"Requiescat in pace."
Dr. Tempest, when he heard the news, sent immediately to Mr. Robarts, begging him to come over to Silverbridge. But this message was not occasioned solely by the death of Mrs. Proudie. Dr. Tempest had also heard that Mr. Crawley had submitted himself to the bishop, that instant advantage,—and as Dr. Tempest thought, unfair advantage,—had been taken of Mr. Crawley's submission, and that the pernicious Thumble had been at once sent over to Hogglestock. Had these palace doings with reference to Mr. Crawley been unaccompanied by the catastrophe which had happened, the doctor, much as he might have regretted them, would probably have felt that there was nothing to be done. He could not in such case have prevented Thumble's journey to Hogglestock on the next Sunday, and certainly he could not have softened the heart of the presiding genius at the palace. But things were very different now. The presiding genius was gone. Everybody at the palace would for a while be weak and vacillating. Thumble would be then thoroughly cowed; and it might at any rate be possible to make some movement in Mr. Crawley's favour. Dr. Tempest, therefore, sent for Mr. Robarts.
"I'm giving you a great deal of trouble, Robarts," said the doctor; "but then you are so much younger than I am, and I've an idea that you would do more for this poor man than any one else in the diocese." Mr. Robarts of course declared that he did not begrudge his trouble, and that he would do anything in his power for the poor man. "I think that you should see him again, and that you should then see Thumble also. I don't know whether you can condescend to be civil to Thumble. I could not."
"I am not quite sure that incivility would not be more efficacious," said Mr. Robarts.
"Very likely. There are men who are deaf as adders to courtesy, but who are compelled to obedience at once by ill-usage. Very likely Thumble is one of them; but of that you will be the best judge yourself. I would see Crawley first, and get his consent."
"That's the difficulty."
"Then I should go on without his consent, and I would see Thumble and the bishop's chaplain, Snapper. I think you might manage just at this moment, when they will all be a little abashed and perplexed by this woman's death, to arrange that simply nothing shall be done. The great thing will be that Crawley should go on with the duty till the assizes. If it should then happen that he goes into Barchester, is acquitted, and comes back again, the whole thing will be over, and there will be no further interference in the parish. If I were you, I think I would try it." Mr. Robarts said that he would try it. "I daresay Mr. Crawley will be a little stiff-necked with you."
"He will be very stiff-necked with me," said Mr. Robarts.
"But I can hardly think that he will throw away the only means he has of supporting his wife and children, when he finds that there can be no occasion for his doing so. I do not suppose that any person wishes him to throw up his work now that that poor woman has gone."
Mr. Crawley had been almost in good spirits since the last visit which Mr. Thumble had made to him. It seemed as though the loss of everything in the world was in some way satisfactory to him. He had now given up his living by his own doing, and had after a fashion acknowledged his guilt by this act. He had proclaimed to all around him that he did not think himself to be any longer fit to perform the sacred functions of his office. He spoke of his trial as though a verdict against him must be the result. He knew that in going into prison he would leave his wife and children dependent on the charity of their friends,—on charity which they must condescend to accept, though he could not condescend to ask it. And yet he was able to carry himself now with a greater show of fortitude than had been within his power when the extent of his calamity was more doubtful. I must not ask the reader to suppose that he was cheerful. To have been cheerful under such circumstances would have been inhuman. But he carried his head on high, and walked firmly, and gave his orders at home with a clear voice. His wife, who was necessarily more despondent than ever, wondered at him,—but wondered in silence. It certainly seemed as though the very extremity of ill-fortune was good for him. And he was very diligent with his school, passing the greater part of the morning with the children. Mr. Thumble had told him that he would come on Sunday, and that he would then take charge of the parish. Up to the coming of Mr. Thumble he would do everything in the parish that could be done by a clergyman with a clear spirit and a free heart. Mr. Thumble should not find that spiritual weeds had grown rank in the parish because of his misfortunes.
