The Small House at Allington

by Anthony Trollope

  ‘I don’t care a bit about France – we have been there so often,’ Alexandrina said.

  She had wished to be taken to Naples, but Crosbie had made her understand at the first whispering of the word, that Naples was quite out of the question. He must look now in all things to money. From the very first outset of his career he must save a shilling wherever a shilling could be saved. To this view of life no opposition was made by the De Courcy interest. Lady Amelia had explained to her sister that they ought so to do their honeymooning that it should not cost more than if they began keeping house at once. Certain things must be done which, no doubt, were costly in their nature. The bride must take with her a well-dressed lady’s-maid. The rooms at the Folkestone hotel must be large, and on the first floor. A carriage must be hired for her use while she remained; but every shilling must be saved the spending of which would not make itself apparent to the outer world. Oh, deliver us from the poverty of those who, with small means, affect a show of wealth! There is no whitening equal to that of sepulchres whited as they are whited!

  By the proper administration of a light bribe Crosbie secured for himself and his wife a compartment in the railway carriage to themselves. And as he seated himself opposite to Alexandrina, having properly tucked her up with all her bright-coloured trappings, he remembered that he had never in truth been alone with her before. He had danced with her frequently, and been left with her for a few minutes between the figures. He had flirted with her in crowded drawing-rooms, and had once found a moment at Courcy Castle to tell her that he was willing to marry her in spite of his engagement with Lilian Dale. But he had never walked with her for hours together as he had walked with Lily. He had never talked to her about government, and politics, and books, nor had she talked to him of poetry, of religion, and of the little duties and comforts of life. He had known the Lady Alexandrina for the last six or seven years; but he had never known her – perhaps never would know her – as he had learned to know Lily Dale within the space of two months.

  And now that she was his wife, what was he to say to her? They two had commenced a partnership which was to make of them for the remaining term of their lives one body and one flesh. They were to be all-in-all to each other. But how was he to begin this all-in-all partnership? Had the priest, with his blessing, done it so sufficiently that no other doing on Crosbie’s own part was necessary? There she was, opposite to him, his very actual wife – bone of his bone; and what was he to say to her? As he settled himself on his seat, taking over his own knees a part of a fine fur rug trimmed with scarlet, with which he had covered her other mufflings, he bethought himself how much easier it would have been to talk to Lily. And Lily would have been ready with all her ears, and all her mind, and all her wit, to enter quickly upon whatever thoughts had occurred to him. In that respect Lily would have been a wife indeed – a wife that would have transferred herself with quick mental activity into her husband’s mental sphere. Had he begun about his office Lily would have been ready for him, but Alexandrina had never yet asked him a single question about his official life. Had he been prepared with a plan for tomorrow’s happiness Lily would have taken it up eagerly, but Alexandrina never cared for such trifles.

  ‘Are you quite comfortable?’ he said, at last.

  ‘Oh, yes, quite, thank you. By-the-by, what did you do with my dressing-case?’

  And that question she did ask with some energy.

  ‘It is under you. You can have it as a foot-stool if you like it.’

  ‘Oh, no; I should scratch it. I was afraid that if Hannah had it, it might be lost.’ Then again there was silence, and Crosbie again considered as to what he would next say to his wife.

  We all know the advice gives us of old as to what we should do under such circumstances; and who can be so thoroughly justified in following that advice as a newly-married husband? So he put out his hand for hers and drew her closer to him.

  ‘Take care of my bonnet,’ she said, as she felt the motion of the railway carriage when he kissed her. I don’t think he kissed her again till he had landed her and her bonnet safely at Folkestone. How often would he have kissed Lily, and how pretty would her bonnet have been when she reached the end of her journey, and how delightfully happy would she have looked when she scolded him for bending it! But Alexandrina was quite in earnest about her bonnet; by far too much in earnest for any appearance of happiness.

  So he sat without speaking, till the train came to the tunned.

  ‘I do so hate tunnels,’ said Alexandrina.

  He had half intended to put out his hand again, under some mistaken idea that the tunnel afforded him an opportunity. The whole journey was one long opportunity, had he desired it; but his wife hated tunnels, and so he drew his hand back again. Lily’s little fingers would have been ready for his touch. He thought of this, and could not help thinking of it.

  He had The Times newspaper in his dressing-bag. She also had a novel with her. Would she be offended if he took out the paper and read it? The miles seemed to pass by very slowly, and there was still another hour down to Folkestone. He longed for his Times, but resolved at last, that he would not read unless she read first. She also had remembered her novel; but by nature she was more patient than he, and she thought that on such a journey any reading might perhaps be almost improper. So she sat tranquilly, with her eyes fixed on the netting over her husband’s head.4

  At last he could stand it no longer, and he dashed off into a conversation, intended to be most affectionate and serious.

