The Chronicles of Barsetshire (230 page)

But Johnny by this time had perceived that Crosbie’s eye was in a state which proved satisfactorily that his morning’s work had not been thrown away, and his spirits were rising accordingly. He did not care two straws for the superintendent or even for the policemen, if only the story could be made to tell well for himself hereafter. It was his object to have thrashed Crosbie, and now, as he looked at his enemy’s face, he acknowledged that Providence had been good to him.

“That’s your opinion,” said Johnny.

“Yes, sir, it is,” said the superintendent; “and I shall know how to represent the matter to your superiors, young man.”

“You don’t know all about it,” said Eames; “and I don’t suppose you ever will. I had made up my mind what I’d do the first time I saw that scoundrel there; and now I’ve done it. He’d have got much worse in the railway carriage, only there was a lady there.”

“Mr. Crosbie, I really think we had better take him before the magistrates.”

To this, however, Crosbie objected. He assured the superintendent that he would himself know how to deal with the matter—which, however, was exactly what he did not know. Would the superintendent allow one of the railway servants to get a cab for him, and to find his luggage? He was very anxious to get home without being subjected to any more of Mr. Eames’s insolence.

“You haven’t done with Mr. Eames’s insolence yet, I can tell you. All London shall hear of it, and shall know why. If you have any shame in you, you shall be ashamed to show your face.”

Unfortunate man! Who can say that punishment—adequate punishment—had not overtaken him? For the present, he had to sneak home with a black eye, with the knowledge inside him that he had been whipped by a clerk in the Income-tax Office; and for the future—he was bound over to marry Lady Alexandrina de Courcy!

He got himself smuggled off in a cab, without being forced to go again upon the platform—his luggage being brought to him by two assiduous porters. But in all this there was very little balm for his hurt pride. As he ordered the cabman to drive to Mount Street, he felt that he had ruined himself by that step in life which he had taken at Courcy Castle. Whichever way he looked he had no comfort. “D—— the fellow!” he said, almost out loud in the cab; but though he did with his outward voice allude to Eames, the curse in his inner thoughts was uttered against himself.

Johnny was allowed to make his way down to the platform, and there find his own carpet-bag. One young porter, however, came up and fraternised with him.

“You guve it him tidy just at that last moment, sir. But, laws, sir, you should have let out at him at fust. What’s the use of clawing a man’s neck-collar?”

It was then a quarter past eleven, but, nevertheless, Eames appeared at his office precisely at twelve.

CHAPTER XXXV

Vae Victis

Crosbie had two engagements for that day; one being his natural engagement to do his work at his office, and the other an engagement, which was now very often becoming as natural, to dine at St. John’s Wood with Lady Amelia Gazebee. It was manifest to him when he looked at himself in the glass hat he could keep neither of these engagements. “Oh, laws, Mr. Crosbie,” the woman of the house exclaimed when she saw him.

“Yes, I know,” said he. “I’ve had an accident and got a black eye. What’s a good thing for it?”

“Oh! an accident!” said the woman, who knew well that that mark had been made by another man’s fist. “They do say that a bit of raw beef is about the best thing. But then it must be held on constant all the morning.”

Anything would be better than leeches, which tell long-enduring tales, and therefore Crosbie sat through the greater part of the morning holding the raw beef to his eye.

But it was necessary that he should write two notes as he held it, one to Mr. Butterwell at his office, and the other to his future sister-in-law. He felt that it would hardly be wise to attempt any entire concealment of the nature of his catastrophe, as some of the circumstances would assuredly become known. If he said that he had fallen over the coal-scuttle, or on to the fender, thereby cutting his face, people would learn that he had fibbed, and would learn also that he had had some reason for fibbing. Therefore he constructed his notes with a phraseology that bound him to no details. To Butterwell he said that he had had an accident—or rather a row—and that he had come out of it with considerable damage to his frontispiece. He intended to be at the office on the next day, whether able to appear decently there or not. But for the sake of decency he thought it well to give himself that one half-day’s chance. Then to the Lady Amelia he also said that he had had an accident, and had been a little hurt. “It is nothing at all serious, and affects only my appearance, so that I had better remain in for a day. I shall certainly be with you on Sunday. Don’t let Gazebee trouble himself to come to me, as I shan’t be at home after to-day.” Gazebee did trouble himself to come to Mount Street so often, and South Audley Street, in which was Mr. Gazebee’s office, was so disagreeably near to Mount Street, that Crosbie inserted this in order to protect himself if possible. Then he gave special orders that he was to be at home to no one, fearing that Gazebee would call for him after the hours of business—to make him safe and carry him off bodily to St. John’s Wood.

The beefsteak and the dose of physic and the cold-water application which was kept upon it all night was not efficacious in dispelling that horrid, black-blue colour by ten o’clock on the following morning.

“It certainly have gone down, Mr. Crosbie; it certainly have,” said the mistress of the lodgings, touching the part affected with her finger. “But the black won’t go out of them all in a minute; it won’t indeed. Couldn’t you just stay in one more day?”

