The Chronicles of Barsetshire

by Anthony Trollope

  “But how would you feel,” whimpered Cradell, who had never succeeded in putting himself quite on a par with his friend, even in his own estimation, since that glorious victory at the railway station. If he could only have thrashed Lupex as Johnny had thrashed Crosbie; then indeed they might have been equal—a pair of heroes. But he had not done so. He had never told himself that he was a coward, but he considered that circumstances had been specially unkind to him. “But how would you feel,” he whimpered, “if the friend whom you liked better than anybody else in the world, turned his back upon you?”

  “I haven’t turned my back upon you; except that I can’t get you to walk fast enough. Come along, old fellow, and don’t talk confounded nonsense. I hate all that kind of thing. You never ought to suppose that a man will give himself airs, but wait till he does. I don’t believe I shall remain with old Scuffles above a month or two. From all that I can hear that’s as much as anyone can bear.”

  Then Cradell by degrees became happy and cordial, and during the whole walk flattered Eames with all the flattery of which he was master. And Johnny, though he did profess himself to be averse to “all that kind of thing,” was nevertheless open to flattery. When Cradell told him that though FitzHoward could not manage the Tartar knight, he might probably do so; he was inclined to believe what Cradell said. “And as to getting him his shoes,” said Cradell, “I don’t suppose he’d ever think of asking you to do such a thing, unless he was in a very great hurry, or something of that kind.”

  “Look here, Johnny,” said Cradell, as they got into one of the streets bordering on Burton Crescent, “you know the last thing in the world I should like to do would be to offend you.”

  “All right, Caudle,” said Eames, going on, whereas his companion had shown a tendency towards stopping.

  “Look here, now; if I have vexed you about Amelia Roper, I’ll make you a promise never to speak to her again.”

  “D—— Amelia Roper,” said Eames, suddenly stopping himself and stopping Cradell as well. The exclamation was made in a deep angry voice which attracted the notice of one or two who were passing. Johnny was very wrong—wrong to utter any curse—very wrong to ejaculate that curse against a human being; and especially wrong to fulminate it against a woman—a woman whom he had professed to love! But he did do so, and I cannot tell my story thoroughly without repeating the wicked word.

  Cradell looked up at him and stared. “I only meant to say,” said Cradell, “I’ll do anything you like in the matter.”

  “Then never mention her name to me again. And as to talking to her, you may talk to her till you’re both blue in the face, if you please.”

  “Oh—I didn’t know. You didn’t seem to like it the other day.”

  “I was a fool the other day—a confounded fool. And so I have been all my life. Amelia Roper! Look here, Caudle; if she makes up to you this evening, as I’ve no doubt she will, for she seems to be playing that game constantly now, just let her have her fling. Never mind me; I’ll amuse myself with Mrs. Lupex, or Miss Spruce.”

  “But there’ll be the deuce to pay with Mrs. Lupex. She’s as cross as possible already whenever Amelia speaks to me. You don’t know what a jealous woman is, Johnny.” Cradell had got upon what he considered to be his high ground. And on that he felt himself equal to any man. It was no doubt true that Eames had thrashed a man, and that he had not; it was true also that Eames had risen to very high place in the social world, having become a private secretary; but for a dangerous, mysterious, overwhelming, life-enveloping intrigue—was not he the acknowledged hero of such an affair? He had paid very dearly, both in pocket and in comfort, for the blessing of Mrs. Lupex’s society; but he hardly considered that he had paid too dearly. There are certain luxuries which a man will find to be expensive; but, for all that, they may be worth their price. Nevertheless, as he went up the steps of Mrs. Roper’s house he made up his mind that he would oblige his friend. The intrigue might in that way become more mysterious, and more life-enveloping; whereas it would not become more dangerous, seeing that Mr. Lupex could hardly find himself to be aggrieved by such a proceeding.

  The whole number of Mrs. Roper’s boarders were assembled at dinner that day. Mr. Lupex seldom joined that festive board, but on this occasion he was present, appearing from his voice and manner to be in high good-humour. Cradell had communicated to the company in the drawing-room the great good fortune which had fallen upon his friend, and Johnny had thereby become the mark of a certain amount of hero-worship.

