The Small House at Allington

by Anthony Trollope

  Mr Optimist was, in truth, an industrious little gentleman, very well connected, who had served the public all his life, and who was, at any rate, honest in his dealings. Nor was he a bully, such as his predecessor. It might, however, be a question whether he carried guns enough for the command in which he was now to be employed. There was but one other member of the Board, Major Fiasco by name, a discontented, broken-hearted, silent man, who had been sent to the General Committee Office some few years before because he was not wanted anywhere else. He was a man who had intended to do great things when he entered public life, and had possessed the talent and energy for things moderately great. He had also possessed to a certain extent the ear of those high in office; but, in some way, matters had not gone well with him, and in running his course he had gone on the wrong side of the post. He was still in the prime of life, and yet all men knew that Major Fiasco had nothing further to expect from the public or from the Government. Indeed, there were not wanting those who said that Major Fiasco was already in receipt of a liberal income, for which he gave no work in return; that he merely filled a chair for four hours a day four of five days a week, signing his name to certain forms and documents, reading, or pretending to read, certain papers, but, in truth, doing no good. Major Fiasco, on the other hand, considered himself to be a deeply injured individual, and he spent his life in brooding over his wrongs. He believed now in nothing and in nobody. He had begun public life striving to be honest, and he now regarded all around him as dishonest. He had no satisfaction in any man other than that which he found when some event would show to him that this or that other compeer of his own had proved himself to be self-interested, false, or fraudulent. ‘Don’t tell me, Butterwell,’ he would say – for with Mr Butterwell he maintained some semi-official intimacy, and he would take that gentleman by the buttonhole, holding him close. ‘Don’t tell me. I know what men are. I’ve seen the world. I’ve been looking at things with my eyes open. I knew what he was doing.’ And then he would tell of the sly deed of some official known well to them both, not denouncing it by any means, but affecting to take it for granted that the man in question was a rogue. Butterwell would shrug his shoulders, and laugh gently, and say that, upon his word, he didn’t think the world so bad as Fiasco made it out to be.

  Nor did he; for Butterwell believed in many things. He believed in his Putney villa on this earth, and he believed also that he might achieve some sort of Putney villa in the world beyond without undergoing present martyrdom. His Putney villa first, with all its attendant comforts, and then his duty to the public afterwards. It was thus that Mr Butterwell regulated his conduct; and as he was solicitous that the villa should be as comfortable a home to his wife as to himself, and that it should be specially comfortable to his friends, I do not think that we need quarrel with his creed.

  Mr Optimist believed in everything, but especially he believed in the Prime Minister, in the Daily Jupiter, in the General Committee Office, and in himself. He had long thought that everything was nearly right; but now that he himself was chairman at the General Committee Office, he was quite sure that everything must be right. In Sir Raffle Buffle, indeed, he had never believed; and now it was, perhaps, the greatest joy of his life that he should never again be called upon to hear the tones of that terrible knight’s hated voice.

  Seeing who were the components of the new Board, it may be presumed that Crosbie would look forward to enjoying a not uninfluential position in his office. There were, indeed, some among the clerks who did not hesitate to say that the new secretary would have it pretty nearly all his own way. As for ‘old Opt’, there would be, they said, no difficulty about him. Only tell him that such and such a decision was his own, and he would be sure to believe the teller. Butterwell was not fond of work, and had been accustomed to lean upon Crosbie for many years. As for Fiasco, he would he cynical in words, but wholly indifferent in deed. If the whole office were made to go to the mischief, Fiasco, in his own grim way, would enjoy the confusion.

  ‘Wish you joy, Crosbie,’ said Sir Raffle, standing up on the rug, waiting for the new secretary to go up to him and shake hands. But Sir Raffle was going, and the new secretary did not indulge him.

  ‘Thank ye, Sir Raffle,’ said Crosbie, without going near the rug.

  ‘Mr Crosbie, I congratulate you most sincerely,’ said Mr Optimist. ‘Your promotion has been the result altogether of your own merit. You have been selected for the high office which you are now called upon to fill solely because it has been thought that you are the most fit man to perform the onerous duties attached to it. Hum–h-m–ha. As regards my share in the recommendation which we found ourselves bound to submit to the Treasury, I must say that I never felt less hesitation in my life, and I believe I may declare as much as regards the other members of the Board.’

  And Mr Optimist looked around him for approving words. He had come forward from his standing ground behind his chair to welcome Crosbie, and had shaken his hand cordially. Fiasco also had risen from his seat, and had assured Crosbie in a whisper that he had feathered his nest uncommon well. Then he had sat down again.

  ‘Indeed you may, as far as I am concerned,’ said Butterwell.

  ‘I told the Chancellor of the Exchequer,’ said Sir Raffle, speaking very loud and with much authority, ‘that unless he had some first-rate man to sent from elsewhere I could name a fitting candidate. “Sir Raffle,” he said, “I mean to keep it in the office, and therefore shall be glad of your opinion.” “In that case, Mr Chancellor,’ said I, “Mr Crosbie must be the man.” “Mr Crosbie shall be the man,” said the Chancellor. And Mr Crosbie is the man.’

