The Small House at Allington

by Anthony Trollope

  ‘Perhaps I am,’ said Johnny.

  ‘Very ignorant indeed – very ignorant indeed. And are you aware, sir, that it would become a question with the Commissioners of this Board whether you could be retained in the service of his department if you were publicly punished by a police magistrate for such a disgraceful outrage as that?’

  Johnny looked round at the other Commissioner, but that gentleman did not raise his face from his papers.

  ‘Mr Eames is very good clerk,’ whispered the assistant secretary, but in a voice which made his words audible to Eames; ‘one of the best young men we have,’ he added, in a voice which was not audible.

  ‘Oh – ah; very well. Now, I’ll tell you what, Mr Eames, I hope this will be a lesson to you – a very serious lesson.’

  The assistant secretary, learning back in his chair so as to be a little behind the head of Sir Raffle, did manage to catch the eye of the other Commissioner. The other Commissioner, barely looking round, smiled a little, and then the assistant secretary smiled also. Eames saw this, and he smiled too.

  ‘Whether any ulterior consequences may still await the breach of the peace of which you have been guilty, I am not yet prepared to say,’ continued Sir Raffle. ‘You may go now.’

  And Johnny returned to his own place, with no increased reverence for the dignity of the chairman.

  On the following morning one of his colleagues showed him with great glee the passage in the newspaper which informed the world that he had been so desperately beaten by Crosbie that he was obliged to keep his bed at this present time in consequence of the flogging that he had received. Then his anger was aroused, and he bounced about the big room of the Income-tax Office, regardless of assistant secretaries, head clerks, and all other official grandees whatsoever, denouncing the iniquities of the public press, and declaring his opinion that it would be better to live in Russia than in a country which allowed such audacious falsehoods to be propagated.

  ‘He ever touched me, Fisher; I don’t think he ever tried; but, upon my honour, he never touched me.’

  ‘But, Johnny, it was bold in you to make up to Lord De Courcy’s daughter,’ said Fisher.

  ‘I never saw one of them in my life.’

  ‘He’s going it altogether among the aristocracy, now,’ said another; ‘I suppose you wouldn’t look at anybody under a viscount?’

  ‘Can I help what that thief of an editor puts into his paper? Flogged! Huffle Scuffle told me I was a felon, but that wasn’t half so bad as this fellow;’ and Johnny kicked the newspaper across the room.

  ‘Indict him for a libel,’ said Fisher.

  ‘Particularly for saying you wanted to marry a countess’s daughter,’ said another clerk.

  ‘I never heard such a scandal in my life,’ declared a third; ‘and then to say that the girl woudn’t look at you.’

  But not the less was it felt by all in the office that Johnny Eames was becoming a leading man among them, and that he was one with whom each of them would he pleased to be intimate. And even among the grandees this affair of the railway station did him no real harm. It was known that Crosbie had deserved to be trashed, and know that Eames had thrashed him. It was all very well for Sir Raffle Buffle to talk of police magistrates and misdemeanours, but all the world at the Income-tax Office knew very well that Eames had come out from that affair with his head upright, and his right foot foremost.

  ‘Never mind about the newspaper,’ a thoughtful old senior clerk said to him. ‘As he did get the licking and you didn’t you can afford to laugh at the newspaper.’

  ‘And you wouldn’t write to the editor?’

  ‘No, no; certainly no. No one thinks of defending himself to a newspaper except an ass 5 – unless it be some fellow who wants to have his name puffed. You may write what’s as true as the gospel, but they’ll know how to make fun of it.’

  Johnny therefore gave up his idea of an indignant letter to the editor, but he felt that he was bound to give some explanation of the whole matter to Lord De Guest. The affair had happened as he was coming from the earl’s house, and all his own concerns had now been made so much a matter of interest to his kind friend, that he thought that he could not with propriety leave the earl to learn from the newspapers either the facts or the falsehoods. And, therefore, before he left his office he wrote the following letter:

  Income-tax Office, December 29, 186—

  MY LORD,

  He thought a good deal about the style in which he ought to address the peer, never having hitherto written to him. He began, ‘My dear Lord,’ on one sheet of paper, and then put it aside, thinking that it looked over-bold.

