The Chronicles of Barsetshire

by Anthony Trollope

  “I’m afraid I’ve not been very regular, Mrs. Roper.”

  “Oh, yes, you have. I don’t think of a pound or two more or less at the end of a quarter, if I’m sure to have it some day. The butcher—he understands one’s lodgers just as well as I do—if the money’s really coming, he’ll wait; but he won’t wait for such as them Lupexes, whose money’s nowhere. And there’s Cradell; would you believe it, that fellow owes me eight-and-twenty pounds!”

  “Eight and twenty pounds!”

  “Yes, Mr. Eames, eight-and-twenty pounds! He’s a fool. It’s them Lupexes as have had his money. I know it. He don’t talk of paying, and going away. I shall be just left with him and the Lupexes on my hands; and then the bailiffs may come and sell every stick about the place. I won’t say nay to them.” Then she threw herself into the old horsehair arm-chair, and gave way to her womanly sorrow.

  “I think I’ll go upstairs, and get ready for dinner,” said Eames.

  “And you must go away when you come back?” said Mrs. Roper.

  “Well, yes, I’m afraid I must. I meant you to have a month’s warning from to-day. Of course I shall pay for the month.”

  “I don’t want to take any advantage; indeed, I don’t. But I do hope you’ll leave your things. You can have them whenever you like. If Chumpend knows that you and Miss Spruce are both going, of course he’ll be down upon me for his money.” Chumpend was the butcher. But Eames made no answer to this piteous plea. Whether or no he could allow his old boots to remain in Burton Crescent for the next week or two, must depend on the manner in which he might be received by Amelia Roper this evening.

  When he came down to the drawing-room, there was no one there but Miss Spruce. “A fine day, Miss Spruce,” said he.

  “Yes, Mr. Eames, it is a fine day for London; but don’t you think the country air is very nice?”

  “Give me the town,” said Johnny, wishing to say a good word for poor Mrs. Roper, if it were possible.

  “You’re a young man, Mr. Eames; but I’m only an old woman. That makes a difference,” said Miss Spruce.

  “Not much,” said Johnny, meaning to be civil. “You don’t like to be dull any more than I do.”

  “I like to be respectable, Mr. Eames. I always have been respectable, Mr. Eames.” This the old woman said almost in a whisper, looking anxiously to see that the door had not been opened to other listening ears.

  “I’m sure Mrs. Roper is very respectable.”

  “Yes; Mrs. Roper is respectable, Mr. Eames; but there are some here that—Hush-sh-sh!” And the old lady put her finger up to her lips. The door opened and Mrs. Lupex swam into the room.

  “How d’ye do, Miss Spruce? I declare you’re always first. It’s to get a chance of having one of the young gentlemen to yourself, I believe. What’s the news in the city to-day, Mr. Eames? In your position now of course you hear all the news.”

  “Sir Raffle Buffle has got a new pair of shoes. I don’t know that for certain, but I guess it from the time it took him to put them on.”

  “Ah! now you’re quizzing. That’s always the way with you gentlemen when you get a little up in the world. You don’t think women are worth talking to then, unless just for a joke or so.”

  “I’d a great deal sooner talk to you, Mrs. Lupex, than I would to Sir Raffle Buffle.”

  “It’s all very well for you to say that. But we women know what such compliments as those mean—don’t we, Miss Spruce? A woman that’s been married five years as I have—or I may say six—doesn’t expect much attention from young men. And though I was young when I married—young in years, that is—I’d seen too much and gone through too much to be young in heart.”

  This she said almost in a whisper; but Miss Spruce heard it, and was confirmed in her belief that Burton Crescent was no longer respectable.

  “I don’t know what you were then, Mrs. Lupex,” said Eames; “but you’re young enough now for anything.”

  “Mr. Eames, I’d sell all that remains of my youth at a cheap rate—at a very cheap rate, if I could only be sure of—”

  “Sure of what, Mrs. Lupex?”

  “The undivided affection of the one person that I loved. That is all that is necessary to a woman’s happiness.”