  ‘Your friend Sark spoke to Lord Brock7 about it,’ said Fiasco. Now the Earl of Sark was a young nobleman of much influence at the present moment, and Lord Brock was the Prime Minister. ‘You should thank Lord Sark.’

  ‘Had as much to do with it as if my footman had spoken,’ said Sir Raffle.

  ‘I am very much obliged to the Board for their good opinion,’ said Crosbie, gravely. ‘I am obliged to Lord Sark as well – and also to your footman, Sir Raffle, if, as you seem to say, he has interested himself in my favour.’

  ‘I didn’t say anything of the kind,’ said Sir Raffle. ‘I thought it right to make you understand that it was my opinion, given, of course, officially, which prevailed with the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Well, gentlemen, as I shall be wanted in the city, I will say good morning to you. Is my carriage ready, Boggs?’ Upon which the attendant messenger opened the door, and the great Sir Raffle Buffle took his final departure from the scene of his former labours.

  ‘As to the duties of your new office’ – and Mr Optimist continued his speech, taking no other notice of the departure of his enemy than what was indicated by an increased brightness of his eye and a more satisfactory tone of voice – ‘you will find yourself quite familiar with them.’

  ‘Indeed he will,’ said Butterwell.

  ‘And I am quite sure that you will perform them with equal credit to yourself, satisfaction to the department, and advantage to the public. We shall always be glad to have your opinion on any subject of importance that may come before us; and as regards the internal discipline of the office, we feel that we may leave it safely in your hands. In any matter of importance you will, of course, consult us, and I feel very confident that we shall go on together with great comfort and with mutual confidence.’ Then Mr Optimist looked at his brother Commissioners, sat down in his arm-chair, and taking in his hands some papers before him, began the routine business of the day.

  It was nearly five o’clock when, on this special occasion, the secretary returned from the Boardroom to his own office. Not for a moment had the weight been off his shoulders while Sir Raffle had been bragging or Mr Optimist making his speech. He had been thinking, not of them, but of Lily Dale; and though they had not discovered his thoughts, they had perceived that he was hardly like himself.

  ‘I never saw a man so little elated by good fortune in my life,
’ said Mr Optimist.

  ‘Ah, he’s got something on his mind,’ said Butterwell. ‘He’s going to be married, I believe.’

  ‘If that’s the case, it’s no wonder he shouldn’t be elated,’ said Major Fiasco, who was himself a bachelor.

  When in his own room again, Crosbie at once seized on a sheet of note-paper, as though by hurrying himself on with it he could get that letter to Allington written. But though the paper was before him, and the pen in his hand, the letter did not, would not, get itself written. With what words was he to begin it? To whom should it be written? How was he to declare himself the villain which he had made himself? The letters from his office were taken away every night shortly after six, and at six o’clock he had not written a word. ‘I will do it at home tonight,’ he said to himself, and then, tearing off a scrap of paper, he scratched those few lines which Lily received, and which she had declined to communicate to her mother or sister. Crosbie, as he wrote them, conceived that they would in some way prepare the poor girl for the coming blow – that they would, at any rate, make her know that all was not right; but in so supposing he had not counted on the constancy of her nature, nor had he though of the promise which she had given him that nothing should make her doubt him. He wrote the scrap, and then taking his hat walked off through the gloom of the November evening up Charing Cross and St Martin’s Lane, towards the Seven Dials and Bloomsbury,8 into regions of the town with which he had no business, and which he never frequented. He hardly knew where he went or wherefore. How was he to escape from the weight of the burden which was now crushing him? It seemed to him as though he would change his position with thankfulness for that of the junior clerk in his office, if only that junior clerk had upon his mind no such betrayal of trust as that of which he was guilty.

  At half-past seven he found himself at Sebright’s, and there he dines. A man will dine, even though his heart be breaking. Then he got into a cab, and had himself taken home to Mount Street. During his walk he had sworn to himself that he would not go to bed that night till the letter was written and posted. It was twelve before the first words were marked on the paper, and yet he kept his oath. Between two and three, in the cold moonlight, he crawled out and deposited his letter in the nearest post-office.

  CHAPTER 29

  JOHN EAMES RETURNS TO BURTON CRESCENT

  JOHN EAMES and Crosbie returned to town on the same day. It will be remembered how Eames had assisted Lord De Guest in the matter of the bull, and how great had been the earl’s gratitude on the occasion. the memory of this, and the strong encouragement which he received from his mother and sister for having made such a friend by his gallantry, lent some slight satisfaction to his last hours at home. But his two misfortunes were too serious to allow of anything like real happiness. He was leaving Lily behind him, engaged to be married to a man whom he hated, and he was returning to Burton Crescent, where he would have to face Amelia Roper – Amelia either in her rage or in her love. The prospect of Amelia in her rage was very terrible to him; but his greatest fear was of Amelia in her love. He had in his letter declined matrimony; but what if she talked down all his objections, and carried him off to church in spite of himself!