  ‘Alexandrina,’ he said, and his voice was well-tuned for the tender serious manner, had her ears been alive to such tuning. ‘Alexandrina, this is a very important step that you and I have taken today.’

  ‘Yes; it is, indeed,’ said she.

  ‘I trust we shall succeed in making each other happy.’

  ‘Yes; I hope we shall.’

  ‘If we both think seriously of it, and remember that that is our chief duty, we shall do so.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose we shall. I only hope we shan’t find the house very cold. It is so new, and I am so subject to colds in my head. Amelia says we shall find it very cold; but then she was always against our going there.’

  ‘The house will do very well,’ said Crosbie. And Alexandrina could perceive that there was something of the master in his tone as he spoke.

  ‘I am only telling you what Amelia said,’ she replied.

  ‘Had Lily been his bride, and had he spoken to her of their future life and mutual duties, how she would have kindled to the theme! She Would have knelt at his feet on the floor of the carriage, and, looking up into his face, would have promised him to do her best – her best – her very best. And with what an eagerness of inward resolution would she have determined to keep her promise. He thought of all this now, but he knew that he ought not to think of it. Then, for some quarter of an hour, he did take out his newspaper, and she, when she saw him do so, did take out her novel.

  He took out his newspaper, but he could not fix his mind upon the politics of the day. Had he not made a terrible mistake? Of what use to him in life would be that thing of a woman that sat opposite to him? Had not a great punishment come upon him, and had he not deserved the punishment? In truth, a great punishment had come upon him. It was not only that he had married a woman incapable of understanding the higher duties of married life, but that he himself would have been capable of appreciating the value of a woman who did understand them. He would have been happy with Lily Dale; and therefore we may surmise that his unhappiness with Lady Alexandrina would be the greater. There are men who, in marrying such as Lady Alexandrina De Courcy, would get the article best suited to them, as Mortimer Gazebee had done in marrying her sister. Miss Griselda Grantly, who had become Lady Dumbello, though somewhat colder and somewhat cleverer than Lady Alexandrina, had been of the same sort. But in marrying her Lord Dumbello had got the article best suited to him – if only the ill-natured world would allow him to keep the article. It was
in this that Crosbie’s failure had been so grievous – that he had seen and approved the better course, but had chosen for himself to walk in that which was worse. During that week at Courcy Castle – the week which he passed there immediately after his second visit to Allington – he had deliberately made up his mind that he was more fit for the bad course than for the good one. The course was now before him, and he had no choice but to walk in it.

  It was very cold when they got to Folkestone, and Lady Alexandrina shivered as she stepped into the private-looking carriage which had been sent to the station for her use.

  ‘We shall find a good fire in the parlour at the hotel,’ said Crosbie.

  ‘Oh, I hope so,’ said Alexandrina, ‘and in the bedroom too.’

  The young husband felt himself to be offended, but he hardly knew why. He felt himself to be offended, and with difficulty induced himself to go through all those little ceremonies the absence of which would have been remarked by everybody. He did his work, however, seeing all her shawls and wrappings, speaking with good-nature to Hannah, and paying special attention to the dressing-case.

  ‘What time would you like to dine?’ he asked, as he prepared to leave her alone with Hannah in the bedroom.

  ‘Whenever you please; only I should like some tea and bread-and-butter presently.’

  Crosbie went into the sitting-room, ordered the tea and bread-and-butter, ordered also the dinner, and then stood himself up with his back to the fire, in order that he might think a little of his future career.

  He was a man who had long since resolved that his life should be a success. It would seem that all men would so resolve, if the matter were simply one of resolution. But the majority of men, as I take it, make no such resolution, and very many men resolve that they will be unsuccessful. Crosbie, however, had resolved on success, and had done much towards carrying out his purpose. He had made a name for himself, and had acquired a certain fame. That, however, was, as he acknowledged to himself, departing from him. He looked the matter straight in the face, and told himself that his fashion must be abandoned; but the office remained to him. He might still rule over Mr Optimist, and make a subservient slave of Butterwell. That must be his line in life now, and to that line he would endeavour to be true. As to his wife and his home – he would look to them for his breakfast, and perhaps his dinner. He would have a comfortable arm-chair, and if Alexandrina should become a mother, he would endeavour to love his children; but above all things he would never think of Lily. After that he stood and thought of her for half an hour.

  ‘If you please, sir, my lady wants to know at what time you have ordered dinner.’

  ‘At seven, Hannah.’

  ‘My lady says she is very tired, and will lie down till dinner-time.’

  ‘Very well, Hannah. I will go into her room when it is time to dress. I hope they are making you comfortable downstairs?’

  Then Crosbie strolled out on the pier in the dusk of the cold winter evening.

