The Small House at Allington

by Anthony Trollope

  ‘But what will they say to us for staying away?’ said Lily, recovering herself. ‘And I ought to be making the people dance, you know. Come along, and do make yourself nice. Do waltz with Mary Eames – pray, do. If you don’t won’t speak to you all night!’

  Acting under which threat, Crosbie did, on his return, solicit the honour of that young lady’s hand, thereby elating her into a seventh heaven of happiness. What could the world afford better than a waltz with such a partner as Adolphus Crosbie? And poor Mary Eames could waltz well; though she could not talk much as she danced, and would pant a good deal when she stopped. She put too much of her energy into the motion, and was too anxious to do the mechanical part of the work in a manner that should be satisfactory to her partner. ‘Oh! thank you – it’s very nice. I shall be able to go on – again directly.’ Her conversation with Crosbie did not get much beyond that, and yet she felt that she had never done better than on this occasion.

  Though there were, at most, above five couples of dancers, and though they who did not dance, such as the squire and Mr Boyce, and a curate from a neighbouring parish, had, in fact, nothing to amuse them, the affair was kept on very merrily for a considerable number of hours. Exactly at twelve o’clock there was a little supper, which, no doubt, served to relieve Mrs Hearn’s ennui, and at which Mrs Boyce also seemed to enjoy herself. As to the Mrs Boyces on such occasions, I profess that I feel no pity. They are generally happy in their children’s happiness, or if not, they ought to be. At any rate, they are simply performing a manifest duty, which duty, in their time, was performed on their behalf. But on what account do the Mrs Hearns betake themselves to such gatherings?2 Why did that ancient lady sit there hour after hour yawning, longing for her bed, looking every ten minutes at her watch, while her old bones were stiff and sore, and her old ears pained with the noise?. It could hardly have been simply for the sake of the supper. After the supper, however, her maid took her across to her cottage, and Mrs Boyce also then stole away home, and the squire went off with some little parade, suggesting to the young men that they should make no noise in the house as they returned. But the poor curate remained, talking a dull word every now and then to Mrs Dale, and looking on with tantalized eyes at the joys which the world had prepared for others than him. I must say that I think that public opinion and the bishops together are too hard upon curates3 in this particular.

  In the latter part of the night’s delight, when time and practice had made them all happy together, John Eames stood up for the first time to dance with Lily. She had done all she could, short of asking him, to induce him to do her this favour; for she felt that it would be a favour. How great had been the desire on his part to ask her, and, at the same time, how great the repugnance, Lily, perhaps, did not quite understand. And yet she understood much of it. She knew that he was not angry with her. She knew that he was suffering from the injured pride of futile love, almost as much as from the futile love itself. She wished to put him at his case in this; but she did not quite give him credit for the full sincerity, and the upright, uncontrolled heartiness of his feelings.

  At length he did come up to her, and though, in truth, she was engaged, she at once accepted his offer. Then she tripped across the room. ‘Adolphus,’ she said, ‘I can’t dance with you, though I said I would. John Eames has asked me, and I haven’t stood up with him before. You understand, and you’ll be a good boy, won’t you?’

  Crosbie, not being in the least jealous, was a good boy, and sat himself down to rest, hidden behind a door.

  For the first few minutes the conversation between Eames and Lily was of a very matter-of-fact kind. She repeated her wish that she might see him in London, and he said that of course he should come and call. Then there was silence for a little while, and they went through their figure dancing.

  ‘I don’t at all know yet when we are to be married,’ said Lily, as soon as they were again standing together.

  ‘No; I dare say not,’ said Eames.

  ‘But not this year, I suppose. Indeed I should say, of course not.’

  ‘In the spring, perhaps,’ suggested Eames. He had an unconscious desire that it might be postponed to some Greek kalends,4 and yet he did not wish to injure Lily.

  ‘The reason I mention it is this, that we should be so very glad if you could be here. We all love you so much, and I should so like to have you here on that day.’

  Why is it that girls so constantly do this – so frequently ask men who have loved them to be present at their marriages with other men? There is no triumph in it. It is done in sheer kindness and affection. They intend to offer something which shall soften and not aggravate the sorrow that they have caused. ‘You can’t marry me yourself,’ the lady seems to say. ‘But the next greatest blessing which I can offer you shall be yours – you shall see me married to somebody else.’ I fully appreciate the intention, but in honest truth, I doubt the eligibility of the proffered entertainment.

  On the present occasion John Eames seemed to be of this opinion, for he did not at once accept the invitation.

  ‘Will you not oblige me so far as that?’ said she softly.

  ‘I would do anything to oblige you,’ said he gruffly; ‘almost anything.’

  ‘But not that?’

  ‘No; not that. I could not do that.’ Then he went off upon his figure, and when they were next both standing together, they remained silent till their turn for dancing had again come. Why was it, that after that night Lily thought more of John Eames than ever she had thought before – felt for him, I mean, a higher respect, as for a man who had a will of his own?

  And in that quadrille Crofts and Bell had been dancing together, and they also had been talking of Lily’s marriage. ‘A man may undergo what he likes for himself,’ he had said, ‘but he has no right to make a woman undergo poverty.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ said Bell.