Mrs. Proudie had died on the Tuesday,—that having been the day of Mr. Thumble's visit to Hogglestock,—and Mr. Robarts had gone over to Silverbridge, in answer to Dr. Tempest's invitation, on the Thursday. He had not, therefore, the command of much time, it being his express object to prevent the appearance of Mr. Thumble at Hogglestock on the next Sunday. He had gone to Silverbridge by railway, and had, therefore, been obliged to postpone his visit to Mr. Crawley till the next day; but early on the Friday morning he rode over to Hogglestock. That he did not arrive there with a broken-knee'd horse, the reader may be quite sure. In all matters of that sort, Mr. Robarts was ever above reproach. He rode a good horse, and drove a neat gig, and was always well dressed. On this account Mr. Crawley, though he really liked Mr. Robarts, and was thankful to him for many kindnesses, could never bear his presence with perfect equanimity. Robarts was no scholar, was not a great preacher, had obtained no celebrity as a churchman,—had, in fact, done nothing to merit great reward; and yet everything had been given to him with an abundant hand. Within the last twelvemonth his wife had inherited Mr. Crawley did not care to know how many thousand pounds. And yet Mr. Robarts had won all that he possessed by being a clergyman. Was it possible that Mr. Crawley should regard such a man with equanimity? Robarts rode over with a groom behind him,—really taking the groom because he knew that Mr. Crawley would have no one to hold his horse for him;—and the groom was the source of great offence. He came upon Mr. Crawley standing at the school door, and stopping at once, jumped off his nag. There was something in the way in which he sprang out of the saddle and threw the reins to the man, which was not clerical in Mr. Crawley's eyes. No man could be so quick in the matter of a horse who spent as many hours with the poor and with the children as should be spent by a parish clergyman. It might be probable that Mr. Robarts had never stolen twenty pounds,—might never be accused of so disgraceful a crime,—but, nevertheless, Mr. Crawley had his own ideas, and made his own comparisons.
"Crawley," said Robarts, "I am so glad to find you at home."
"I am generally to be found in the parish," said the perpetual curate of Hogglestock.
"I know you are," said Robarts, who knew the man well, and cared nothing for his friend's peculiarities when he felt his own withers to be unwrung. "But you might have been down at Hoggle End with the brickmakers, and then I should have had to go after you."
"I should have grieved—," began Crawley; but Robarts interrupted him at once.
"Let us go for a walk, and I'll leave the man with the horses. I've something special to say to you, and I can say it better out here than in the house. Grace is quite well, and sends her love. She is growing to look so beautiful!"
"I hope she may grow in grace with God," said Mr. Crawley.
"She's as good a girl as I ever knew. By-the-by, you had Henry Grantly over here the other day?"
"Major Grantly, whom I cannot name without expressing my esteem for him, did do us the honour of calling upon us not very long since. If it be with reference to him that you have taken this trouble—"
"No, no; not at all. I'll allow him and the ladies to fight out that battle. I've not the least doubt in the world how that will go. When I'm told that she made a complete conquest of the archdeacon, there cannot be a doubt about that."
"A conquest of the archdeacon!"
But Mr. Robarts did not wish to have to explain anything further about the archdeacon. "Were you not terribly shocked, Crawley," he asked, "when you heard of the death of Mrs. Proudie?"
"It was sudden and very awful," said Mr. Crawley. "Such deaths are always shocking. Not more so, perhaps, as regards the wife of a bishop, than with any other woman."
"Only we happened to know her."
"No doubt the finite and meagre nature of our feelings does prevent us from extending our sympathies to those whom we have not seen in the flesh. It should not be so, and would not with one who had nurtured his heart with proper care. And we are prone to permit an evil worse than that to canker our regards and to foster and to mar our solicitudes. Those who are high in station strike us more by their joys and sorrows than do the poor and lowly. Were some young duke's wife, wedded but the other day, to die, all England would put on some show of mourning,—nay, would feel some true gleam of pity; but nobody cares for the widowed brickmaker seated with his starving infant on his cold hearth."
"Of course we hear more of the big people," said Robarts.
"Ay; and think more of them. But do not suppose, sir, that I complain of this man or that woman because his sympathies, or hers, run out of that course which my reason tells me they should hold. The man with whom it would not be so would simply be a god among men. It is in his perfection as a man that we recognize the divinity of Christ. It is in the imperfection of men that we recognize our necessity for a Christ. Yes, sir, the death of the poor lady at Barchester was very sudden. I hope that my lord the bishop bears with becoming fortitude the heavy misfortune. They say that he was a man much beholden to his wife,—prone to lean upon her in his goings out and comings in. For such a man such a loss is more dreadful perhaps than for another."
"They say she led him a terrible life, you know."
"I am not prone, sir, to believe much of what I hear about the domesticities of other men, knowing how little any other man can know of my own. And I have, methinks, observed a proneness in the world to ridicule that dependence on a woman which every married man should acknowledge in regard to the wife of his bosom, if he can trust her as well as love her. When I hear jocose proverbs spoken as to men, such as that in this house the gray mare is the better horse, or that in that house the wife wears that garment which is supposed to denote virile command, knowing that the joke is easy, and that meekness in a man is more truly noble than a habit of stern authority, I do not allow them to go far with me in influencing my judgment."
So spoke Mr. Crawley, who never permitted the slightest interference with his own word in his own family, and who had himself been a witness of one of those scenes between the bishop and his wife in which the poor bishop had been so cruelly misused. But to Mr. Crawley the thing which he himself had seen under such circumstances was as sacred as though it had come to him under the seal of confession. In speaking of the bishop and Mrs. Proudie,—nay, as far as was possible in thinking of them,—he was bound to speak and to think as though he had not witnessed that scene in the palace study.
