The Chronicles of Barsetshire

by Anthony Trollope

  Crosbie, as he made his way back to his office, swore that he would not do the bidding of the countess. He would not trudge off into the city after her trinkets. But at five o’clock, when he left his office, he did go there. He apologised to himself by saying that he had nothing else to do, and bethought himself that at the present moment his lady mother-in-law’s smiles might be more convenient than her frowns. So he went to Lambert’s, on Ludgate Hill, and there learned that the bracelet had been sent down to Courcy Castle full two months since.

  After that he dined at his club, at Sebright’s. He dined alone, sitting by no means in bliss with his half-pint of sherry on the table before him. A man now and then came up and spoke to him, one a few words, and another a few, and two or three congratulated him as to his marriage; but the club was not the same thing to him as it had formerly been. He did not stand in the centre of the rug, speaking indifferently to all or any around him, ready with his joke, and loudly on the alert with the last news of the day. How easy it is to be seen when any man has fallen from his pride of place, though the altitude was ever so small, and the fall ever so slight. Where is the man who can endure such a fall without showing it in his face, in his voice, in his step, and in every motion of every limb? Crosbie knew that he had fallen, and showed that he knew it by the manner in which he ate his mutton-chop.

  At half-past eight he was again in Portman Square, and found the two ladies crowding over a small fire in a small back drawing-room. The furniture was all covered with brown holland, and the place had about it that cold comfortless feeling which uninhabited rooms always produce. Crosbie, as he had walked from the club up to Portman Square, had indulged in some serious thoughts. The kind of life which he had hitherto led had certainly passed away from him. He could never again be the pet of a club, or indulged as one to whom all good things were to be given without any labour at earning them on his own part. Such for some years had been his good fortune, but such could be his good fortune no longer. Was there anything within his reach which he might take in lieu of that which he had lost? He might still be victorious at his office, having more capacity for such victory than others around him. But such success alone would hardly suffice for him. Then he considered whether he might not even yet be happy in his own home—whether Alexandrina, when separated from her mother, might not become such a wife as he could love. Nothing softens a man’s feelings so much as failure, or makes him turn so anxiously to an idea of home as buffetings from those he meets abroad. He had abandoned Lily because his outer world had seemed to him too bright to be deserted. He would endeavour to supply her place with Alexandrina, because his outer world had seemed to him too harsh to be supported. Alas! alas! a man cannot so easily repent of his sins, and wash himself white from their stains!

  When he entered the room the two ladies were sitting over the fire, as I have stated, and Crosbie could immediately perceive that the spirit of the countess was not serene. In fact there had been a few words between the mother and child on that matter of the trousseau, and Alexandrina had plainly told her mother that if she were to be married at all she would be married with such garments belonging to her as were fitting for an earl’s daughter. It was in vain that her mother had explained with many circumlocutional phrases, that the fitness in this respect should be accommodated rather to the plebeian husband than to the noble parent. Alexandrina had been very firm, and had insisted on her rights, giving the countess to understand that if her orders for finery were not complied with, she would return as a spinster to Courcy, and prepare herself for partnership with Rosina.

  “My dear,” said the countess, piteously, “you can have no idea of what I shall have to go through with your father. And, of course, you could get all these things afterwards.”

  “Papa has no right to treat me in such a way. And if he would not give me any money himself, he should have let me have some of my own.”

  “Ah, my dear, that was Mr. Gazebee’s fault.”

  “I don’t care whose fault it was. It certainly was not mine. I won’t have him to tell me”—”him” was intended to signify Adolphus Crosbie—”that he had to pay for my wedding-clothes.”

  “Of course not that, my dear.”

  “No; nor yet for the things which I wanted immediately. I’d much rather go and tell him at once that the marriage must be put off.”

  Alexandrina of course carried her point, the countess reflecting with a maternal devotion equal almost to that of the pelican, that the earl could not do more than kill her. So the things were ordered as Alexandrina chose to order them, and the countess desired that the bills might be sent in to Mr. Gazebee. Much self-devotion had been displayed by the mother, but the mother thought that none had been displayed by the daughter, and therefore she had been very cross with Alexandrina.