“But will one day do it, Mrs. Phillips?”

Mrs. Phillips couldn’t take upon herself to say that it would. “They mostly come with little red streaks across the black before they goes away,” said Mrs. Phillips, who would seem to have been the wife of a prize-fighter, so well was she acquainted with black eyes.

“And that won’t be till to-morrow,” said Crosbie, affecting to be mirthful in his agony.

“Not till the third day—and then they wears themselves out, gradual. I never knew leeches do any good.”

He stayed at home the second day, and then resolved that he would go to his office, black eye and all. In that morning’s newspaper he saw an account of the whole transaction, saying how Mr. C—— of the office of General Committees, who was soon about to lead to the hymeneal altar the beautiful daughter of the Earl de C——, had been made the subject of a brutal personal attack on the platform of the Great Western Railway Station, and how he was confined to his room from the injuries which he had received. The paragraph went on to state that the delinquent had, as it was believed, dared to raise his eyes to the same lady, and that his audacity had been treated with scorn by every member of the noble family in question. “It was, however, satisfactory to know,” so said the newspaper, “that Mr. C—— had amply avenged himself, and had so flogged the young man in question, that he had been unable to stir from his bed since the occurrence.”

On reading this Crosbie felt that it would be better that he should show himself at once, and tell as much of the truth as the world would be likely to ascertain at last without his telling. So on that third morning he put on his hat and gloves, and had himself taken to his office, though the red-streaky period of his misfortune had hardly even yet come upon him. The task of walking along the office passage, through the messengers’ lobby, and into his room, was very disagreeable. Of course everybody looked at him, and, of course, he failed in his attempt to appear as though he did not mind it. “Boggs,” he said to one of the men as he passed by, “just see if Mr. Butterwell is in his room,” and then, as he expected, Mr. Butterwell came to him after the expiration of a few minutes.

“Upon my word, that is serious,” said Mr. Butterwell, looking into the secretary’s damaged face. “I don’t think I would have come out if I had been you.”

“Of course it’s disagreeable,” said Crosbie; “but it’s better to put up with it. Fellows do tell such horrid lies if a man isn’t seen for a day or two. I believe it’s best to put a good face upon it.”

“That’s more than you can do just at present, eh, Crosbie?” And then Mr. Butterwell tittered. “But how on earth did it happen? The paper says that you pretty well killed the fellow who did it.”

“The paper lies, as papers always do. I didn’t touch him at all.”

“Didn’t you, though? I should like to have had a poke at him after getting such a tap in the face as that.”

“The policemen came, and all that sort of thing. One isn’t allowed to fight it out in a row of that kind as one would have to do on Salisbury heath. Not that I mean to say that I could lick the fellow. How’s a man to know whether he can or not?”

“How, indeed, unless he gets a licking—or gives it? But who was he, and what’s this about his having been scorned by the noble family?”

“Trash and lies, of course. He had never seen any of the De Courcy people.”

“I suppose the truth is, it was about that other—eh, Crosbie? I knew you’d find yourself in some trouble before you’d done.”

“I don’t know what it was about, or why he should have made such a brute of himself. You have heard about those people at Allington?”

“Oh, yes; I have heard about them.”

“God knows, I didn’t mean to say anything against them. They knew nothing about it.”

“But the young fellow knew them? Ah, yes, I see all about it. He wants to step into your shoes. I can’t say that he sets about it in a bad way. But what do you mean to do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing! Won’t that look queer? I think I should have him before the magistrates.”

“You see, Butterwell, I am bound to spare that girl’s name. I know I have behaved badly.”

“Well, yes; I fear you have.”

Mr. Butterwell said this with some considerable amount of decision in his voice, as though he did not intend to mince matters, or in any way to hide his opinion. Crosbie had got into a way of condemning himself in this matter of his marriage, but was very anxious that others, on hearing such condemnation from him, should say something in the way of palliating his fault. It would be so easy for a friend to remark that such little peccadilloes were not altogether uncommon, and that it would sometimes happen in life that people did not know their own minds. He had hoped for some such benevolence from Fowler Pratt, but had hoped in vain. Butterwell was a good-natured, easy man, anxious to stand well with all about him, never pretending to any very high tone of feeling or of morals; and yet Butterwell would say no word of comfort to him. He could get no one to slur over his sin for him, as though it were no sin—only an unfortunate mistake; no one but the De Courcys, who had, as it were, taken, possession of him and swallowed him alive.

“It can’t be helped now,” said Crosbie. “But as for that fellow who made such a brutal attack on me the other morning, he knows that he is safe behind her petticoats. I can do nothing which would not make some mention of her name necessary.”

“Ah, yes; I see,” said Butterwell. “It’s very unfortunate; very. I don’t know that I can do anything for you. Will you come before the Board to-day?”