  MY LORD,

  As you have been so very kind to me, I feel that I ought to tell you what happened the other morning at the railway station, as I was coming back from Guestwick. That scoundrel Crosbie got into the same carriage with me at the Barchester Junction, and sat opposite to me all the way up to London. I did not speak a word to him, or he to me; but when he got out at the Paddington Station, I thought I ought not to let him to away, so I – I can’t say that I thrashed him as I wished to do; but I made an attempt, and I did give him a black eye. A whole quantity of policemen got round us, and I hadn’t a fair chance. I know you will think that I was wrong, and perhaps I was; but what could I do when he sat opposite to me there for two hours, looking as though he thought himself the finest fellow in all London?

  They’ve put a horrible paragraph into one of the newspapers, saying that I got so ‘flogged’ that I haven’t been able to stir since. It is an atrocious falsehood, as is all the rest of the newspaper account. I was not touched. He was not nearly so bad a customer as the bull, and seemed to take it all very quietly. I must acknowledge, though, that he didn’t get such a beating as he deserved.

  Your friend Sir R. B. sent for me this morning, and told me I was a felon. I didn’t seem to care much for that, for he might as well have called me a murderer or a burglar; but I shall care very much indeed if I have made you angry with me. But what I most fear is that anger of someone else – at Allington.

  Believe me to be, my Lord,

  Yours very much obliged and most sincerely,

  JOHN EAMES

  ‘I knew he’d do it if ever he got the opportunity,’ said the earl when he had read his letter; and he walked about his room striking his hands together and then thrusting his thumbs into his waistcoat-pockets. ‘I knew he was made of the right stuff,’ and the earl rejoiced greatly in the prowess of his favourite. ‘I’d have done it myself if I’d seen him. I do believe I would.’ Then he went back to the breakfast-room and told Lady Julia. ‘What do you think?’ said he; ‘Johnny Eames has come across Crosbie, and given him a desperate beating.’

  ‘No!’ said Lady Julia, putting down her newspaper and spectacles, and expressing by the light of her eyes anything but Christian horror at the wickedness of the deed.

  ‘But he has, though. I knew he would if he saw him.’

  ‘Beaten him! Actually beaten him!’

  ‘Sent him home to Lady Alexandrina with two black eyes.’

  ‘Two black eyes! What a young pickle! But did he get hurt himself?’

  ‘Not a scratch, he says.’

  ‘And what’ll they do to him?’

  ‘Nothing, Crosbie won’t be fool enough to do anything. A man becomes an outlaw when he plays such a game as he has played. Anybody’s hand may be raised against him with impunity. He can’t show his face, you know. He can’t come forward and answer questions as to what he has done. There are offences which the law can’t touch, but which outrage public feeling so strongly that anyone may take upon himself the duty of punishing them. He has been thrashed, and that will stick to him till he dies.’

  ‘Do tell Johnny from me that I hope he didn’t get hurt,’ said Lady Julia. The old lady could not absolutely congratulate him on his feat of arms, but she did the next thing to it.

  But the earl did congratulate him, with a full open assurance of his approval
.

  ‘I hope,’ he said, ‘I should have done the same at your age, under similar circumstances, and I’m very glad that he proved less difficult than the bull. I’m quite sure you didn’t want anyone to help you with Master Crosbie. As for that other person at Allington, if I understand such matters at all, I think she will forgive you.’ It may, however, be a question whether the earl did understand such matters at all. And then he added, in a postscript: ‘When you write to me again – and don’t be long first, begin your letter, “My dear Lord De Guest.” that is the proper way.’

  CHAPTER 37

  AN OLD MAN’S COMPLAINT

  ‘HAVE YOU been thinking again of what I was saying to you, Bell?’ Bernard said to his cousin one morning.

