“Not at all hurt; but disfigured, as you see.”
“And so you beat the fellow well that did it?”
“No, I didn’t,” said Crosbie very angrily. “I didn’t beat him at all. You don’t believe everything you read in the newspapers, do you?”
“No, I don’t believe everything. Of course I didn’t believe about his having aspired to an alliance with Lady Alexandrina. That was untrue, of course.” Mr. Gazebee showed by the tone of his voice that imprudence so unparalleled as that was quite incredible.
“You shouldn’t believe anything; except this—that I have got a black eye.”
“You certainly have got that. Lady Amelia thinks you would be more comfortable if you would come up to us this evening. You can’t go out, of course; but Lady Amelia said, very good-naturedly, that you need not mind with her.”
“Thank you, no; I’ll come on Sunday.”
“Of course Lady Alexandrina will be very anxious to hear from her sister; and Lady Amelia begged me very particularly to press you to come.”
“Thank you, no; not to-day.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, simply because I shall be better at home.”
“How can you be better at home? You can have anything that you want. Lady Amelia won’t mind, you know.”
Another beefsteak to his eye, as he sat in the drawing-room, a cold-water bandage, or any little medical appliance of that sort—these were the things which Lady Amelia would, in her domestic good nature, condescend not to mind!
“I won’t trouble her this evening,” said Crosbie.
“Well, upon my word, I think you’re wrong. All manner of stories will get down to Courcy Castle, and to the countess’s ears; and you don’t know what harm may come of it. Lady Amelia thinks she had better write and explain it; but she can’t do so till she has heard something about it from you.”
“Look here, Gazebee. I don’t care one straw what story finds its way down to Courcy Castle.”
“But if the earl were to hear anything, and be offended?”
“He may recover from his offence as he best likes.”
“My dear fellow; that’s talking wildly, you know.”
“What on earth do you suppose the earl can do to me? Do you think I’m going to live in fear of Lord de Courcy all my life, because I’m going to marry his daughter? I shall write to Alexandrina myself to-day, and you can tell her sister so. I’ll be up to dinner on Sunday, unless my face makes it altogether out of the question.”
“And you won’t come in time for church?”
“Would you have me go to church with such a face as this?”
Then Mr. Mortimer Gazebee went, and when he got home, he told his wife that Crosbie was taking things with a high hand. “The fact is, my dear, that he’s ashamed of himself, and therefore tries to put a bold face upon it.”
“It was very foolish of him throwing himself in the way of that young man—very; and so I shall tell him on Sunday. If he chooses to give himself airs to me, I shall make him understand that he is very wrong. He should remember now that the way in which he conducts himself is a matter of moment to all our family.”
“Of course he should,” said Mr. Gazebee.
When the Sunday came the red-streaky period had arrived, but had by no means as yet passed away. The men at the office had almost become used to it; but Crosbie, in spite of his determination to go down to the club, had not yet shown himself elsewhere. Of course he did not go to church, but at five he made his appearance at the house in St. John’s Wood. They always dined at five on Sundays, having some idea that by doing so they kept the Sabbath better than they would have done had they dined at seven. If keeping the Sabbath consists in going to bed early, or is in any way assisted by such a practice, they were right. To the cook that semi-early dinner might perhaps be convenient, as it gave her an excuse for not going to church in the afternoon, as the servants’ and children’s dinner gave her a similar excuse in the morning. Such little attempts at goodness—proceeding half the way, or perhaps, as in this instance, one quarter of the way, on the disagreeable path towards goodness—are very common with respectable people, such as Lady Amelia. If she would have dined at one o’clock, and have eaten cold meat one perhaps might have felt that she was entitled to some praise.
“Dear, dear, dear; this is very sad, isn’t it, Adolphus?” she said on first seeing him.