  “And isn’t Lupex—”

  “Lupex! But hush, never mind. I should not have allowed myself to be betrayed into an expression of feeling. Here’s your friend Mr. Cradell. Do you know I sometimes wonder what you find in that man to be so fond of him.” Miss Spruce saw it all, and heard it all, and positively resolved upon moving herself to those two small rooms at Dulwich.

  Hardly a word was exchanged between Amelia and Eames before dinner. Amelia still devoted herself to Cradell, and Johnny saw that that arrow, if it should be needed, would be a strong weapon. Mrs. Roper they found seated at her place at the dining-table, and Eames could perceive the traces of her tears. Poor woman! Few positions in life could be harder to bear than hers! To be ever tugging at others for money that they could not pay; to be ever tugged at for money which she could not pay; to desire respectability for its own sake, but to be driven to confess that it was a luxury beyond her means; to put up with disreputable belongings for the sake of lucre, and then not to get the lucre, but be driven to feel that she was ruined by the attempt! How many Mrs. Ropers there are who from year to year sink down and fall away, and no one knows whither they betake themselves! One fancies that one sees them from time to time at the corners of the streets in battered bonnets and thin gowns, with the tattered remnants of old shawls upon their shoulders, still looking as though they had within them a faint remembrance of long-distant respectability. With anxious eyes they peer about, as though searching in the streets for other lodgers. Where do they get their daily morsels of bread, and their poor cups of thin tea—their cups of thin tea, with perhaps a pennyworth of gin added to it, if Providence be good! Of this state of things Mrs. Roper had a lively appreciation, and now, poor woman, she feared that she was reaching it, by the aid of the Lupexes. On the present occasion she carved her joint of meat in silence, and sent out her slices to the good guests that would leave her, and to the bad guests that would remain, with apathetic impartiality. What was the use now of doing favour to one lodger or disfavour to another? Let them take their mutton—they who would pay for it and they who would not. She would not have the carving of many more joints in that house if Chumpend acted up to all the threats which he had uttered to her that morning.

  The reader may, perhaps, remember the little back room behind the dining parlour. A description was given in some former pages of an interview which was held between Amelia and her lover. It was in that room that all the interviews of Mrs. Roper’s establishment had their existence. A special room for interviews is necessary in all households of a mixed nature. If a man lives alone with his wife, he can have his interviews where he pleases. Sons and daughters, even when they are grown up, hardly create the necessity of an interview-chamber, though some such need may be felt if the daughters are marriageable and independent in their natures. But when the family becomes more complicated than this, if an extra young man be introduced, or an aunt comes into residence, or grown up children by a former wife interfere with the domestic simplicity, then such accommodation becomes quite indispensable. No woman would think of taking in lodgers without such a room; and this room there was at Mrs. Roper’s, very small and dingy, but still sufficient—just behind the dining parlour and opposite to the kitchen stairs. Hither, after dinner, Amelia was summoned. She had just seated herself between Mrs. Lupex and Miss Spruce, ready to do battle with the former because she would stay, and with the latter because she would go, when she was called out by the servant girl.

  “Miss Mealyer, Miss Mealyer—sh—sh—sh!” And Amelia, looking round, saw a large red hand beckoning to her. “He’s down there,” said Jemima, as soon as her young mistress had joined her, “and wants to see you most partic’lar.”

  “Which of ‘em?” asked Amelia, in a whisp
er.

  “Why, Mr. Heames, to be sure. Don’t you go and have anythink to say to the other one, Miss Mealyer, pray don’t; he ain’t no good; he ain’t indeed.”

  Amelia stood still for a moment on the landing, calculating whether it would be well for her to have the interview, or well to decline it. Her objects were two—or, rather, her object was in its nature twofold. She was, naturally, anxious to drive John Eames to desperation; and anxious also, by some slight added artifice, to make sure of Cradell if Eames’s desperation did not have a very speedy effect. She agreed with Jemima’s criticism in the main, but she did not go quite so far as to think that Cradell was no good at all. Let it be Eames, if Eames were possible; but let the other string be kept for use if Eames were not possible. Poor girl! in coming to this resolve she had not done so without agony. She had a heart, and with such power as it gave her, she loved John Eames. But the world had been hard to her; knocking her about hither and thither unmercifully; threatening, as it now threatened, to take from her what few good things she enjoyed. When a girl is so circumstanced she cannot afford to attend to her heart. She almost resolved not to see Eames on the present occasion, thinking that he might be made the more desperate by such refusal, and remembering also that Cradell was in the house and would know of it.