  Crosbie, taking a chair, sat himself between them, and in a very good-humoured tone explained the little affair of the bracelet. “Your ladyship’s memory must have played you false,” said he, with a smile.

  “My memory is very good,” said the countess; “very good indeed. If Twitch got it, and didn’t tell me, that was not my fault.” Twitch was her ladyship’s lady’s-maid. Crosbie, seeing how the land lay, said nothing more about the bracelet.

  After a minute or two he put out his hand to take that of Alexandrina. They were to be married now in a week or two, and such a sign of love might have been allowed to him, even in the presence of the bride’s mother. He did succeed in getting hold of her fingers, but found in them none of the softness of a response. “Don’t,” said Lady Alexandrina, withdrawing her hand; and the tone of her voice as she spoke the word was not sweet to his ears. He remembered at the moment a certain scene which took place one evening at the little bridge at Allington, and Lily’s voice, and Lily’s words, and Lily’s passion, as he caressed her: “Oh, my love, my love, my love!”

  “My dear,” said the countess, “they know how tired I am. I wonder whether they are going to give us any tea.” Whereupon Crosbie rang the bell, and, on resuming his chair, moved it a little farther away from his lady-love.

  Presently the tea was brought to them by the housekeeper’s assistant, who did not appear to have made herself very smart for the occasion, and Crosbie thought that he was de trop. This, however, was a mistake on his part. As he had been admitted into the family, such little matters were no longer subject of care. Two or three months since, the countess would have fainted at the idea of such a domestic appearing with a tea-tray before Mr. Crosbie. Now, however, she was utterly indifferent to any such consideration. Crosbie was to be admitted into the family, thereby becoming entitled to certain privileges—and thereby also becoming subject to certain domestic drawbacks. In Mrs. Dale’s little household there had been no rising to grandeur; but then, also, there had never been any bathos of dirt. Of this also Crosbie thought as he sat with his tea in his hand.

  He soon, however, got himself away. When he rose to go Alexandrina also rose, and he was permitted to press his nose against her cheekbone by way of a salute.

  “Good-night, Adolphus,” said the countess, putting out her hand to him. “But stop a minute; I know there is something I want you to do for me. But you will look in as you go to your office to-morrow morning.”

  CHAPTER XLI

  Domestic Troubles

  When Crosbie was making his ineffectual inquiry after Lady de Courcy’s bracelet at Lambert’s, John Eames was in the act of entering Mrs. Roper’s front door in Burton Crescent.

  “Oh, John, where’s Mr. Cradell?” were the first words which greeted him, and they were spoken by the divine Amelia. Now, in her usual practice of life, Amelia did not interest herself much as to the whereabouts of Mr. Cradell.

  “Where’s Cradell?” said Eames, repeating the question. “Upon my word, I don’t know. I walked to the office with him, but I haven’t seen him since. We don’t sit in the same room, you know.”

  “John!” and then she stopped.

  “What’s up now?” sai
d John.

  “John! That woman’s off and left her husband. As sure as your name’s John Eames, that foolish fellow has gone off with her.”

  “What, Cradell? I don’t believe it.”

  “She went out of this house at two o’clock in the afternoon, and has never been back since.” That, certainly, was only four hours from the present time, and such an absence from home in the middle of the day was but weak evidence on which to charge a married woman with the great sin of running off with a lover. This Amelia felt, and therefore she went on to explain. “He’s there upstairs in the drawing-room, the very picture of disconsolateness.”

  “Who—Cradell?”

  “Lupex is. He’s been drinking a little, I’m afraid; but he’s very unhappy, indeed. He had an appointment to meet his wife here at four o’clock, and when he came he found her gone. He rushed up into their room, and now he says she has broken open a box he had and taken off all his money.”

  “But he never had any money.”

  “He paid mother some the day before yesterday.”

  “That’s just the reason he shouldn’t have any to-day.”

