She had not intended any reflection on Mrs Lupex for not having a house of her own, but that lady immediately bristled up. ‘That’s just what the snails say, Mrs Roper. And as for having a house of one’s own, it’s a very good thing, no doubt, sometimes; but that’s according to circumstances. It has suited me lately to live in lodgings, but there’s no knowing whether I may’t fall lower than that yet, and have –’ but here she stopped herself, and looking over at Mr Cardell nodded her head.
‘And have to let them,’ said Mrs Roper. ‘I hope you’ll be more lucky with your lodgers than I have been with some of mine. Jemima, hand the potatoes to Miss Spruce. Miss Spruce, do let me send you a little more gravy? There’s plenty here, really.’ Mrs Roper was probably thinking of Mrs Todgers.2
‘I hope I shall,’ said Mrs Lupex. ‘But, as I was saying, Broadstairs is delightful. Were you ever at Broadstairs, Mr Cradell?’
‘Never, Mrs Lupex. I generally go abroad in my leave. One sees more of the world, you know. I was at Dieppe last June, and found that very delightful – though rather lonely. I shall go to Ostend this year; only December is so late for Ostend. It was a deuced shame my getting December, wasn’t it, Johnny?’
‘Yes, it was,’ said Eames. ‘I managed better.’
‘And what have you been doing, Mr Eames?’ said Mrs Lupex, with one of her sweetest smiles. ‘Whatever it may have been, you’ve not been false to the cause of beauty, I’m sure.’ And she looked over to Amelia with a knowing smile. But Amelia was engaged upon her plate, and went on with her dinner without turning her eyes either on Mrs Lupex or on John Eames.
‘I haven’t done anything particular,’ said Eames. ‘I’ve just been staying with my mother.’
‘We’ve been very social here, haven’t we, Miss Amelia?’ continued Mrs Lupex. ‘Only now and then a cloud comes across the heavens, and the light at the banquet are darkened.’ Then she put her handkerchief alluding to the sins of her husband.
As soon as dinner was over the ladies with young Mr Roper retired, and Eames and Cradell were left to take their wine over the dining-room fire – or their glass of gin and water, as it might be. ‘Well, Caudle, old fellow,’ said one. ‘Well, Johnny, my boy,’ said the other. ‘What’s the news at the office?’ said Eames.
‘Muggeridges has been playing the very mischief.’ Muggeridge was the second clerk in Cradell’s room. ‘We’re going to put him into Coventry and not speak to him except officially. But to tell you the truth, my hands have been so full here at home, that I haven’t thought much about the office. What am I to do about that woman?’
‘Do about her? how do about her?’
‘Yes; what am I to do about her? How am I to manage with her? There’s Lupex off again in one of his fits of jealousy.’
‘But it’s not your fault, I suppose?’
‘Well; I can’t just say. I am fond of her, and that’s the long and the short of it; deuced fond of her.’
‘But, my dear Caudle, you know she’s that man’s wife.’
‘Oh, yes, I know all about it. I’m not going to defend myself. It’s wrong, I know – pleasant, but wrong. But what’s fellow to do? I suppose in strict morality I ought to leave the lodgings. But, by George, I don’t see why a man’s to be turned out in that way. And then I couldn’t make a clean score with old mother Roper. But I say, old fellow, who gave you the gold chain?’
‘Well; it was an old family friend at Guestwick; or rather, I should say, a man who said he knew my father.’
‘And he gave you that because he knew your governor! Is there a watch to it?’
‘Yes, there’s a watch. It wasn’t exactly that. There was some trouble about a bull. To tell the truth, it was Lord De Guest; the queerest fellow, Caudle, you never met in your life; but a such a trump. I’ve got to go and dine with him at Christmas.’ And then the old story of the bull was told.
‘I wish I could find a lord in a field with a bull,’ said Cradell. We may, however, be permitted to doubt whether Mr Cradell would have earned a watch even if he had had his wish.
‘You see,’ continued Cradell, reverting to the subject on which he most delighted to talk, ‘I’m not responsible for that man’s ill-conduct.’
‘Does anybody say you are?’
‘No; nobody says so. But people seem to think so. When he is by I hardly speak to her. She is thoughtless and giddy, as women are, and takes my arm, and that kind of thing, you know. It makes him mad with rage, but upon my honour I don’t think she means any harm.’
