The eyes of the two met, and Crosbie made slight inclination of his head. To this Eames gave no acknowledgement whatever, but looked straight into the other’s face. Crosbie immediately saw that they were not to know each other, and was well contented that it should be so. Among all his many troubles, the enmity of John Eames did not go for much. He showed no appearance of being disconcerted, though our friend had shown much. He opened his bag, and taking out a book was soon deeply engaged in it, pursuing his studies as though the man opposite was quite unknown to him. I will not say that his mind did not run away from his book, for indeed there were many things of which he found it impossible not to think; but it did not revert to John Eames. Indeed, when the carriages reached Paddington, he had in truth all but forgotten him; and as he stepped out of the carriage, with his bag in his hand, was quite free from any remotest trouble on his account.
But it had not been so with Eames himself. Every moment of the journey had for him been crowded with thought as to what he would do now that chance had brought his enemy within his reach. He had been made quite wretched by the intensity of his thinking; and yet, when the carriages stopped, he had not made up his mind. His face had been covered with perspiration ever since Crosbie had come across him, and his limbs had hardly been under his own command. Here had come to him a great opportunity, and he felt so little confidence in himself that he almost knew that he would not use it properly. Twice and thrice he had almost flown at Crosbie’s throat in the carriage, but he was restrained by an idea that the world and the police would be against him if he did such a thing in the presence of that old lady.
But when Crosbie turned his back upon him, and walked out, it was absolutely necessary that he should do something. He was not going to let the man escape, after all that he had said as to the expediency of thrashing him. Any other disgrace would be preferable to that. Fearing, therefore, lest his enemy should be too quick for him, he hurried out after him, and only just gave Crosbie time to turn round and face the carriages before he was upon him. ‘You confounded scoundrel!’ he screamed out. ‘You confounded scoundrel!’ and seized him by the throat, throwing himself upon him, and almost devouring him by the fury of his eyes.
The crowd upon the platform was not very dense, but there were quite enough of people to make a very respectable audience for this little play. Crosbie, in his dismay, retreated a step or two, and his retreat was much accelerated by the weight of Eames’s attack. He endeavoured to free his throat from his foe’s grasp; but in that he failed entirely. For the minute, however, he did manage to escape any positive blow, owing his safety in that respect rather to Eames’s awkwardness than to his own efforts. Something about the police he was just able to utter, and there was, as a matter of course an immediate call for a supply of those functionaries. In about three minutes three policemen, assisted by six porters, had captured our poor friend Johnny; but this had not been done quick enough for Crosbie’s purposes. The bystanders, taken by surprise, had allowed the combatants to fall back upon Mr Smith’s book-stall,1 and there Eames laid his foe prostrate upon the newspapers, falling himself into the yellow shilling-novel depot by the overt fury of his own energy; but as he fell, he contrived to lodge one blow with his fist in Crosbie’s right eye – one telling blow; and Crosbie had, to all intents and purposes, been thrashed.
‘Con—founded scoundrel, rascal, blackguard!’ shouted Johnny, with what remnants of voice were left to him, as the police dragged him off. ‘If you only knew – what he’s – done. ‘But in the meantime the policemen held him fast.
As a matter of course the first burst of public sympathy went with Crosbie. He had been assaulted, and the assault had come from Eames. In the British bosom there is so firm a love of well-constituted order, that these facts alone were sufficient to bring twenty knights to the assistance of the three policemen and the six porters; so that for Eames, even had he desired it, there was no possible chance of escape. But he did not desire it. One only sorrow consumed him at present. He had, as he felt, attacked Crosbie, but had attacked him in vain. He had had his opportunity, and had misused it. He was perfectly unconscious of that happy blow, and was in absolute ignorance of the great fact that his enemy’s eye was already swollen and closed, and that in another hour it would be as black as his hat.
‘He is a con–founded rascal!’ ejaculated Eames, as the policeman and porters hauled him about. ‘You don’t know what he’s done.’