  CHAPTER 46

  JOHN EAMES AT HIS OFFICE

  MR CROSBIE and his wife went upon their honeymoon tour to Folkestone in the middle of February, and returned to London about the end of March. Nothing of special moment to the interests of our story occurred during those six weeks, unless the proceedings of the young married couple by the sea-side may be thought to have any special interest. With regard to those proceedings I can only say that Crosbie was glad when they were brought to a close. All holiday-making is hard work, but holiday-making with nothing to do is the hardest work of all. At the end of March they went into their new house, and we will hope that Lady Alexandrina did not find it very cold.

  During this time Lily’s recovery from her illness was being completed. She had no relapse, nor did anything occur to create a new fear on her account. But, nevertheless, Dr Crofts gave it as his opinion that it would be inexpedient to move her into a fresh house at Lady-day. March is not a kindly month for invalids; and therefore with some regret on the part of Mrs Dale, with much impatient on that of Bell, and with considerable outspoken remonstrance from Lily herself, the squire was requested to let them remain through the month of April. How the squire received this request, and in what way he assented to the doctor’s reasoning, will be told in the course of a chapter or two.

  In the meantime John Eames had continued his career in London without much immediate satisfaction to himself, or to the lady who boasted to be his heart’s chosen queen. Miss Amelia Roper, indeed, was becoming very cross, and in her ill temper was playing a game that was tending to create a frightful amount of hot water in Burton Crescent. She was devoting herself to a flirtation with Mr Cradell, not only under the immediate eyes of Johnny Eames, but also under those of Mrs Lupex. John Eames, the blockhead, did not like it. He was above all things anxious to get rid of Amelia and her claims; so anxious, that on certain moody occasions he would threaten himself with diverse tragical terminations to his career in London. He would enlist. He would go to Australia. He would blow out his brains. He would have ‘an explanation’ with Amelia, tell her that she was a vixen, and proclaim his hatred. He could rush down to Allington and throw himself in despair at Lily’s feet. Amelia was the bugbear of his life. Nevertheless, when she flirted with Cradell, he did not like it, and was ass enough to speak to Cradell about it.

  ‘Of course I don’t care,’ he said, ‘only it seems to me that you are making a fool of yourself.’

  ‘I thought you wanted to get rid of her.’

  ‘She’s nothing on earth to me; only it does, you know –’

  ‘Does do what?’ asked Cradell.

  ‘Why, if I was to be fal-lalling with that married woman, you wouldn’t like it. That’s all about it. Do you mean to marry her?’

  ‘What! – Amelia?’

  ‘Yes; Amelia.’

  ‘Not if I know it.’

  ‘Then if I were you I would leave her alone. She’s only making a fool of you.’

  Eames’s advice may have been good, and the view taken by him of Amelia’s proceedings may have been correct; but as regarded his own part in the affair, he was not wise. Miss Roper, no doubt, wished to make him jealous; and she succeeded in the teeth of his aversion to her and of his love elsewhere. He had no desire to say soft things to Miss Roper. Miss Roper, with all her skill, could not extract a word pleasantly soft from him once a week. But, nevertheless, soft words to her and from her in another quarter made him uneasy. Such being the case, must we not acknowledge that John Eames was still floundering in the ignorance of his hobbledehoyhood?

  The Lupexes at this time still held their ground in the Crescent, although repeated warnings to go had been given them. Mrs Roper, though she constantly spoke of sacrificing all that they owed her, still hankered, with a natural hankering, after her money. And as each warning was accompanied by a demand for payment, and usually produced some slight subsidy on account, the thing went on from week to week; and at the beginning of April Mr and Mrs Lupex were still boarders at Mrs Roper’s house.

  Eames had heard nothing from Allington since the time of his Christmas visit, and his subsequent correspondence with Lord De Guest. In his letters from his mother he was told that game came frequently from Guestwick Manor, and in this way he knew that he was not forgotten by the earl. But of Lily he had heard not a word – except, indeed, the rumour, which had now become general, that the Dales from the Small House were about to move themselves into Guestwick. When first he learned this he construed the tidings as favourable to himself, thinking that Lily, removed from the grandeur of Allington, might possibly be more easily within his reach; but, latterly, he had given up any such hope as that, and was telling himself that his friend at the Manor had abandoned all idea of making up the marriage. Three months had already elapsed since his visit. Five months had passed since Crosbie had surrendered his claim. Surely such a knave as Crosbie might be forgotten in five months! If any steps could have been taken through the squire, surely three months would have sufficed for them
! It was very manifest to him that there was no ground of hope for him at Allington, and it would certainly be well for him to go off to Australia. He would go to Australia, but he would thrash Cradell first for having dared to interfere with Amelia Roper. That generally was the state of his mind during the first week in April.

  Then there came to him a letter from the earl which instantly effected a great change in all his feelings; which taught him to regard Australia as a dream, and almost put him into a good humour with Cradell. The earl had by no means lost sight of his friend’s interests at Allington; and, moreover, those interests were now backed by an ally who in this matter must be regarded as much more powerful than the earl. The squire had given in his consent to the Eames alliance.