  “She certainly has taken things she wouldn’t have taken if she’d merely gone out shopping or anything like that, for I’ve been up in the room and looked about. She’d three necklaces. They weren’t much account; but she must have them all on, or else have got them in her pocket.”

  “Caudle has never gone off with her in that way. He may be a fool—”

  “Oh, he is, you know. I’ve never seen such a fool about a woman as he has been.”

  “But he wouldn’t be a party to stealing a lot of trumpery trinkets, or taking her husband’s money. Indeed, I don’t think he has anything to do with it.” Then Eames thought ever the circumstances of the day, and remembered that he had certainly not seen Cradell since the morning. It was that public servant’s practice to saunter into Eames’s room in the middle of the day, and there consume bread and cheese and beer—in spite of an assertion which Johnny had once made as to crumbs of biscuit bathed in ink. But on this special day he had not done so. “I can’t think he has been such a fool as that,” said Johnny.

  “But he has,” said Amelia. “It’s dinner-time now, and where is he? Had he any money left, Johnny?”

  So interrogated, Eames disclosed a secret confided to him by his friend which no other circumstances would have succeeded in dragging from his breast.

  “She borrowed twelve pounds from him about a fortnight since, immediately after quarter-day. And she owed him money, too, before that.”

  “Oh, what a soft!” exclaimed Amelia; “and he hasn’t paid mother a shilling for the last two months!”

  “It was his money, perhaps, that Mrs. Roper got from Lupex the day before yesterday. If so, it comes to the same thing as far as she is concerned, you know.”

  “And what are we to do now?” said Amelia, as she went before her lover upstairs. “Oh, John, what will become of me if ever you serve me in that way? What should I do if you were to go off with another lady?”

  “Lupex hasn’t gone off,” said Eames, who hardly knew what to say when the matter was brought before him with so closely personal a reference.

  “But it’s the same thing,” said Amelia. “Hearts is divided. Hearts that have been joined together ought never to be divided; ought they?” And then she hung upon his arm just as they got to the drawing-room door.

  “Hearts and darts are all my eye,” said Johnny. “My belief is that a man had better never marry at all. How d’you do, Mr. Lupex? Is anything the matter?”

  Mr. Lupex was seated on a chair in the middle of the room, and was leaning with his head over the back of it. So despondent was he in his attitude that his head would have fallen off and rolled on to the floor, had it followed the course which its owner seemed to intend that it should take. His hands hung down also along the back legs of the chair, till his fingers almost touched the ground, and altogether his appearance was pendent, drooping, and woebegone. Miss Spruce was seated in one corner of the room, with her hands folded in her lap before her, and Mrs. Roper was standing on the rug with a look of severe virtue on her brow—of virtue which, to judge by its appearance, was very severe. Nor was its severity intended to be exercised solely against Mrs. Lupex. Mrs. Roper was becoming very tired of Mr. Lupex also, and would not have been unhappy if he also had run away—leaving behind him so much of his property as would have paid his bill.

  Mr. Lupex did not stir when first addressed by John Eames, but a certain convulsive movement was to be seen on the back of his head, indicating that this new arrival in the drawing-room had produced a fresh accession of agony. The chair, too, quivered under him, and his fingers stretched themselves nearer to the ground and shook themselves.

  “Mr. Lupex, we’re going to dinner immediately,” said Mrs. Roper. “Mr. Eames, where is your friend, Mr. Cradell?”

  “Upon my word I don’t know,” said Eames.

  “But I know,” said Lupex, jumping up and standing at his full height, while he knocked down the chair which had lately supported him. “The traitor to domestic bliss! I know. And wherever he is, he has that false woman in his arms. Would he were here!” And as he expressed the last wish he went through a motion with his hands and arms which seemed intended to signify that if that unfortunate young man were in the company he would pull him in pieces and double him up, and pack him close, and then despatch his remains off, through infinite space, to the Prince of Darkness. “Traitor,” he exclaimed, as he finished the process. “False traitor! Foul traitor! And she too!” Then, as he thought of this softer side of the subject, he prepared himself to relapse again on to the chair. Finding it on the ground he had to pick it up. He did pick it up, and once more flung away his head over the back of it, and stretched his finger-nails almost down to the carpet.