‘No, we don’t,’ said the senior constable; ‘but we know what you have done. I say, Bushers, where’s that gentleman? He’d better come along with us.’
Crosbie had been picked up from among the newspapers by another policeman and two or three other porters, and was attended also by the guard of the train, who knew him, and knew that he had come up from Courcy Castle. Three or four hangers-on were standing also around him, together with a benevolent medical man who was proposing to him an immediate application of leeches. If he could have done as he wished, he would have gone his way quietly, allowing Eames to do the same. A great evil had befallen him, but he could have done as he wished, he would have gone his way quietly, allowing Eames to do the same. A great evil had befallen him, but he could in no way mitigate that evil by taking the law of the man who had attacked him. To have the thing as little talked about as possible should be his endeavour. What though he should have Eames locked up and fined, and scolded by a police magistrate? That would not in any degree lessen his calamity. If he could have parried the attack, and got the better of his foe; if he could have administered the black eye instead of receiving it, then indeed he could have laughed the matter off at his club, and his original crime would have been somewhat glozed over by his success in arms. But such good fortune had not been his. He was forced, however, on the moment to decide as to what he would do.
‘We’ve got him here in custody, sir,’ said Bushers, touching his hat. It had become known from the guard that Crosbie was somewhat of a big man, a frequent guest at Courcy Castle, and of repute and station in the higher regions of the metropolitan world. ‘The magistrates will be sitting in Paddington, now, sir – or will be by the time we get there.’
By this time some mightly railway authority had come upon the scene and made himself cognizent of the facts of the row – a stern official who seemed to carry the weight of many engines on his brow; one at the very sight of whom smokers would drop their cigars, and porters close their fists against sixpences; a great man with an erect chin, a quick step, and a well-brushed hat powerful with an elaborately upturned brim. This was the platform-superintendent, dominant even over the policemen.
‘Step into my room, Mr Crosbie,’ he said. ‘Stubbs, bring that man in with you.’ And then, before Crosbie had been able to make up his mind as to any other line of conduct, he found himself in the superintendent’s room, accompanied by the guard, and by the two policemen who conducted Johnny Eames between them.
‘What’s all this?’ said the superintendent, still keeping on his hat, for he was aware how much of the excellence of his personal dignity was owing to the arrangement of that article; and as he spoke he frowned upon the culprit with his utmost severity. ‘Mr Crosbie, I am very sorry that you should have been exposed to such brutality on our platform.’
‘You don’t know what he has done,’ said Johnny. ‘He is the most confounded scoundrel living. He has broken –’ But then he stopped himself. He was going to tell the superintendent that the confounded scoundrel had broken a beautiful young lady’s heart; but he bethought himself that he would not allude more specially to Lily Dale in that hearing.
‘Do you know who he is, Mr Crosbie?’ said the superintendent.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Crosbie, whose eye was already becoming blue. ‘He is a clerk in the Income-tax Office, and his name is Eames. I believe you had better leave him to me.’
But the superintendent at once wrote down the words ‘Income–tax Office – Eames,’ on his tablet. ‘We can’t allow a row like that to take pl
ace on our platform and not notice it. I shall bring it before the directors. It’s a most disgraceful affair, Mr Eames – most disgraceful.’
But Johnny by this time had perceived that Crosbie’s eye was in a state which proved satisfactorily that his morning’s work had not been thrown away, and his spirits were rising accordingly. He did not care two straws for the superintendent or even for the policemen, if only the story could be made to tell well for himself hereafter. It was his object to have thrashed Crosbie, and now, as he looked at his enemy’s face, he acknowledged that Providence had been good to him.
‘That’s your opinion,’ said Johnny.
‘Yes, sir, it is,’ said the superintendent; ‘and I shall know how to represent the matter to your superiors, young man.’
‘You don’t know all about it,’ said Eames; ‘and I don’t suppose you ever will. I had made up my mind what I’d do the first time I saw that scoundrel there; and now I’ve done it. He’d have got much worse in the railway carriage, only there was a lady there.’
