wasn’t it, Johnny?”

  “Yes, it was,” said Eames. “I managed better.”

  “And what have you been doing, Mr. Eames?” said Mrs. Lupex, with one of her sweetest smiles. “Whatever it may have been, you’ve not been false to the cause of beauty, I’m sure.” And she looked over to Amelia with a knowing smile. But Amelia was engaged upon her plate, and went on with her dinner without turning her eyes either on Mrs. Lupex or on John Eames.

  “I haven’t done anything particular,” said Eames. “I’ve just been staying with my mother.”

  “We’ve been very social here, haven’t we, Miss Amelia?” continued Mrs. Lupex. “Only now and then a cloud comes across the heavens, and the lights at the banquet are darkened.” Then she put her handkerchief up to her eyes, sobbing deeply, and they all knew that she was again alluding to the sins of her husband.

  As soon as dinner was over the ladies with young Mr. Roper retired, and Eames and Cradell were left to take their wine over the dining-room fire—or their glass of gin and water, as it might be. “Well, Caudle, old fellow,” said one. “Well, Johnny, my boy,” said the other. “What’s the news at the office?” said Eames.

  “Muggeridge has been playing the very mischief.” Muggeridge was the second clerk in Cradell’s room. “We’re going to put him into Coventry and not speak to him except officially. But to tell you the truth, my hands have been so full here at home, that I haven’t thought much about the office. What am I to do about that woman?”

  “Do about her? How do about her?”

  “Yes; what am I to do about her? How am I to manage with her? There’s Lupex off again in one of his fits of jealousy.”

  “But it’s not your fault, I suppose?”

  “Well; I can’t just say. I am fond of her, and that’s the long and the short of it; deuced fond of her.”

  “But, my dear Caudle, you know she’s that man’s wife.”

  “Oh, yes, I know all about it. I’m not going to defend myself. It’s wrong, I know—pleasant, but wrong. But what’s a fellow to do? I suppose in strict morality I ought to leave the lodgings. But, by George, I don’t see why a man’s to be turned out in that way. And then I couldn’t make a clean score with old mother Roper. But I say, old fellow, who gave you the gold chain?”

  “Well; it was an old family friend at Guestwick; or rather, I should say, a man who said he knew my father.”

  “And he gave you that because he knew your governor! Is there a watch to it?”

  “Yes, there’s a watch. It wasn’t exactly that. There was some trouble about a bull. To tell the truth, it was Lord De Guest; the queerest fellow, Caudle, you ever met in your life; but such a trump. I’ve got to go and dine with him at Christmas.” And then the old story of the bull was told.

  “I wish I could find a lord in a field with a bull,” said Cradell. We may, however, be permitted to doubt whether Mr. Cradell would have earned a watch even if he had had his wish.

  “You see,” continued Cradell, reverting, to the subject on which he most delighted to talk, “I’m not responsible for that man’s ill-conduct.”

  “Does anybody say you are?”

  “No; nobody says so. But people seem to think so. When he is by I hardly speak to her. She is thoughtless and giddy as women are, and takes my arm, and that kind of thing, you know. It makes him mad with rage, but upon my honour I don’t think she means any harm.”

  “I don’t suppose she does,” said Eames.

  “Well; she may or she mayn’t. I hope with all my heart she doesn’t.”

  “And where is he now?”

  “This is between ourselves, you know; but she went to find him this afternoon. Unless he gives her money she can’t stay here, nor, for the matter of that, will she be able to go away. If I mention something to you, you won’t tell anyone?”

  “Of course I won’t.”

  “I wouldn’t have it known to anyone for the world. I’ve lent her seven pounds ten. It’s that which makes me so short with mother Roper.”

  “Then I think you’re a fo
ol for your pains.”

  “Ah, that’s so like you. I always said you’d no feeling of real romance. If I cared for a woman I’d give her the coat off my back.”

  “I’d do better than that,” said Johnny. “I’d give her the heart out of my body. I’d be chopped up alive for a girl I loved; but it shouldn’t be for another man’s wife.”

  “That’s a matter of taste. But she’s been to Lupex to-day at that house he goes to in Drury Lane. She had a terrible scene there. He was going to commit suicide in the middle of the street, and she declares that it all comes from jealousy. Think what a time I have of it—standing always, as one may say, on gunpowder. He may turn up here any moment, you know. But, upon my word, for the life of me I cannot desert her. If I were to turn my back on her she wouldn’t have a friend in the world. And how’s L. D.? I’ll tell you what it is—you’ll have some trouble with the divine Amelia.”

  “Shall I?”

  “By Jove, you will. But how’s L. D. all this time?”

  “L. D. is engaged to be married to a man named Adolphus Crosbie,” said poor Johnny, slowly. “If you please, we will not say any more about her.”

  “Whew—w—w! That’s what makes you so down in the mouth! L. D. going to marry Crosbie! Why, that’s the man who is to be the new secretary at the General Committee Office. Old Huffle Scuffle, who was their chair, has come to us, you know. There’s been a general move at the G.C., and this Crosbie has got to be secretary. He’s a lucky chap, isn’t he?”

  “I don’t know anything about his luck. He’s one of those fellows that make me hate them the first time I look at them. I’ve a sort of a feeling that I shall live to kick him some day.”