  “He’s there a-waiting, Miss Mealyer. Why don’t yer come down?” and Jemima plucked her young mistress by the arm.

  “I am coming,” said Amelia. And with dignified steps she descended to the interview.

  “Here she is, Mr. Heames,” said the girl. And then Johnny found himself alone with his lady-love.

  “You have sent for me, Mr. Eames,” she said, giving her head a little toss, and turning her face away from him. “I was engaged upstairs, but I thought it uncivil not to come down to you as you sent for me so special.”

  “Yes, Miss Roper, I did want to see you very particularly.”

  “Oh, dear!” she exclaimed, and he understood fully that the exclamation referred to his having omitted the customary use of her Christian name.

  “I saw your mother before dinner, and I told her that I am going away the day after to-morrow.”

  “We all know about that—to the earl’s, of course!” And then there was another chuck of her head.

  “And I told her also that I had made up my mind not to come back to Burton Crescent.”

  “What! leave the house altogether!”

  “Well; yes. A fellow must make a change sometimes, you know.”

  “And where are you going, John?”

  “That I don’t know as yet.”

  “Tell me the truth, John; are you going to be married? Are you—going—to marry—that young woman—Mr. Crosbie’s leavings? I demand to have an answer at once. Are you going to marry her?”

  He had determined very resolutely that nothing she might say should make him angry, but when she thus questioned him about “Crosbie’s leavings” he found it very difficult to keep his temper. “I have not come,” said he, “to speak to you about anyone but ourselves.”

  “That put-off won’t do with me, sir. You are not to treat any girl you may please in that sort of way—oh, John!” Then she looked at him as though she did not know whether to fly at him and cover him with kisses, or to fly at him and tear his hair.

  “I know I haven’t behaved quite as I should have done,” he began.

  “Oh, John!” and she shook her head. “You mean, then, to tell me that you are going to marry her?”

  “I mean to say nothing of the kind. I only mean to say that I am going away from Burton Crescent.”

  “John Eames, I wonder what you think will come to you! Will you answer me this; have I had a promise from you—a distinct promise, over and over again, or have I not?”

  “I don’t know about a distinct promise—”

  “Well, well! I did think that you was a gentleman that would not go back from your word. I did think that. I did think that you would never put a young lady to the necessity of bringing forward her own letters to prove that she is not expecting more than she has a right! You don’t know! And that, after all that has been between us! John Eames!” And again it seemed to him as though she were about to fly.

  “I tell you that I know I haven’t behaved well. What more can I say?”

  “What more can you say? Oh, John! to ask me such a question! If you were a man you would know very well what more to say. But all you private secretaries are given to deceit, as the sparks fly upwards. However, I despise you—I do, indeed. I despise you.”

  “If you despise me, we might as well shake hands and part at once. I dare say that will be best. One doesn’t like to be despised, of course; but sometimes one can’t help it.” And then he put out his hand to her.

  “And is this to be the end of all?” she said, taking it.

  “Well, yes; I suppose so. You say I’m despised.”

  “You shouldn’t take up a poor girl in that way for a sharp word—not when she is suffering as I am made to suffer. If you only think of it—think what I have been expecting!” And now Amelia began to cry, and to look as though she were going to fall into his arms.

  “It is better to tell the truth,” he said; “isn’t it?”

  “But it shouldn’t be the truth.”

  “But it is the truth. I couldn’t do it. I should ruin myself and you too, and we should never be happy.”

  “I should be happy—very happy indeed.” At this moment the poor girl’s tears were unaffected, and her words were not artful. For a minute or two her heart—her actual heart—was allowed to prevail.

  “It cannot be, Amelia. Will you not say good-bye?”

  “Good-bye,” she said, leaning against him as she spoke.

  “I do so hope you will be happy,” he said. And then, putting his arm round her waist, he kissed her; which he certainly ought not to have done.