  ‘That which is no suffering for a man – which no man should think of for himself – will make a hell on earth for a woman.’

  ‘I suppose it would,’ said Bell, answering him without a sign of feeling in her face or voice. But she took in every word that he spoke, and disputed their truth inwardly with all the strength of her heart and mind, and with the very vehemence of her soul. ‘As if a woman cannot bear more than a man!’ she said to herself, as she walked the length of the room alone, when she had got herself free from the doctor’s arm.

  After that they all went to bed.

  CHAPTER 10

  MRS LUPEX AND AMELIA ROPER

  I SHOULD simply mislead a confiding reader if I were to tell him that Mrs Lupex was an amiable woman. Perhaps the fact that she was not amiable is the one great fault that should be laid to her charge; but that fault had spread itself so widely, and had cropped forth in so many different places of her life, like a strong rank plant that will show itself all over a garden, that it may almost be said that it made her odious in every branch of life, and detestable alike to those who knew her little and to those who knew her much. If a searcher could have got at the inside spirit of the woman, that searcher would have found that she wished to go right – that she did make, or at any rate promise to herself that she would make, certain struggles to attain decency and propriety. But it was so natural to her to torment those whose misfortune brought them near to her, and especially that wretched man who in an evil day had taken her to his bosom as his wife, that decency fled from her, and propriety would not live in her quarters.

  Mrs Lupex was, as I have already described her, a woman not without some feminine attraction in the eyes of those who like morning negligence and evening finery, and do not object to a long nose somewhat on one side. She was clever in her way, and could say smart things. She could flatter also, though her very flattery had always in it something that was disagreeable. And she must have had some power of will, as otherwise her husband would have escaped from her before the days of which I am writing. Otherwise, also, she could hardly have obtained her footing and kept
it in Mrs Roper’s drawing-room. For though the hundred pounds a year, either paid, or promised to be paid, was matter with Mrs Roper of vast consideration, nevertheless the first three months of Mrs Lupex’s sojourn in Burton Crescent were not over before the landlady of that house was most anxiously desirous of getting herself quit of her married boarders.

  I shall perhaps best describe a little incident that had occurred in Burton Crescent during the absence of our friend Eames, and the manner in which things were going on in that locality, by giving at length two letters which Johnny received by post at Guestwick on the morning after Mrs Dale’s party. One was from his friend Cradell, and the other from the devoted Amelia. In this instance I will give that from the gentleman first, presuming that I shall best consult my reader’s wishes by keeping the greater delicacy till the last.

  Income-tax Office, September, 186—

  MY DEAR JOHNNY,

  WE have had terrible affair in the Crescent; and I really hardly know how to tell you; and yet I must do it, for I want your advice. You know the sort of standing that I was on with Mrs Lupex, and perhaps you remember what we were saying on the platform at the station. I have, no doubt, been fond of her society, as I might be of that of any other friend. I knew, of course, that she was a fine woman; and if her husband chose to be jealous, I couldn’t help that. But I never intended anything wrong; and, if it was necessary, couldn’t I call you as a witness to prove it? I never spoke a word to her out of Mrs Roper’s drawing-room; and Miss Spruce, or Mrs Roper, or somebody has always been there. You know he drinks horribly sometimes, but I do not think he ever gets downright drunk. Well, he came home last night about nine o’clock after one of these bouts. From what Jemima says [Jemima was Mrs Roper’s parlour-maid], I believe he had been at it down at the theatre for three days. We hadn’t seen him since Tuesday. He went straight into the parlour and sent up Jemima to me, to say that he wanted to see me. Mrs Lupex was in the room and heard the girl summon me, and, jumping up, she declared that if there was going to be blood shed she would leave the house. There was nobody else in the room but Miss Spruce, and she didn’t say a word, but took her candle and went upstairs. You must own it looked very uncomfortable. What was I to do with a drunken man down in the parlour? However, she seemed to think I ought to go. ‘If he comes up here,’ said she, ‘I shall be the victim. You little know of what that man is capable when his wrath has been inflamed by wine!’ Now, I think you are aware that I am not likely to be very much afraid of any man; but why was I to be got into a row in such a way as this? I hadn’t done anything. And then, if there was to be a quarrel, and anything was to come of it, as she seemed to expect – like bloodshed, I mean, or a fight, or if he were to knock me on the head with the poker, where should I be at my office? A man in a public office, as you and I are, can’t quarrel like anybody else. It was this that I felt so much at the moment. ‘Go down to him,’ said she, ‘unless you wish to see me murdered at your feet.’ Fisher says, that if what I say is true, they must have arranged it all between them. I don’t think that; for I do believe that she really is fond of me. And then everybody knows that they never do agree about anything. But she certainly did implore me to go down to him. Well, I went down; and, as I got to the bottom of the stairs, where I found Jemima, I heard him walking up and down the parlour. ‘Take care of yourself, Mr Cradell,’ said the girl; and I could see by her face that she was in a terrible fright.