  When he reached London and got into a cab with his portmanteau, he could hardly fetch up courage to bid the man drive him to Burton Crescent. ‘I might as well go to an hotel for the night,’ he said to himself, ‘and then I can learn how things are going on from Cradell at the office.’ Nevertheless, he did give the direction to Burton Crescent, and when it was once given felt ashamed to change it. But, as he was driven up to the well-known door, his heart was so low within him that he might almost be said to have lost it. When the cabman demanded whether he should knock, he could not answer; and when the maid-servant at the door greeted him, he almost ran away.

  ‘Who’s at home?’ said he, asking the question in a very low voice.

  ‘There’s missus,’ said the girl, ‘and Miss Spruce, and Mrs Lupex. He’s away somewhere, in his tantrums again; and there’s Mr –’

  ‘Is Miss Roper here?’ he said, still whispering.

  ‘Oh, yes! Miss Mealyer’s here,’ said the girl, speaking in a cruelly loud voice. ‘She was in the dining-room just now, putting out the table. Miss Mealyer!’ And the girl, as she called out the name, opened the dinning-room door. Johnny Eames felt that his knees were too weak to support him.

  But Miss Mealyer was not in the dining-room. She had perceived the advantage cab of her sworn adorer, and had though it expedient to retreat from her domestic duties, and fortify herself among her brushes and ribbons. Had it been possible that she should know how very weak and cowardly was the enemy against whom she was called upon to put herself in action, she might probably have fought her battle somewhat differently, and have achieved a speedy victory, at the cost of an energetic shot or two. But she did not know. She thought it probable that she might obtains power over him and manage him but it did not occur to her that her his legs were so weak beneath him that she might almost blow him over with a breath. None but the worst and most heartless of women know the extent of their own power over men – as none but the worst and most heartless of men know the extent of their power over women. Amelia Roper was not a good specimen of the female sex, but there worse women than her.

  ‘She ain’t there, Mr Eames; but you’ll see her in the drawen-room,’ said the girl. ‘And it’s she’ll be glad to see you back again, Mr Eames.’ But he scrupulously passed the door of the upstairs sitting-room, not even looking within it, and contrived to get himself into his own chamber without having encountered anybody. ‘Here’s yer ’ot water, Mr Eames,’ said the girl, coming up to him after an interval of half an hour; ‘and dinner’ll be on the table in ten minutes. Mr Cradell is come in, and so is missus’s son.’

  It was still open to him to go out and dine at some eating-house in the Strand. He could start out, leaving word that he was engaged, and so postpone the evil hour. He had almost made up his mind to do so, and certainly would have done it, had not the sitting-room door opened as he was on the landing-place. The door opened, and he found himself confronting the assembled company. First came Cradell, and leaning on his arm, I regret to say, was Mrs Lupex – Egyptia conjux!1 Then there came Miss Spruce with young Roper; Amelia and her mother brought up the rear together. There was no longer question of flight now; and poor Eames, before he knew what he was doing, was carried down into the dining-room with the rest of the company. They were all glad to see him, and welcomed him back warmly, but he was so much beside himself that he could not ascertain whether Amelia’s voice was joined with others. He was already seated at table, and had before him a plate of soup, before he recognized the fact that he was sitting between Mrs Roper and Mrs Lupex. The latter lady had separated herself from Mr Cradell as she entered the room. ‘Under all the circumstances perhaps it will be better for us to be apart,’ she said. ‘A lady can’t make herself too safe; can she, Mrs Roper? There’s no danger between you and me, is there, Mr Eames – specially when Miss Amelia is opposite?’ The last words, however, were intended to be whispered into his ear.

  But Johnny made no answer to her; contenting himself for the moment with wiping the perspiration form his brow. There was Amelia opposite to him, looking at him – the very Amelia to whom he had written, declining the honour of marrying her. Of what her mood towards him might be, he could form on judgement from her looks. Her face was simply stern and impassive, and she seemed inclined to eat her dinner in silence. A slight smile of derision had passed across her face as she heard Mrs Lupex whisper, and it might have been discerned that her nose, at the same time, became somewhat elevated; but she said not a word.

  ‘I hope you’ve enjoyed yourself, Mr Eames, among the vernal beauties of the country,’ said Mrs Lupex.

  ‘Very much, thank you,’ he replied.

  ‘There’s nothing like the country at this autumnal season of the year. As for myself, I’ve never been accustomed to remain in London after the b
reaking up of the beau monde. We’ve usually been to Broadstairs, which is a very charming place, with most elegant society, but now –’ and she shook her head, by which all the company knew that she intended to allude to the sins of Mr Lupex.

  ‘I’d never wish to sleep out of London for my part,’ said Mrs Roper. ‘When a woman’s got a house over her head, I don’t think her mind’s ever easy out of it.’