‘I don’t suppose she does,’ said Eames.
‘Well; she may or she mayn’t. I hope with all my heart she doesn’t.’
‘And where is he now?’
‘This is between ourselves, you know; but she went to find him this afternoon. Unless he gives her money she can’t stay here, nor, for the matter of that, will she be able to go away. If I mention something to you, you won’t tell anyone?’
‘Of course I won’t.’
‘I wouldn’t have it known to anyone for the world. I’ve lent her seven pounds ten. It’s that which makes me so short with mother Roper.’
‘Then I think you’re a fool for your pains.’
‘Ah, that’s so like you. I always said you’d no feeling of real romance. If I cared for a woman I’d give her the coat off my back.’
‘I’d do better than that,’ said Johnny. ‘I’d give her the heart out of my body. I’d be chopped up alive for a girl I loved; but it shouldn’t be for another man’s wife.’
‘That’s a matter of taste. But she’s been to Lupex today at that house he goes to in Drury Lane. She had a terrible scene there. He was going to commit suicide in the middle of the street, and she declares that it all comes from jealousy. Think what a time I have of it – standing always, as one may say, on gunpowder. He may turn up here at any moment, you know. But, upon my word, for the life of me I cannot desert her. If I were to turn my back on her she wouldn’t have a friend in the world. And how’s L.D.? I’ll tell you what it is – you’ll have some trouble with the divine Amelia.’
‘Shall I?’
‘By Jove, you will. But how’s L.D. all this time?’
‘L.D. is engaged to be married to a man named Adolphus Crosbie,’ said poor Johnny, slowly. ‘If you please, we will not say any more about her.’
‘Whew – w – w! That’s what makes you so down in the mouth! L.D going to marry Crosbie! Why, that’s the man who is to be the new secretary at the General Committee Office. Old Huffle Scuffle, who was their chair, has come to us, you know. There’s been a general move at the G.C., and this Crosbie has got to be secretary. He’s a lucky chap, isn’t he?’
‘I don’t know anything about his luck. He’s one of those fellows that make me hate them the first time I look at them. I’ve a sort of a feeling that I shall live to kick him some day.’
‘That’s the time, is it? Then I suppose Amelia will have it all her own way now.’
‘I’ll tell you what, Caudle. I’d sooner get up through the trap-door, and throw myself off the roof into the area, than marry Amelia Roper.’
‘Have you and she had any conversation since you came back?’
‘Not a word.’
‘Then I tell you fairly you’ve got trouble before you. Amelia and Maria – Mrs Lupex, I mean – are as thick as thieves just at present, and they have been talking you over. Maria – that is, Mrs Lupex – lets it all out to me. You’ll have to mind where you are, old fellow.’
Eames was not inclined to discuss the matter any further, so he finished his toddy in silence. Cradell, however, who felt that there was something in his affairs of which he had reason to be proud, soon returned to the story of how own very extraordinary position. ‘By jove, I don’t know that a man was ever so circumstanced,’ he said. ‘She looks to me to protect her, and yet what can I do?’
At last Cradell got up, and declared that he must go to the ladies. ‘She’s so nervous, that unless she has someone to countenance her she b
ecomes unwell.’
Eames declared his purpose of going to the divan, or to the theatre, or to take a walk in the streets. The smiles of beauty had no longer charms for him in Burton Crescent.
‘They’ll expect you to take a cup of teat the first night,’ said Cradell; but Eames declared that they might expect it.
‘I’m in no humour for it,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you what, Cradell, I shall leave this place, and take rooms for myself somewhere. I’ll never go into a lodging-house again.’
As he so spoke, he was standing at the dinning-room door; but he was not allowed to escape in this easy way. Jemima, as he went out into the passage, was there with a three-cornered note in her hand. ‘From Miss Mealyer,’ she said. ‘Miss Mealyer is in the back parlour all by herself.’
Poor Johnny took the note, and read it by the lamp over the front door.
‘Are you not going to speak to me on the day of your return? It cannot be that you will leave the house without seeing me for a moment. I am in the back parlour.’
When he had read these words, he paused in the passage, with his hat on. Jemima, who could not understand why any young man should hesitate as to seeing his lady-love in the back parlour alone, whispered to him again, in her audible way, ‘Miss Mealyer is there, sir; and all the rest on ’em’s upstairs!’ So compelled, Eames put down his hat, and walked with slow steps into the back parlour.