  ‘Thinking of it, Bernard? Why should I think more of it? I had hoped that you had forgotten it yourself.’

  ‘No,’ he said; ‘I am not so easy-hearted as that. I cannot look on such a thing as I would the purchase of a horse, which I could give up without sorrow if I found that the animal was too costly for my purse. I did not tell you that I loved you till I was sure of myself, and having made myself sure I cannot change at all.’

  ‘And yet you would have me change.’

  ‘Yes, of course I would. If your heart be free now, it must of course be changed before you come to love any man. Such change as that is to be looked for. But when you have loved, then it will not be easy to change you.’

  ‘But I have not.’

  ‘Then I have a right to hope. I have been hanging on here, Bell, longer than I ought to have done, because I could not bring myself to leave you without speaking of this again. I did not wish to seem to you to be importunate –’

  ‘If you could only believe me in what I say.’

  ‘It is not that I don not believe. I am not a puppy or a fool, to flatter myself that you must be in love with me. I believe you well enough. But still it is possible that your mind may alter.’

  ‘It is impossible.’

  ‘I do not know whether my uncle or your mother have spoken to you about this.’

  ‘Such speaking would have no effect.’

  In fact, her mother had spoken to her, but she truly said that such speaking would have no effect. If her cousin could not win the battle by his own skill, he might have been quite sure, looking at her character as it was known to him, that he would not be able to win it by his own skill, he might have been quite sure, looking at her character as it was known to him, that he would not be able to win it by the skill of others.

  ‘We have all been made very unhappy,’ he went on to say, ‘by this calamity which has fallen on poor Lily.’

  ‘And because she has been deceived by the man she did love, I am to make matters square by marrying a man I –’ and then she paused. ‘Dear Bernard, you should not drive me to say words which will sound harsh to you.’

  ‘No words can be harsher than those which you have already spoken. But, Bell, at any rate, you may listen to me.’

  Then he told her how desirable it was with reference to all the concerns of the Dale family that she should endeavour to look favourably on his proposition. It would be good for them all, he said, especially for Lily, as to whom, at the present moment, their uncle felt so kindly. He, as Bernard pleaded, was so anxious at heart for this marriage, that he would do anything that was asked of him if he were gratified. But if he were not gratified in this, he would feel that he had ground for displeasure.

  Bell, as she had been desired to listen, did listen very patiently. But when her cousin had finished, her answer was very short. ‘Nothing that my uncle can say, or think, or do, can make any difference in this,’ said she.

  ‘You will think nothing, then, of the happiness of others.’

  ‘I would not marry a man I did not love, to ensure any amount of happiness to others – at least I know I ought not to do so. But I do not believe I should ensure anyone’s happiness by this marriage. Certainly not yours.’

  After this Bernard had acknowledged to himself that the difficulties in his way were great. ‘I will go away till next autumn,’ he said to his uncle.

  ‘If you would give up your profession and remain here, she would not be so perverse.’

  ‘I cannot do that, sir. I cannot risk the well-being of my life on such a chance.’ Then his uncle had been angry with him, as well as with his niece. In his anger he determined that he would go again to his sister-in-law, and, after some unreasonable fashion, he resolved that it would become him to be very angry with her also, if she declined to assist him with all her influence as a mother.