“Yes; of course I shall,” said Crosbie, who was becoming very sore. His sharp ear had told him that all Butterwell’s respect and cordiality were gone—at any rate for the time. Butterwell, though holding the higher official rank, had always been accustomed to treat him as though he, the inferior, were to be courted. He had possessed, and had known himself to possess, in his office as well as in the outside world, a sort of rank much higher than that which from his position he could claim legitimately. Now he was being deposed. There could be no better touchstone in such a matter than Butterwell. He would go as the world went, but he would perceive almost intuitively how the world intended to go. “Tact, tact, tact,” as he was in the habit of saying to himself when walking along the paths of his Putney villa. Crosbie was now secretary, whereas a few months before he had been simply a clerk; but, nevertheless, Mr. Butterwell’s instinct told him that Crosbie had fallen. Therefore he declined to offer any sympathy to the man in his misfortune, and felt aware, as he left the secretary’s room, that it might probably be some time before he visited it again.

Crosbie resolved in his soreness that henceforth he would brazen it out. He would go to the Board, with as much indifference as to his black eye as he was able to assume, and if anyone said aught to him he would be ready with his answer. He would go to his club, and let him who intended to show him any slight beware of him in his wrath. He could not turn upon John Eames, but he could turn upon others if it were necessary. He had not gained for himself a position before the world, and held it now for some years, to allow himself to be crushed at once because he had made a mistake. If the world, his world, chose to go to war with him, he would be ready for the fight. As for Butterwell—Butterwell the incompetent, Butterwell the vapid—for Butterwell, who in every little official difficulty had for years past come to him, he would let Butterwell know what it was to be thus disloyal to one who had condescended to be his friend. He would show them all at the Board that he scorned them, and could be their master. Then, too, as he was making some other resolves as to his future conduct, he made one or two resolutions respecting the De Courcy people. He would make it known to them that he was not going to be their very humble servant. He would speak out his mind with considerable plainness; and if upon that they should choose to break off this “alliance,” they might do so; he would not break his heart. And as he leaned back in his arm chair, thinking of all this, an idea made its way into his brain—a floating castle in the air, rather than the image of a thing that might by possibility be realised; and in this castle in the air he saw himself kneeling again at Lily’s feet, asking her pardon, and begging that he might once more be taken to her heart.

“Mr. Crosbie is here to-day,” said Mr. Butterwell to Mr. Optimist.

“Oh, indeed,” said Mr. Optimist, very gravely; for he had heard all about the row at the railway station.

“They’ve made a monstrous show of him.”

“I am very sorry to hear it. It’s so—so—so— If it were one of the younger clerks, you know, we should tell him that it was discreditable to the department.”

“If a man gets a blow in the eye, he can’t help it, you know. He didn’t do it himself, I suppose,” said Major Fiasco.

“I am well aware that he didn’t do it himself,” continued Mr. Optimist; “but I really think that, in his position, he should have kept himself out of any such encounter.”

“He would have done so if he could, with all his heart,” said the major. “I don’t suppose he liked being thrashed any better than I should.”

“Nobody gives me a black eye,” said Mr. Optimist.

“Nobody has as yet,” said the major.

“I hope they never will,” said Mr. Butterwell. Then, the hour for their meeting having come round, Mr. Crosbie came into the Board-room.

“We have been very sorry to hear of this misfortune,” said Mr. Optimist, very gravely.

“Not half so sorry as I have been,” said Crosbie, with a laugh. “It’s an uncommon nuisance to have a black eye, and to go about looking like a prize-fighter.”

“And like a prize-fighter that didn’t win his battle, too,” said Fiasco.

“I don’t know that there’s much difference as to that,” said Crosbie. “But the whole thing is a nuisance, and, if you please, we won’t say anything more about it.”

Mr. Optimist almost entertained an opinion that it was his duty to say something more about it. Was not he the chief Commissioner, and was not Mr. Crosbie secretary to the Board? Ought he, looking at their respective positions, to pass over without a word of notice such a manifest impropriety as this? Would not Sir Raffle Buffle have said something had Mr. Butterwell, when secretary, come to the office with a black eye? He wished to exercise all the full rights of a chairman; but, nevertheless, as he looked at the secretary he felt embarrassed, and was unable to find the proper words. “H—m, ha, well; we’ll go to business now, if you please,” he said, as though reserving to himself the right of returning to the secretary’s black eye when the more usual business of the Board should be completed. But when the more usual business of the Board had been completed, the secretary left the room without any further reference to his eye.

Crosbie, when he got back to his own apartment, found Mortimer Gazebee waiting there for him.

“My dear fellow,” said Gazebee, “this is a very nasty affair.”

“Uncommonly nasty,” said Crosbie; “so nasty that I don’t mean to talk about it to anybody.”

“Lady Amelia is quite unhappy.” He always called her Lady Amelia, even when speaking of her to his own brothers and sisters. He was too well behaved to take the liberty of calling an earl’s daughter by her plain Christian name even though that earl’s daughter was his own wife. “She fears that you have been a good deal hurt.”