How was it to be with the enemy? Was he to encounter Amelia in anger, or Amelia in love? She had seemed to be stern and defiant when he had ventured to steal a look at her across the dinning-table, and now he expected that she would turn upon him with loud threatenings and protestations as to her wrongs. But it was not so. When he entered the room she was standing with her back to him, leaning on the mantelpiece, and at eh first moment she did not easy to speak. He walked into the middle of her room and stood there, waiting for her to begin.
‘Shut the door!’ she said, looking over her shoulder. ‘I suppose you don’t want the girl to hear all you’ve got to say to me!’
Then he shut the door; but still Amelia stood with her back to him, leaning upon the mantelpiece.
It did not seem that he had much to say, for he remained perfectly silent.
‘Well!’ said Amelia, after a long pause, and she then again looked over her shoulder. ‘Well, Mr Eames!’
‘Jemima gave me your note, and so I’ve come,’ said he.
‘And is this the way we meet!’ she exclaimed, turning suddenly upon him, and throwing her long black hair back over her shoulders. There certainly was some beauty about her. Her eyes were large and bright, and her shoulders were well turned. She might have done as an artist’s model for a Judith,3 but I doubt whether any man, looking well into her face, could think that she would do well as a wife. ‘Oh, John, is it to be thus, after love such as ours?’ And she clasped her hands together, and stood before him.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Eames.
‘If you are engaged to marry L.D., tell me so at once. Be a man, and speak out, sir.’
‘No,’ said Eames; ‘I am not engaged to marry the lady to whom you allude.’
‘On your honour?’
‘I won’t have her spoken about. I’m not going to marry her, and that’s enough.’
‘Do you think that I wish to speak of her? What can L.D. be to me as long as she is nothing to you? Oh, Johnny, why did you write me that heartless letter?’ Then she leaped upon his shoulder – or attemped to do so.
I cannot say that Eames shook her off, seeing that he lacked the courage to do so; but he shuffled his shoulder about so that the support was uneasy to her, and she was driven to stand erect again. ‘Why did you write that cruel letter?’ she said again.
‘Because I though it best, Amelia. What’s a man to do with ninety pounds a year, you know?’
‘But your mother allows you twenty.’
‘And what’s a man to do with a hundred and ten?’
‘Rising five pounds every year,’ said the well-informed Amelia. ‘Of course we should live here, with mamma, and you would just go on paying her as you do now. If you heart was right, Johnny, you wouldn’t think so much about money. If you loved me – as you said you did –’ Then a little sob came, and the words were stopped. the words were stopped, but she was again upon his shoulder. What was to do? In truth, his only wish was to escape, and yet his arm, quite in opposition to his own desires, found its way round her waist. In such a combat a woman has so many points in her waist. In such a combat a woman has so many points in her favour! ‘Oh, Johnny,’ she said again, as soon as she felt the pressure of his arm. ‘Gracious, what a beautiful watch you’ve got,’ and she took the trinket out of his pocket. ‘Did you buy that?’
‘No; it was given to me.’
‘John Eames, did L.D. give it you?’
‘No, no no,’ he shouted, stamping on the floor as he spoke.
‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ said Amelia, quelled for the moment by his energy. ‘Perhaps it was your mother.’
‘No; it was a man. Never mind about the watch now.’
‘I wouldn’t mind anything, Johnny, if you would tell me that you loved me again. Perhaps I oughtn’t to ask you, and it isn’t becoming in a lady; but how can I help it, when you know you’ve got my heart. Come upstairs and have tea with us now, won’t you?’
What was he to do? He said that he would go up and have tea; and as he led to the door he put down his face and kissed her. Oh, Johnny Eames! But then a woman in such a contest has so many points in her favour.
CHAPTER 30
IS IT FROM HIM?
I HAVE already declared that Crosbie wrote and posted the fatal letter to Allington, and we must now follow it down to that place. On the morning following the squire’s return to his own house Mrs Crump, the post-mistress at Allington, received a parcel by post directed to herself. She opened it, and found an enclosure addresses to Mrs Dale, with a written request that she would herself deliver it into that lady’s own hand at once. This was Crosbie’s letter.