“Well, it is sad, Amelia,” he said. He always called her Amelia, because she called him Adolphus; but Gazebee himself was never quite pleased when he heard it. Lady Amelia was older than Crosbie, and entitled to call him anything she liked; but he should have remembered the great difference in their rank. “It is sad, Amelia,” he said. “But will you oblige me in one thing?”
“What thing, Adolphus?”
“Not to say a word more about it. The black eye is a bad thing, no doubt, and has troubled me much; but the sympathy of my friends has troubled me a great deal more. I had all the family commiseration from Gazebee on Friday, and if it is repeated again, I shall lie down and die.”
“Shall ‘oo die Uncle Dolphus, ‘cause ‘oo’ve got a bad eye?” asked De Courcy Gazebee, the eldest hope of the family, looking up into his face.
“No, my hero,” said Crosbie, taking the boy up into his arms, “not because I’ve got a black eye. There isn’t very much harm in that, and you’ll have a great many before you leave school. But because the people will go on talking about it.”
“But aunt Dina on’t like ‘oo, if oo’ve got an ugly bad eye.”
“But, Adolphus,” said Lady Amelia, settling herself for an argument, “that’s all very well, you know—and I’m sure I’m very sorry to cause you any annoyance—but really one doesn’t know how to pass over such a thing without speaking of it. I have had a letter from mamma.”
“I hope Lady de Courcy is quite well.”
“Quite well, thank you. But as a matter of course she is very anxious about this affair. She had read what has been said in the newspapers, and it may be necessary that Mortimer should take it up, as the family solicitor.”
“Quite out of the question,” said Adolphus.
“I don’t think I should advise any such step as that,” said Gazebee.
“Perhaps not; very likely not. But you cannot be surprised, Mortimer, that my mother under such circumstances should wish to know what are the facts of the case.”
“Not at all surprised,” said Gazebee.
“Then once for all, I’ll tell you the facts. As I got out of the train a man I’d seen once before in my life made an attack upon me, and before the police came up, I got a blow in the face. Now you know all about it.”
At that moment dinner was announced. “Will you give Lady Amelia your arm?” said the husband.
“It’s a very sad occurrence,” said Lady Amelia with a slight toss of her head, “and, I’m afraid, will cost my sister a great deal of vexation.”
“You agree with De Courcy, do you, that Aunt Dina won’t like me with an ugly black eye?”
“I really don’t think it’s a joking matter,” said the Lady Amelia. And then there was nothing more said about it during the dinner.
There was nothing more said about it during the dinner, but it was plain enough from Lady Amelia’s countenance that she was not very well pleased with her future brother-in-law’s conduct. She was very hospitable to him, pressing him to eat; but even in doing that she made repeated little references to his present unfortunate state. She told him that she did not think fried plum-pudding would be bad for him, but that she would recommend him not to drink port wine after dinner. “By-the-by, Mortimer, you’d better have some claret up,” she remarked. “Adolphus shouldn’t take anything that is heating.”
“Thank you,” said Crosbie. “I’ll have some brandy-and-water, if Gazebee will give it me.”
“Brandy-and-water!” said Lady Amelia. Crosbie in truth was not given to the drinking of brandy-and-water; but he was prepared to call for ra
w gin, if he were driven much further by Lady Amelia’s solicitude.
At these Sunday dinners the mistress of the house never went away into the drawing-room, and the tea was always brought into them at the table on which they had dined. It was another little step towards keeping holy the first day of the week. When Lady Rosina was there, she was indulged with the sight of six or seven solid good books which were laid upon the mahogany as soon as the bottles were taken off it. At her first prolonged visit she had obtained for herself the privilege of reading a sermon; but as on such occasions both Lady Amelia and Mr. Gazebee would go to sleep—and as the footman had also once shown a tendency that way—the sermon had been abandoned. But the master of the house, on these evenings, when his sister-in-law was present, was doomed to sit in idleness, or else to find solace in one of the solid good books. But Lady Rosina just now was in the country, and therefore the table was left unfurnished.
“And what am I to say to my mother?” said Lady Amelia, when they were alone.