  At that moment I happened to see my hat on the hall table, and it occurred to me that I ought to put myself into the hands of a friend. Of course, I was not afraid of that man in the dining-room; but should I have been justified in engaging in a struggle, perhaps for dear life, in Mrs Roper’s house? I was bound to think of her interests. So I took up my hat, and deliberately walked out of the front door. ‘Tell him,’ said I to Jemima, ‘that I’m not at home.’ And so I went away direct to Fisher’s, meaning to send him back to Lupex as my friend; but Fisher was at his chess-club.

  As I thought there was to time to be lost on such an occasion as this, I went down to the club and called him out. You know what a cool fellow Fisher is. I don’t suppose anything would ever excite him. When I told him the story, he said that he would sleep upon it; and I had to walk up and down before the club while he finished his game. Fisher seemed to think that I might go back to Burton Crescent; but, of course, I knew that that would be out of the question. So it ended in my going home and sleeping on his sofa, and sending for some of my things in the morning. I wanted him to get up and see Lupex before going to the office this morning. But he seemed to think it would be better to put it off, and so he will call upon him at the theatre immediately after office hours.

  I want you to write to me at once saving what you know about the matter. I ask you, as I don’t want to lug in any of the other people at Roper’s. It is very uncomfortable, as I can’t exactly leave her at once because of last quarter’s money, otherwise I should cut and run; for the house is not the sort of place either for you or me. You may take my word fir that, Master Johnny. And I could tell you something, too, about A.R., only I don’t want to make mischief. But do you write immediately. And now I think of it, you had better write to Fisher, so that he can show your letter to Lupex – just saying, that to the best of your belief there had never been anything between her and me but mere friendship; and that, of course, you as my friend, must have known everything. Whether I shall go back to Roper’s tonight will depend on what Fisher says after the interview.

  Good-bye, old fellow I hope you are enjoying yourself, and that L.D. is quite well.

  Your sincere friend,

  JOSEPH CRADELL

  John Eames read this letter over twice before he opened that from Amelia. He had never yet received a letter from Miss Roper; and felt very little of that ardour for its perusal which young men generally experience on the receipt of a first letter from a young lady. The memory of Amelia was at the present moment distasteful to him; and he would have thrown the letter unopened into the fire, had he not felt it might be dangerous to do so. As regarded his friend Cradell, he could not but feel ashamed of him – ashamed of him, not for running away from Mr Lupex, but for excusing his escape on false pretences.

  And then, at last, he opened the letter from Amelia. ‘Dearest John,’ it began; and as he read the words, he crumpled the paper up between his fingers. It was written in a fair female hand, with sharp points instead of curves to the letters, but still very legible, and looking as though there were a decided purport in every word of it.

  DEAREST JOHN,

  IT feels so strange to me to write to you in such language as this. And yet you are dearest, and have I not a right to call you so? And are you not my own, and am not I yours? [Again he crunched the paper up in his hand, and, as he did so, he muttered words which I need not repeat at length. But still he went on with his letter.] I know that we understand each other perfectly, and when that is the case, heart should be allowed to speak openly to heart. Those are my feelings, and I believe that you will find them reciprocal in your own bosom. Is it not sweet to be loved? I find it so. And, dearest John, let me assure you, with open candour, that there is no room for jealously in this breast with regard to you. I have too much confidence for that, I can assure you, both in your honour and in my own – I would say charms, only you would call me vain. You must not suppose that I meant what I said about L.D. Of course, you will be glad to see the friends of your childhood; and it would be far from your Amelia’s heart to begrudge you such delightful pleasure. Your friends will, I hope, some day be my friends. [Another crunch.] And if there be any one among them, any real L.D. whom you have specially liked, I will receive her to my heart, specially also. [This assurance on the part of his Amelia was too much for him, and he threw the letter from him, thinking whence he might get relief – whether from suicide or from the colonies; but presently he took it up again, and drained the bitter cup to the bottom.] And if I seemed petulant to you before you went away, you must forgiv
e your own Amelia. I had nothing before me but misery for the month of your absence. There is no one here congenial to my feelings – of course not. And you would not wish me to be happy in your absence – would you? I can assure you, let your wishes be what they may, I never can be happy again unless you are with me. Write to me one little line, and tell me that you are grateful to me for my devotion.

  And now, I must tell you that we have had a sad affair in the house; and I do not think that your friend Mr Cradell has behaved at all well. You remember how he has been always going on with Mrs Lupex. Mother was quite unhappy about it, though she didn’t like to say anything. Of course, when a lady’s name is concerned, it is particular. But Lupex has become dreadful jealous during the last week; and we all knew that something was coming. She is an artful woman, but I don’t think she meant anything bad – only to drive her husband to desperation. He came here yesterday in one of his tantrums, and wanted to see Cradell; but he got frightened, and took his hat and went off. Now, that wasn’t quite right. If he was innocent, why didn’t he stand his ground and explain the mistake? As mother says, it gives the house such a name. Lupex swore last night that he’d be off to the Income-tax Office this morning, and have Cradell out before all the commissioners, and clerks, and everybody. If he does that, it will get into the papers, and all London will be full of it. She would like it, I know; for all she cares for is to be talked about; but only think what it will be for mother’s house. I wish you were here; for your high prudence and courage would set everything right at once – at least, I think so.