  “Oh, indeed!” said Mrs. Roper. “An ‘appy woman your mother will be when she hears it. But I always said you’d come down right side uppermost.”

  “Handsome is as handsome does,” said Miss Spruce.

  “Oh, Mr. Eames!” exclaimed Mrs. Lupex, with graceful enthusiasm, “I wish you joy from the very depth of my heart. It is such an elegant appointment.”

  “Accept the hand of a true and disinterested friend,” said Lupex. And Johnny did accept the hand, though it was very dirty and stained all over with paint.

  Amelia stood apart and conveyed her congratulations by glance—or, I might better say, by a series of glances. “And now—now will you not be mine,” the glances said; “now that you are rolling in wealth and prosperity?” And then before they went downstairs she did whisper one word to him. “Oh, I am so happy, John—so very happy.”

  “Bother!” said Johnny, in a tone quite loud enough to reach the lady’s ear. Then making his way round the room, he gave his arm to Miss Spruce. Amelia, as she walked downstairs alone, declared to herself that she would wring his heart. She had been employed in wringing it for some days past, and had been astonished at her own success. It had been clear enough to her that Eames had been piqued by her overtures to Cradell, and she had therefore to play out that game.

  “Oh, Mr. Cradell,” she said, as she took her seat next to him. “The friends I like are the friends that remain always the same. I hate your sudden rises. They do so often make a man upsetting.”

  “I should like to try, myself, all the same,” said Cradell.

  “Well, I don’t think it would make any difference in you; I don’t indeed. And, of course, your time will come too. It’s that earl as has done it—he that was worried by the bull. Since we have known an earl we have been so mighty fine.” And Amelia gave her head a little toss, and then smiled archly, in a manner which, to Cradell’s eyes, was really very becoming. But he saw that Mrs. Lupex was looking at him from the other side of the table, and he could not quite enjoy the goods which the gods had provided for him.

  When the ladies left the dining-room Lupex and the two young men drew their chairs near the fire, and each prepared for himself a moderate potation. Eames made a little attempt at leaving the room, but he was implored by Lupex with such earnest protestations of friendship to remain, and was so weakly fearful of being charged with giving himself airs, that he did as he was desired.

  “And here, Mr. Eames, is to your very good health,” said Lupex, raising to his mouth a steaming goblet of gin-and-water, “and wishing you many years to enjoy your official prosperity.”

  “Thank ye,” said Eames. “I don’t know much about the prosperity, but I’m just as much obliged.”

  “Yes, sir; when I see a young man of your age beginning to rise in the world, I know he’ll go on. Now look at me, Mr. Eames. Mr. Cradell, here’s your very good health, and may all unkindness be drowned in the flowing bowl. Look at me, Mr. Eames. I’ve never risen in the world. I’ve never done any good in the world, and never shall.”

  “Oh, Mr. Lupex, don’t say that.”

  “Ah, but I do say it. I’ve always been pulling the devil by the tail, and never yet got as much as a good hold on to that. And I’ll tell you why; I never got a chance when I was young. If I could have got any big fellow, a star, you know, to let me paint his portrait when I was your age—such a one, let us say, as your friend Sir Raffle—”

  “What a star!” said Cradell.


  “Well, I suppose he’s pretty much known in the world, isn’t he? Or Lord Derby, or Mr. Spurgeon. You know what I mean. If I’d got such a chance as that when I was young, I should never have been doing jobs of scene-painting at the minor theatres at so much a square yard. You’ve got the chance now, but I never had it.” Whereupon Mr. Lupex finished his first measure of gin-and-water.

  “It’s a very queer thing—life is,” continued Lupex; and, though he did not at once go to work boldly at the mixing of another glass of toddy, he began gradually, and as if by instinct, to finger the things which would be necessary for that operation. “A very queer thing. Now, remember, young gentlemen, I’m not denying that success in life will depend upon good conduct—of course it does; but, then, how often good conduct comes from success! Should I have been what I am now, do you suppose, if some big fellow had taken me by the hand when I was struggling to make an artist of myself? I could have drunk claret and champagne just as well as gin-and-water, and worn ruffles to my shirt as gracefully as many a fellow who used to be very fond of me, and now won’t speak to me if he meets me in the streets. I never got a chance—never.”