“Give her my kindest regards,” said Crosbie. It was quite clear both to the husband and to the wife, that he was preparing himself for rebellion against authority.
For some ten minutes there was nothing said. Crosbie amused himself by playing with the boy whom he called Dicksey, by way of a nickname for De Courcy.
“Mamma, he calls me Dicksey. Am I Dicksey? I’ll call ‘oo old Cross and then Aunt Dina ‘on’t like ‘oo.”
“I wish you would not call the child nicknames, Adolphus. It seems as though you would wish to cast a slur upon the one which he bears.”
“I should hardly think that he would feel disposed to do that,” said Mr. Gazebee.
“Hardly, indeed,” said Crosbie.
“It has never yet been disgraced in the annals of our country by being made into a nickname,” said the proud daughter of the house. She was probably unaware that among many of his associates her father had been called Lord de Curse’ye, from the occasional energy of his language. “And any such attempt is painful in my ears. I think something of my family, I can assure you, Adolphus, and so does my husband.”
“A very great deal,” said Mr. Gazebee.
“So do I of mine,” said Crosbie. “That’s natural to all of us. One of my ancestors came over with William the Conqueror. I think he was one of the assistant cooks in the king’s tent.”
“A cook!” said young De Courcy.
“Yes, my boy, a cook. That was the way most of our old families were made noble. They were cooks, or butlers to the kings—or sometimes something worse.”
“But your family isn’t noble?”
“No—I’ll tell you how that was. The king wanted this cook to poison half-a-dozen of his officers who wished to have a way of their own; but the cook said, ‘No, my Lord King; I am a cook, not an executioner.’ So they sent him into the scullery, and when they called all the other servants barons and lords, they only called him Cookey. They’ve changed the name to Crosbie since that, by degrees.”
Mr. Gazebee was awestruck, and the face of the Lady Amelia became very dark. Was it not evident that this snake, when taken into their innermost bosoms that they might there warm him, was becoming an adder, and preparing to sting them? There was very little more conversation that evening, and soon after the story of the cook, Crosbie got up and went away to his own home.
CHAPTER XXXVI
“See, the Conquering Hero Comes”
John Eames had reached his office precisely at twelve o’clock, but when he did so he hardly knew whether he was standing on his heels or his head. The whole morning had been to him one of intense excitement, and latterly, to a certain extent, one of triumph. But he did not at all know what might be the results. Would he be taken before a magistrate and locked up? Would there be a row at the office? Would Crosbie call him out, and, if so, would it be incumbent on him to fight a duel with pistols? What would Lord De Guest say—Lord De Guest, who had specially warned him not to take upon himself the duty of avenging Lily’s wrongs? What would all the Dale family say of his conduct? And, above all, what would Lily say and think? Nevertheless, the feeling of triumph was predominant; and now, at this interval of time, he was beginning to remember with pleasure the sensation of his fist as it went into Crosbie’s eye.
During his first day at the office he heard nothing about the affair, nor did he say a word of it to anyone. It was known in his room that he had gone down to spend his Christmas holiday with Lord De Guest, and he was treated with some increased consideration accordingly. And, moreover, I must explain, in order that I may give Johnny Eames his due, he was gradually acquiring for himself a good footing among the Income-tax officials. He knew his work, and did it with some manly confidence in his own powers, and also with some manly indifference to the occasional frowns of the mighty men of the department. He was, moreover, popular—being somewhat of a radical in his official demeanour, and holding by his own rights, even though mighty men should frown. In truth, he was emerging from his hobbledehoyhood and entering upon his young-manhood, having probably to go through much folly and some false sentiment in that period of his existence, but still with fair promise of true manliness beyond to those who were able to read the signs of his character.
Many questions on that first day were asked him about the glories of his Christmas, but he had very little to say on the subject. Indeed nothing could have been much more commonplace than his Christmas visit, had it not been for the one great object which had taken him down to that part of the country, and for the circumstance with which his holiday had been ended. On neither of these subjects was he disposed to speak openly; but as he walked home to Burton Crescent with Cradell, he did tell him of the affair with Crosbie.