  ‘Why should they not both marry?’ he said to himself. Lord De Guest’s offer as to young Eames had been very generous. As he had then declared, he had not been able to express his own opinion at once; but on thinking over what the earl had said, he had found himself very willing to heal the family wound in the manner proposed, if any such healing might be possible. That, however, could not be done quite as yet. When the time should come, and he thought it might come soon – perhaps in the spring, when the days should be fine and the evenings again long – he would be willing to take his share with the earl in establishing that new household. To Crosbie he had refused to give anything, and there was upon his conscience a shade of remorse in that he had so refused. But if Lily could be brought to love this other man, he would be more open-handed. She should have her share as though she was in fact his daughter. But then, if he intended to do so much for them at the Small House, should not they in return do something also for him? So thinking, he went again to his sister-in-law, determined to explain his views, even though it might be at the risk of some hard words between them. As regarded himself, he did not much care for hard words spoken to him. He almost expected that people’s words should be hard and painful. He did not look for the comfort of affectionate soft greetings, and perhaps would not have appreciated them had they come to him. He caught Mrs Dale walking in the garden, and brought her into his own room, feeling that he had a better chance there than in her own house. She, with an old dislike to being lectured in that room, had endeavoured to avoid the interview, but had failed.

  ‘So I met John Eames at the Manor,’ he had said to her in the garden.

  ‘Ah, yes; and how did he get on there? I cannot conceive poor Johnny keeping holiday with the earl and his sister. How did he behave to them, and how did they behave to him?’

  ‘I can assure you he was very much at home there.’

  ‘Was he, indeed? Well, I hope it will do him good. He is, I’m sure, a very good young man; only rather awkward.’

  ‘I didn’t think him awkward at all. You’ll find, Mary, that he’ll do very well – a great deal better than his father did.’

  ‘I’m sure I hope he many.’ After that Mrs Dale made her attempt to escape; but the squire had taken her prisoner, and led her captive into the house. ‘Mary,’ he said, as soon as he had induced her to sit down, ‘it is time that this should be settled between my nephew and niece.’

  ‘I am afraid there will be nothing to settle.’

  ‘What do you mean – that you disapprove of it?’

  ‘By no means – personally. I should approve of it very strongly. But that has nothing to do with the question.’

  ‘Yes, it has. I beg your pardon, but it must have, and should have a great deal to do with it. Of course, I am not saying that anybody should now ever be compelled to marry anybody.’

  ‘I hope not.’

  ‘I never said that they ought, and never thought so. But I do think that the wishes of all her family should have very great weight with a girl that has been well brought up.’

  ‘I don’t know whether Bell has been well brought up; but in such a matter as this nobody’s wishes would weigh a feather with her; and, indeed, I could not take upon myself even to express a wish. To you I can say that I should have been very happy if she could have regarded her cousin as you wish her to do.’

  ‘You mean that you are afraid to tell her s
o?’

  ‘I am afraid to do what I think is wrong, if you mean that.’

  ‘I don’t think it would be wrong, and therefore I shall speak to her myself.’

  ‘You must do as you like about that, Mr Dale; I can’t prevent you. I shall think you wrong to harass her on such a matter, and I fear also that her answer will not be satisfactory to you. If you choose to tell her your opinion, you must do so. Of course I shall think you wrong, that’s all.’

  Mrs Dale’s voice as she said this was stern enough, and so was her countenance. She could not forbid the uncle to speak his mind to his niece, but the specially disliked the idea of any interference with her daughter. The squire got up and walked about the room, trying to compose himself that he might answer her rationally, but without anger.

  ‘May I go now?’ said Mrs Dale.

  ‘May you go? Of course you may go if you like it. If you think that I am intruding upon you in speaking to you of the welfare of your two girls, whom I endeavour to regard as my own daughters – except in this, that I know they have never been taught to love me – if you think that it is an interference on my part to show anxiety for their welfare, of course you may go.’

  ‘I did not mean to say anything to hurt you, Mr Dale.’

  ‘Hurt me! What does it signify whether I am hurt or not? I have no children of my own, and of course my only business in life is to provide for my nephews and nieces. I am an old fool if I expect that they are to love me in return, and if I venture to express a wish I am interfering and doing wrong! It is hard – very hard. I know well that they have been brought up to dislike me, and yet I am endeavouring to do my duty by them.’

  ‘Mr Dale, that accusation has not been deserved. They have not been brought up to dislike you. I believe that they have both loved and respected you as their uncle; but such love and respect will not give you a right to dispose of their hands.’