‘Mr Crosbie, I really think we had better take him before the magistrates.’
To this however, Crosbie objected. He assured the superintendent that he would himself know how to deal with the matter – which, however, was exactly what he did not know. Would the superintendent allow one of the railway servants to get a cab for him, and to find his luggage? He was very anxious to get home without being subjected to any more of Mr Eames’s insolence.
‘You haven’t done with Mr Eames’s insolence yet, I can tell you. All London shall hear of it, and shall know why. If you have any shame in you, you shall be ashamed to show your face.’
Unfortunate man! Who can say the punishment – adequate punishment – had not overtaken him? For the present, he had to sneak home with a black eye, with the knowledge inside him that he had been whipped by a clerk in the Income-tax Office; and for the future – he was bound over to marry Lady Alexandrina De Courcy!
He got himself smuggled off in a cab, without being forced to go again upon the platform – his luggage being brought to him by two assiduous porters. But in all this there was very little balm for his hurt pride. As he ordered the cabman to drive to Mount Street, he felt that he had ruined himself by that step in life which he had taken at Courcy Castle. Whichever way he looked he had no comfort. ‘D— the fellow!’ he said, almost out loud in the cab; but though he did with his outward voice allude to Eames, the curse in his inner thoughts was uttered against himself.
Johnny was allowed to make his way down to the platform, and there find his own carpet-bag. One young porter, however, came up and fraternized with him.
‘You guve it him tidy just at that last moment, sir. But, laws, sir, you should have let out at him at fust. What’s the use of clawing a man’s neck-collar?’
It was then a quarter past eleven, but, nevertheless, Eames appeared at his office precisely at twelve.
CHAPTER 35
VAE VICTIS1
CROSBIE HAD two engagements for that day; one being his natural engagement to do his work at his office, and the other an engagement, which was now very often becoming as natural, to dine at St John’s Wood with Lady Amelia Gazebee. It was manifest to him when he looked at himself in the glass that he could keep neither of these engagements. ‘Oh, laws, Mr Crosbie,’ the woman of the house exclaimed when she saw him.
‘Yes, I know,’ he said. ‘I’ve had an accident and got a black eye. What’s a good thing for it?’
‘Oh! an accident!’ said the woman, who knew well that that mark had been made by another man’s fist. ‘They do say that a bit of raw beef is about the best thing. But then it must be held on constant all the morning.’
Anything would be better than leeches, which tell long-enduring tales, and therefore Crosbie sat through the greater part of the morning holding the raw beef to his eye.
But it was necessary that he should write two notes as he held it, one to Mr Butterwell at his office, and the other to his future sister-in-law. He felt that it would hardly be wise to attempt any entire concealment of the nature of his catastrophe, as some of the circumstances would assuredly become known. If he said that he had fallen over the coalscuttle, or on to the fender, thereby cutting his face, people would learn that he had fibbed, and would learn also that he had had some reason for fibbing. Therefore he constructed his notes with a phraseology that bound him to no details. To Butterwell he said that he had had an accident – or rather a row – and that he had come out of it with considerable damage to his frontispiece. He intended to be at the office on the next day, whether able to appear decently there or not. But for the sake of decency he thought it well to give himself that one half-day’s chance. Then to the Lady Amelia he also said that he had an accident, and had been a little hurt. ‘It is nothing at all serious, and affects only my appearance, so that I had better remain in for a day. I shall certainly be with you on Sunday. Don’t let Gazebee trouble himself to come to me, as I shan’t be at home after today.’ Gazebee did trouble himself to come to Mount Street so often, and South Audley Street, in which was Mr Gazebee’s office, was so disagreeably near to Mount Street, that Crosbie inserted this in order to protect himself if possible. Then he gave special orders that he was to be at home to no one fearing that Gazebee would call for him after the hours of business – to make him safe and carry him off bodily to St John’s Wood.