“And you went in at him on the station?” asked Cradell, with admiring doubt.
“Yes I did. If I didn’t do it there, where was I to do it? I’d said I would, and therefore when I saw him I did it.” Then the whole affair was told as to the black eye, the police, and the superintendent. “And what’s to come next?” asked our hero.
“Well, he’ll put it in the hands of a friend, of course; as I did with Fisher in that affair with Lupex. And, upon my word, Johnny, I shall have to do something of the kind again. His conduct last night was outrageous; would you believe it—”
“Oh, he’s a fool.”
“He’s a fool you wouldn’t like to meet when he’s in one of his mad fits, I can tell you that. I absolutely had to sit up in my own bedroom all last night. Mother Roper told me that if I remained in the drawing-room she would feel herself obliged to have a policeman in the house. What could I do, you know? I made her have a fire for me, of course.”
“And then you went to bed.”
“I waited ever so long, because I thought that Maria would want to see me. At last she sent me a note. Maria is so imprudent, you know. If he had found anything in her writing, it would have been terrible, you know—quite terrible. And who can say whether Jemima mayn’t tell?”
“And what did she say?”
“Come; that’s tellings, Master Johnny. I took very good care to take it with me to the office this morning, for fear of accidents.”
But Eames was not so widely awake to the importance of his friend’s adventures as he might have been had he not been weighted with adventures of his own.
“I shouldn’t care so much,” said he, “about that fellow Crosbie, going to a friend, as I should about his going to a police magistrate.”
“He’ll put it in a friend’s hands, of course,” said Cradell, with the air of a man who from experience was well up in such matters. “And I suppose you’ll naturally come to me. It’s a deuced bore to a man in a public office, and all that kind of thing, of course. But I’m not the man to desert my friend. I’ll stand by you, Johnny, my boy.”
“Oh, thank you,” said Eames, “I don’t think that I shall want that.”
“You must be ready with a friend, you know.”
“I should write down to a man
I know in the country, and ask his advice,” said Eames; “an older sort of friend, you know.”
“By Jove, old fellow, take care what you are about. Don’t let them say of you that you show the white feather. Upon my honour, I’d sooner have anything said of me than that. I would, indeed—anything.”
“I’m not afraid of that,” said Eames, with a touch of scorn in his voice. “There isn’t much thought about white feathers nowadays—not in the way of fighting duels.”
After that, Cradell managed to carry back the conversation to Mrs. Lupex and his own peculiar position, and as Eames did not care to ask from his companion further advice in his own matters, he listened nearly in silence till they reached Burton Crescent.
“I hope you found the noble earl well,” said Mrs. Roper to him, as soon as they were all seated at dinner.
“I found the noble earl pretty well, thank you,” said Johnny.
It had become plainly understood by all the Roperites that Eames’s position was quite altered since he had been honoured with the friendship of Lord De Guest. Mrs. Lupex, next to whom he always sat at dinner, with a view to protecting her as it were from the dangerous neighbourhood of Cradell, treated him with a marked courtesy. Miss Spruce always called him “sir.” Mrs. Roper helped him the first of the gentlemen, and was mindful about his fat and gravy, and Amelia felt less able than she was before to insist upon the possession of his heart and affections. It must not be supposed that Amelia intended to abandon the fight, and allow the enemy to walk off with his forces; but she felt herself constrained to treat him with a deference that was hardly compatible with the perfect equality which should attend any union of hearts.
“It is such a privilege to be on visiting terms with the nobility,” said Mrs. Lupex. “When I was a girl, I used to be very intimate—”
“You ain’t a girl any longer, and so you’d better not talk about it,” said Lupex. Mr. Lupex had been at that little shop in Drury Lane after he came down from his scene-painting.
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