  When the interview was over, he escaped out into the crescent, and as he walked down through the squares—Woburn Square, and Russell Square, and Bedford Square—towards the heart of London, he felt himself elated almost to a state of triumph. He had got himself well out of his difficulties, and now he would be ready for his love-tale to Lily.

  CHAPTER LII

  The First Visit to the Guestwick Bridge

  When John Eames arrived at Guestwick Manor, he was first welcomed by Lady Julia. “My dear Mr. Eames,” she said, “I cannot tell you how glad we are to see you.” After that she always called him John, and treated him throughout his visit with wonderful kindness. No doubt that affair of the bull had in some measure produced this feeling; no doubt, also, she was well disposed to the man who she hoped might be accepted as a lover by Lily Dale. But I am inclined to think that the fact of his having beaten Crosbie had been the most potential cause of this affection for our hero on the part of Lady Julia. Ladies—especially discreet old ladies, such as Lady Julia De Guest—are bound to entertain pacific theories, and to condemn all manner of violence. Lady Julia would have blamed anyone who might have advised Eames to commit an assault upon Crosbie. But, nevertheless, deeds of prowess are still dear to the female heart, and a woman, be she ever so old and discreet, understands and appreciates the summary justice which may be done by means of a thrashing. Lady Julia, had she been called upon to talk of it, would undoubtedly have told Eames that he had committed a fault in striking Mr. Crosbie; but the deed had been done, and Lady Julia became very fond of John Eames.

  “Vickers shall show you your room, if you like to go upstairs; but you’ll find my brother close about the house if you choose to go out; I saw him not half-an-hour since.” But John seemed to be well satisfied to sit in his arm-chair over the fire, and talk to his hostess; so neither of them moved.

  “And now that you’re a private secretary, how do you like it?”

  “I like the work well enough; only I don’t like the man, Lady Julia. But I shouldn’t say so, because he is such an intimate friend of your brother’s.”

  “An intimate
friend of Theodore’s!—Sir Raffle Buffle!” Lady Julia stiffened her back and put on a serious face, not being exactly pleased at being told that the Earl De Guest had any such intimate friend.

  “At any rate he tells me so about four times a day, Lady Julia. And he particularly wants to come down here next September.”

  “Did he tell you that, too?”

  “Indeed he did. You can’t believe what a goose he is! Then his voice sounds like a cracked bell; it’s the most disagreeable voice you ever heard in your life. And one has always to be on one’s guard lest he should make one do something that is—is—that isn’t quite the thing for a gentleman. You understand—what the messenger ought to do.”

  “You shouldn’t be too much afraid of your own dignity.”

  “No, I’m not. If Lord De Guest were to ask me to fetch him his shoes, I’d run to Guestwick and back for them and think nothing of it—just because he’s my friend. He’d have a right to send me. But I’m not going to do such things as that for Sir Raffle Buffle.”

  “Fetch him his shoes!”

  “That’s what FitzHoward had to do, and he didn’t like it.”

  “Isn’t Mr. FitzHoward nephew to the Duchess of St. Bungay?”

  “Nephew, or cousin, or something.”

  “Dear me!” said Lady Julia, “what a horrible man!” And in this way John Eames and her ladyship became very intimate.

  There was no one at dinner at the Manor that day but the earl and his sister and their single guest. The earl when he came in was very warm in his welcome, slapping his young friend on the back, and poking jokes at him with a good-humoured if not brilliant pleasantry.

  “Thrashed anybody lately, John?”

  “Nobody to speak of,” said Johnny.

  “Brought your nightcap down for your out-o’-doors nap?”

  “No, but I’ve got a grand stick for the bull,” said Johnny.

  “Ah! that’s no joke now, I can tell you,” said the earl. “We had to sell him, and it half broke my heart. We don’t know what had come to him, but he became quite unruly after that—knocked Darvell down in the straw-yard! It was a very bad business—a very bad business, indeed! Come, go and dress. Do you remember how you came down to dinner that day? I shall never forget how Crofts stared at you. Come, you’ve only got twenty minutes, and you London fellows always want an hour.”