  “But it’s not too late yet, Mr. Lupex,” said Eames.

  “Yes, it is, Eames—yes, it is.” And now Mr. Lupex had grasped the gin-bottle. “It’s too late now. The game’s over, and the match is lost. The talent is here. I’m as sure of that now as ever I was. I’ve never doubted my own ability—never for a moment. There are men this very day making a thousand a year off their easels who haven’t so good and true an eye in drawing as I have, or so good a feeling in colours. I could name them; only I won’t.”

  “And why shouldn’t you try again?” said Eames.

  “If I were to paint the finest piece that ever delighted the eye of man, who would come and look at it? Who would have enough belief in me to come as far as this place and see if it were true? No, Eames; I know my own position and my own ways, and I know my own weakness. I couldn’t do a day’s work now, unless I were certain of getting a certain number of shillings at the end of it. That’s what a man comes to when things have gone against him.”

  “But I thought men got lots of money by scene-painting?”

  “I don’t know what you may call lots, Mr. Cradell; I don’t call it lots. But I’m not complaining. I know who I have to thank; and if ever I blow my own brains out I shan’t be putting the blame on the wrong shoulders. If you’ll take my advice,”—and now he turned round to Eames—”you’ll beware of marrying too soon in life.”

  “I think a man should marry early, if he marries well,” said Eames.

  “Don’t misunderstand me,” continued Lupex. “It isn’t about Mrs. L. I’m speaking. I’ve always regarded my wife as a very fascinating woman.”

  “Hear, hear, hear!” said Cradell, thumping the table.

  “Indeed she is,” said Eames.

  “And when I caution you against marrying, don’t you misunderstand me. I’ve never said a word against her to any man, and never will. If a man don’t stand by his wife, whom will he stand by? I blame no one but myself. But I do say this; I never had a chance—I never had a chance—never had a chance.” And as he repeated the words, for the third time, his lips were already fixed to the rim of his tumbler.

  At this moment the door of the dining-room was opened, and Mrs. Lupex put in her head.

  “Lupex,” she said, “what are you doing?”

  “Yes, my dear. I can’t say I’m doing anything at the present moment. I was giving a little advice to these young gentlemen.”

  “Mr. Cradell, I wonder at you. And, Mr. Eames, I wonder at you, too—in your position! Lupex, come upstairs at once.” She then stepped into the room and secured the gin-bottle.

  “Oh, Mr. Cradell, do come here,” said Amelia, in her liveliest tone, as soon as the men made their appearance above. “I’ve been waiting for you this half-hour. I’ve got such a puzzle for you.” And she made way for him to a chair which was between herself and the wall. Cradell looked half afraid of his fortunes as he took the proffered seat; but he did take it, and was soon secured from any positive physical attack by the strength and breadth of Miss Roper’s crinoline.

  “Dear me! Here’s a change,” said Mrs. Lupex, out loud.

  Johnny Eames was standing close, and whispered into her ear, “Changes are so pleasant sometimes! Don’t you think so? I do.”

  CHAPTER XLVIII

  Nemesis

  Crosbie had now settled down to the calm realities of married life, and was beginning to think that the odium was dying away which for a week or two had attached itself to him, partly on account of his usage of Miss Dale, but more strongly in consequence of the thrashing which he had received from John Eames. Not that he had in any way recovered his former tone of life, or that he ever hoped to do so. But he was able to go in and out of his club without embarrassment. He could talk with his wonted voice, and act with his wonted authority at his office. He could tell his friends, with some little degree of pleasure in the sound, that Lady Alexandrina would be very happy to see them. And he could make himself comfortable in his own chair after dinner, with his slippers and his newspaper. He could make himself comfortable, or at any rate could tell his wife that he did so.