‘It’s from Miss Lily’s gentleman,’ said Mrs Crump, looking at the handwriting. ‘There’s something up, or he wouldn’t be writing to her mamma in this way.’ But Mrs Crump lost no time in putting on her bonnet, and trudging up with the letter to the Small House. ‘I must see the missus herself,’ said Mrs Crump. Whereupon Mrs Dale was called downstairs into the hall, and there received the packet. Lily was in the breakfast-parlour, and had seen the post-mistress arrive – had seen also that she carried a letter in her hand. For a moment she had thought that it was for her, and imagined that the old woman had brought it herself from simple good-nature. But Lily, when she heard her mother mentioned, instantly withdrew and shut the parlour door. Her heart misgave her that something was wrong, but she hardly tried to think what it might be. After all the regular postman might bring the letter she herself expected. Bell was not yet downstairs, and she stood alone over the teacups on the breakfast-table feeling that there was something for her to fear. Her mother did not come at once into the room, but, after a pause of a moment or two, went again upstairs. So she remained, either standing against the table, or at the window, or seated in one of the two arm-chairs, for a space of ten minutes, when Bell entered the room.
‘Isn’t mamma down yet?’ said Bell.
‘Bell,’ said Lily, ‘something has happened. Mamma has got a letter.’
‘Happened! What has happened? Is anybody ill? Who is the letter from?’ And Bell was going to return through the door in search of her mother.
‘Stop, Bell,’ said Lily. ‘Do not go to her yet. I think it’s from – Adolphus.’
‘Oh, Lily, what do you mean?’
‘I don’t know, dear. We’ll wait a little longer. Don’t look like that, Bell.’ And Lily strove to appear calm, and strove almost successfully.
‘You have frightened me so,’ said Bell.
‘I am frightened myself. He only sent me one line yesterday, and now he has sent nothing.
If some misfortune should have happened to him! Mrs Crump brought down the letter herself to mamma, and that is so odd, you know.’
‘Are you sure it was from him?’
‘No; I have not spoken to her. I will go up to her now. Don’t you come, Bell. Oh! Bell, do not look so unhappy’. She then went over and kissed her sister, and after that, with very gentle steps, made her way up to her mother’s room. ‘Mamma, may I come in?’ she said.
‘Oh! my child!’
‘I know it is from him, mamma. Tell me all at once.’
Mrs Dale had read the letter. With quick, glancing eyes, she had made herself mistress of its whole contents, and was already aware of the nature and extent of the sorrow which had come upon them. It was a sorrow that admitted of no hope. The man who had written that letter could never return again; nor if he should return could he be welcomed back to them. The blow had fallen, and it was to be borne. Inside the letter to herself had been a very small note addressed to Lily. ‘Give her the enclosed,’ Crosbie had said in his letter, ‘if you do not now think it wrong to do so. I have left it open, that you may read it.’ Mrs Dale, however, had not yet read it, and she now concealed it beneath her handkerchief.
I will not repeat at length Crosbie’s letter to Mrs Dale. It covered four sides of letter-paper, and was such a letter that any man who wrote it must have felt himself to be a rascal. We saw that he had difficulty in writing it, but the miracle was, that any man could have found it possible to write it. ‘I know you will curse me’, said he; ‘and I deserve to be cursed. I know that I shall be punished for this, and I must bear my punishment. My worst punishment will be this – that I never more shall hold up my head again.’ And then, again, he said – ‘My only excuse is my conviction that I should never make her happy. She has been brought up as an angel, with pure thoughts, with holy hopes, with a belief in all that is good, and high, and noble. I have been surrounded through my whole life by things low, and mean, and ignoble. How could I live with her, or she with me? I know now that this is so; but my fault has been that I did not know it when I was there with her. I choose to tell you all,’ he continued, towards the end of the letter, ‘and therefore I let you know that I have engaged myself to marry another woman. Ah! I can foresee how bitter will be your feelings when you read this: but they will not be so bitter as mine while I write it. Yes; I am already engaged to one who will suit me, and whom I may suit. You will not expect me to speak ill of her who is to be near and dear to me. But she is one with whom I may mate myself without an inward conviction that I shall destroy all her happiness by doing so. Lilian’, he said, ‘shall always have my prayers; and I trust that she may soon forget, in the love of an honest man, that she ever knew one so dishonest as – Adolphus Crosbie.’
The Small House at Allington Page 40
