The Small House at Allington, Anthony Trollope [best ebook reader for chromebook .txt] 📗

therefore it is that I have to do this myself. They’ll all have to go abroad⁠—that’ll be the end of it. There’s been such a scene between the earl and George. George lost his temper and told the earl that Porlock’s marriage was his fault. It has ended in George with his wife being turned out.”

“He has money of his own.”

“Yes, but he won’t spend it. He’s coming up here, and we shall find him hanging about us. I don’t mean to give him a bed here, and I advise you not to do so either. You’ll not get rid of him if you do.”

“I have the greatest possible dislike to him.”

“Yes; he’s a bad fellow. So is John. Porlock was the best, but he’s gone altogether to ruin. They’ve made a nice mess of it between them; haven’t they?”

This was the family for whose sake Crosbie had jilted Lily Dale! His single and simple ambition had been that of being an earl’s son-in-law. To achieve that it had been necessary that he should make himself a villain. In achieving it he had gone through all manner of dirt and disgrace. He had married a woman whom he knew he did not love. He was thinking almost hourly of a girl whom he had loved, whom he did love, but whom he had so injured, that, under no circumstances, could he be allowed to speak to her again. The attorney there⁠—who sat opposite to him, talking about his thousands of pounds with that disgusting assumed solicitude which such men put on, when they know very well what they are doing⁠—had made a similar marriage. But he had known what he was about. He had got from his marriage all that he had expected. But what had Crosbie got?

“They’re a bad set⁠—a bad set,” said he in his bitterness.

“The men are,” said Gazebee, very comfortably.

“H⁠⸺⁠m,” said Crosbie. It was manifest to Gazebee that his friend was expressing a feeling that the women, also, were not all that they should be, but he took no offence, though some portion of the censure might thereby be supposed to attach to his own wife.

“The countess means well,” said Gazebee. “But she’s had a hard life of it⁠—a very hard life. I’ve heard him call her names that would frighten a coal-heaver. I have, indeed. But he’ll die soon, and then she’ll be comfortable. She has three thousand a year jointure.”

He’ll die soon, and then she’ll be comfortable! That was one phase of married life. As Crosbie’s mind dwelt upon the words, he remembered Lily’s promise made in the fields, that she would do everything for him. He remembered her kisses; the touch of her fingers; the low silvery laughing voice; the feel of her dress as she would press close to him. After that he reflected whether it would not be well that he too should die, so that Alexandrina might be comfortable. She and her mother might be very comfortable together, with plenty of money, at Baden-Baden!

The squire at Allington, and Mrs. Dale, and Lady Julia De Guest, had been, and still were, uneasy in their minds because no punishment had fallen upon Crosbie⁠—no vengeance had overtaken him in consequence of his great sin. How little did they know about it! Could he have been prosecuted and put into prison, with hard labour, for twelve months, the punishment would not have been heavier. He would, in that case, at any rate, have been saved from Lady Alexandrina.

“George and his wife are coming up to town; couldn’t we ask them to come to us for a week or so?” said his wife to him, as soon as they were in the fly together, going home.

“No,” shouted Crosbie; “we will do no such thing.” There was not another word said on the subject⁠—nor on any other subject till they got home. When they reached their house Alexandrina had a headache, and went up to her room immediately. Crosbie threw himself into a chair before the remains of a fire in the dining-room, and resolved that he would cut the whole De Courcy family altogether. His wife, as his wife, should obey him. She should obey him⁠—or else leave him and go her way by herself, leaving him to go his way. There was an income of twelve hundred a year. Would it not be a fine thing for him if he could keep six hundred for himself and return to his old manner of life. All his old comforts of course he would not have⁠—nor the old esteem and regard of men. But the luxury of a club dinner he might enjoy. Unembarrassed evenings might be his⁠—with liberty to him to pass them as he pleased. He knew many men who were separated from their wives, and who seemed to be as happy as their neighbours. And then he remembered how ugly Alexandrina had been this evening, wearing a great tinsel coronet full of false stones, with a cold in her head which had reddened her nose. There had, too, fallen upon her in these her married days a certain fixed dreary dowdiness. She certainly was very plain! So he said to himself, and then he went to bed. I myself am inclined to think that his punishment was sufficiently severe.

The next morning his wife still complained of headache, so that he breakfasted alone. Since that positive refusal which he had given to her proposition for inviting her brother, there had not been much conversation between them. “My head is splitting, and Sarah shall bring some tea and toast up to me, if you will not mind it.”

He did not mind it in the least, and ate his breakfast by himself, with more enjoyment than usually attended that meal.

It was clear to him that all the present satisfaction of his life must come to him from his office work. There are men who find it difficult to live without some source of daily comfort, and he