The beefsteak and the dose of physic and the cold-water application which was kept upon it all night was not efficacious in dispelling that horrid, black-blue colour by ten o’clock on the following morning.
‘It certainly have gone down, Mr Crosbie; it certainly have,’ said the mistress of the lodgings, touching the part affected with her finger. ‘But the black won’t go out of them all in a minute; it won’t indeed. Couldn’t you just stay in one more day?’
‘But will one day do it, Mrs Phillips?’
Mrs Phillips couldn’t take upon herself to say that it would. ‘They mostly come with little red streaks across the black before they goes away,’ said Mrs Phillips, who would seem to have been the wife of a prize-fighter, so well was she acquainted with black eyes.
‘And that won’t be till tomorrow,’ said Crosbie, affecting to be mirthful in his agony.
‘Not till the third day – and then they wears themselves out, gradual. I never knew leeches do any good.’
He stayed at home the second day, and then resolved that he would go to his office, black eye and all. In that morning’s newspaper he saw an account of the whole transaction, saying how Mr C—of the office of General Committees, who was soon about to lead to the hymeneal altar the beautiful daughter of the Earl De C—,had been made the subject of a brutal personal attack on the platform of the Great Western Railway Station, and how he was confined to his room from the injuries which he had received. The paragraph went on to state that the delinquent had, as it was believed, dared to raise his eyes to the same lady, and that his audacity had been treated with scorn by every member of the noble family in question. ‘It was, however, satisfactory to know,’ so said the newspaper, ‘that Mr C—had amply avenged himself, and had so flogged the young man in question, that he had been unable to stir from his bed since the occurrence.’
On reading this Crosbie felt that it would be better that he should show himself at once, and tell as much of the truth as the world would be likely to ascertain at last without his telling. So on that third morning he put on his hat and gloves, and had himself taken to his office, though the red-streaky period of his misfortune had hardly even yet come upon him. The task of walking along the office passage, through the messengers’ lobby, and into his room, was very disagreeable. Of course everybody looked at him, and of course he failed in his attempt to appear as though he did not mind it. ‘Boggs,’ he said to one of the men as he passed by, ‘just see if Mr Butterwell is in his room,’ and then, as he expected, Mr Butterwell came to him after the expiration of a few minutes.
‘Upon my word, that is seri
ous,’ said Mr Butterwell, looking into the secretary’s damaged face. ‘I don’t think I would have come out if I had been you.’
‘Of course it’s disagreeable,’ said Crosbie; ‘but it’s better to put up with it. Fellows do tell such horrid lies if a man isn’t seen for a day or two. I believe it’s best to put a good face upon it.’
‘That’s more than you can do just at present, eh, Crosbie?’ And then Mr Butterwell tittered. ‘But how on earth did it happen? The paper says that you pretty well killed the fellow who did it.’
‘The paper lies, as papers always do. I didn’t touch him at all.’
‘Didn’t you, though? I should like to have had a poke at him after getting such a tap in the face as that.’
‘The policeman came, and all that sort of thing. One isn’t allowed to fight it out in a row of that kind as one would have to do on Salisbury heath. Not that I mean to say that I could lick the fellow. How’s a man to know whether he can or not?’
‘How, indeed, unless he gets a licking – or gives it? But who was he, and what’s this about his having been scorned by the noble family?’
‘Trash and lies, of course. He had never seen any of the De Courcy people.’
‘I suppose the truth is, it was about that other – eh, Crosbie? I knew you’d find yourself in some trouble before you’d done.’
‘I don’t know what it was about, or why he should have made such a brute of himself. You have heard about those people at Allington?’
‘Oh, yes; I have heard about them.’
‘God knows, I didn’t mean to say anything against them. They knew nothing about it.’
‘But the young fellow knew them? Ah, yes, I see all about it. He wants to step into your shoes. I can’t say that he sets about it in a bad way. But what do you mean to do?’
The Small House at Allington Page 46