  It was very dull. He was obliged to acknowledge to himself, when he thought over the subject, that the life which he was leading was dull. Though he could go into his club without annoyance, nobody there ever thought of asking him to join them at dinner. It was taken for granted that he was going to dine at home; and in the absence of any provocation to the contrary, he always did dine at home. He had now been in his house for three weeks, and had been asked with his wife to a few bridal dinner-parties, given chiefly by friends of the De Courcy family. Except on such occasions he never passed an evening out of his own house, and had not yet, since his marriage, dined once away from his wife. He told himself that his good conduct in this respect was the result of his own resolution; but, nevertheless, he felt that there was nothing else left for him to do. Nobody asked him to go to the theatre. Nobody begged him to drop in of an evening. Men never asked him why he did not play a rubber. He would generally saunter into Sebright’s after he left his office, and lounge about the room for half-an-hour, talking to a few men. Nobody was uncivil to him. But he knew that the whole thing was changed, and he resolved, with some wisdom, to accommodate himself to his altered circumstances.

  Lady Alexandrina also found her new life rather dull, and was sometimes inclined to be a little querulous. She would tell her husband that she never got out, and would declare, when he offered to walk with her, that she did not care for walking in the streets. “I don’t exactly see, then, where you are to walk,” he once replied. She did not tell him that she was fond of riding, and that the Park was a very fitting place for such exercise; but she looked it, and he understood her. “I’ll do all I can for her,” he said to himself; “but I’ll not ruin myself.” “Amelia is coming to take me for a drive,” she said another time. “Ah, that’ll be very nice,” he answered. “No; it won’t be very nice,” said Alexandrina. “Amelia is always shopping and bargaining with the tradespeople. But it will be better than being kept in the house without ever stirring out.”

  They breakfasted nominally at half-past nine; in truth, it was always nearly ten, as Lady Alexandrina found it difficult to get herself out of her room. At half-past ten punctually he left his house for his office. He usually got home by six, and then spent the greatest part of the hour before dinner in the ceremony of dressing. He went, at least, into his dressing-room, after speaking a few words to his wife: and there remained pulling things about, clipping his nails, looking over any paper that came in his way, and killing the time. He expected his dinner punctually at seven, and began to feel a little cross if he were kept waiting. After dinner, he drank one glass of wine in company with his wife, and one other by himself, during which latter ceremony he would stare at the hot coals, and think of the thing he had done. Then he would
go upstairs, and have, first a cup of coffee, and then a cup of tea. He would read his newspaper, open a book or two, hide his face when he yawned, and try to make believe that he liked it. She had no signs or words of love for him. She never sat on his knee, or caressed him. She never showed him that any happiness had come to her in being allowed to live close to him. They thought that they loved each other—each thought so; but there was no love, no sympathy, no warmth. The very atmosphere was cold—so cold that no fire could remove the chill.

  In what way would it have been different had Lily Dale sat opposite to him there as his wife, instead of Lady Alexandrina? He told himself frequently that either with one or with the other life would have been the same; that he had made himself for a while unfit for domestic life, and that he must cure himself of that unfitness. But though he declared this to himself in one set of half-spoken thoughts, he would also declare to himself in another set, that Lily would have made the whole house bright with her brightness; that had he brought her home to his hearth, there would have been a sun shining on him every morning and every evening. But, nevertheless, he strove to do his duty, and remembered that the excitement of official life was still open to him. From eleven in the morning till five in the afternoon he could still hold a position which made it necessary that men should regard him with respect, and speak to him with deference. In this respect he was better off than his wife, for she had no office to which she could betake herself.

  “Yes,” she said to Amelia, “it is all very nice, and I don’t mind the house being damp; but I get so tired of being alone.”

  “That must be the case with women who are married to men of business.”

  “Oh, I don’t complain. Of course I knew what I was about. I suppose it won’t be so very dull when everybody is up in London.”

  “I don’t find the season makes much difference to us after Christmas,” said Amelia; “but no doubt London is gayer in May. You’ll find you’ll like it better next year; and perhaps you’ll have a baby, you know.”