  “James,” said Mrs. Roper to her son, who was now in the room, “I think you’d better stay with Mr. Lupex while we are at dinner. Come, Miss Spruce, I’m very sorry that you should be annoyed by this kind of thing.”

  “It don’t hurt me,” said Miss Spruce, preparing to leave the room. “I’m only an old woman.”

  “Annoyed!” said Lupex, raising himself again from his chair, not perhaps altogether disposed to remain upstairs while the dinner, for which it was intended that he should some day pay, was being eaten below. “Annoyed! It is a profound sorrow to me that any lady should be annoyed by my misfortunes. As regards Miss Spruce, I look upon her character with profound veneration.”

  “You needn’t mind me; I’m only an old woman,” said Miss Spruce.

  “But, by heavens, I do mind!” exclaimed Lupex; and hurrying forward he seized Miss Spruce by the hand. “I shall always regard age as entitled—” But the special privileges which Mr. Lupex would have accorded to age were never made known to the inhabitants of Mrs. Roper’s boarding-house, for the door of the room was again opened at this moment, and Mr. Cradell entered.

  “Here you are, old fellow, to answer for yourself,” said Eames.

  Cradell, who had heard something as he came in at the front door, but had not heard that Lupex was in the drawing-room, made a slight start backwards when he saw that gentleman’s face. “Upon my word and honour,” he began—but he was able to carry his speech no further. Lupex, dropping the hand of the elderly lady whom he reverenced, was upon him in an instant, and Cradell was shaking beneath his grasp like an aspen leaf—or rather not like an aspen leaf, unless an aspen leaf when shaken is to be seen with its eyes shut, its mouth open, and its tongue hanging out.

  “Come, I say,” said Eames, stepping forward to his friend’s assistance; “this won’t do at all, Mr. Lupex. You’ve been drinking. You’d better wait till to-morrow morning, and speak to Cradell then.”

  “To-morrow morning, viper,” shouted Lupex, still holding his prey, but looking back at Eames over his shoulder. Who the viper was had not been clearly indicated. “When will he restore to me my wife? When will he restore to
me my honour?”

  “Upon-on-on-on my—” It was for the moment in vain that poor Mr. Cradell endeavoured to asseverate his innocence, and to stake his honour upon his own purity as regarded Mrs. Lupex. Lupex still held to his enemy’s cravat, though Eames had now got him by the arm, and so far impeded his movements as to hinder him from proceeding to any graver attack.

  “Jemima, Jemima, Jemima!” shouted Mrs. Roper. “Run for the police; run for the police!” But Amelia, who had more presence of mind than her mother, stopped Jemima as she was making to one of the front windows. “Keep where you are,” said Amelia. “They’ll come quiet in a minute or two.” And Amelia no doubt was right. Calling for the police when there is a row in the house is like summoning the water-engines when the soot is on fire in the kitchen chimney. In such cases good management will allow the soot to burn itself out, without aid from the water-engines. In the present instance the police were not called in, and I am inclined to think that their presence would not have been advantageous to any of the party.

  “Upon-my-honour—I know nothing about her,” were the first words which Cradell was able to articulate, when Lupex, under Eames’s persuasion, at last relaxed his hold.

  Lupex turned round to Miss Spruce with a sardonic grin. “You hear his words—this enemy to domestic bliss—Ha, ha! man, tell me whither you have conveyed my wife!”

  “If you were to give me the Bank of England I don’t know,” said Cradell.

  “And I’m sure he does not know,” said Mrs. Roper, whose suspicions against Cradell were beginning to subside. But as her suspicions subsided, her respect for him decreased. Such was the case also with Miss Spruce, and with Amelia, and with Jemima. They had all thought him to be a great fool for running away with Mrs. Lupex, but now they were beginning to think him a poor creature because he had not done so. Had he committed that active folly he would have been an interesting fool. But now, if, as they all suspected, he knew no more about Mrs. Lupex than they did, he would be a fool without any special interest whatever.