"I don't suppose that there is much doubt about her real character," said Robarts. "But you and I need not discuss that."
"By no means. Such discussion would be both useless and unseemly."
"And just at present there is something else that I specially want to say to you. Indeed, I went to Silverbridge on the same subject yesterday, and have come here expressly to have a little conversation with you."
"If it be about affairs of mine, Mr. Robarts, I am indeed troubled in spirit that so great labour should have fallen upon you."
"Never mind my labour. Indeed your saying that is a nuisance to me, because I hoped that by this time you would have understood that I regard you as a friend, and that I think nothing any trouble that I do for a friend. Your position just now is so peculiar that it requires a great deal of care."
"No care can be of any avail to me."
"There I disagree with you. You must excuse me, but I do; and so does Dr. Tempest. We think that you have been a little too much in a hurry since he communicated to you the result of our first meeting."
"As how, sir?"
"It is, perhaps, hardly worth while for us to go into the whole question; but that man, Thumble, must not come here on next Sunday."
"I cannot say, Mr. Robarts, that the Reverend Mr. Thumble has recommended himself to me strongly either by his outward symbols of manhood or by such manifestation of his inward mental gifts as I have succeeded in obtaining. But my knowledge of him has been so slight, and has been acquired in a manner so likely to bias me prejudicially against him, that I am inclined to think my opinion should go for nothing. It is, however, the fact that the bishop has nominated him to this duty; and that, as I have myself simply notified my desire to be relieved from the care of the parish, on account of certain unfitness of my own, I am the last man who should interfere with the bishop in the choice of my temporary successor."
"It was her choice, not his."
"Excuse me, Mr. Robarts, but I cannot allow that assertion to pass unquestioned. I must say that I have adequate cause for believing that he came here by his lordship's authority."
"No doubt he did. Will you just listen to me for a moment? Ever since this unfortunate affair of the cheque became known, Mrs. Proudie has been anxious to get you out of this parish. She was a violent woman, and chose to take this matter up violently. Pray hear me out before you interrupt me. There would have been no commission at all but for her."
"The commission is right and proper and just," said Mr. Crawley, who could not keep himself silent.
"Very well. Let it be so. But Mr. Thumble's coming over here is not proper or right; and you may be sure the bishop does not wish it."
"Let him send any other clergyman whom he may think more fitting," said Mr. Crawley.
"But we do not want him to send anybody."
"Somebody must be sent, Mr. Robarts."
"No, not so. Let me go over and see Thumble and Snapper,—Snapper, you know, is the domestic chaplain; and all that you need do is to go on with your services on Sunday. If necessary, I will see the bishop. I think you may be sure that I can manage it. If not, I will come back to you." Mr. Robarts paused for an answer, but it seemed for awhile that all Mr. Crawley's impatient desire to speak was over. He walked on silently along the lane by his visitor's side, and when, after some five or six minutes, Robarts stood still in the road, Mr. Crawley even then said nothing. "It cannot be but that you should be anxious to keep the income of the parish for your wife and children," said Mark Robarts.
"Of course, I am anxious for my wife and children," Crawley answered.
"Then let me do as I say. Why should you throw away a chance, even if it be a bad one? But here the chance is all in your favour. Let me manage it for you at Barchester."
"Of course I am anxious for my wife and children," said Crawley, repeating his words; "how anxious, I fancy no man can conceive who has not been near enough to absolute want to know how terrible is its approach when it threatens those who are weak and who are very dear! But, Mr. Robarts, you spoke just now of the chance of the thing,—the chance of your arranging on my behalf that I should for a while longer be left in the enjoyment of the freehold of my parish. It seemeth to me that there should be no chance on such a subject; that in the adjustment of so momentous a matter there should be a consideration of right and wrong, and no consideration of aught beside. I have been growing to feel, for some weeks past, that circumstances,—whether through my own fault or not is an outside question as to which I will not further delay you by offering even an opinion,—that unfortunate circumstances have made me unfit to remain here as guardian of the souls of the people of this parish. Then there came to me the letter from Dr. Tempest,—for which I am greatly beholden to him,—strengthening me altogether in this view. What could I do then, Mr. Robarts? Could I allow myself to think of my wife and my children when such a question as that was before me for self-discussion?"
"I would,—certainly," said Robarts.
"No, sir! Excuse the bluntness of my contradiction, but I feel assured that in such emergency you would look solely to duty,—as by God's help, I will endeavour to do. Mr. Robarts, there are many of us who in many things, are much worse than we believe ourselves to be. But in other matters, and perhaps of larger moment, we can rise to ideas of duty as the need for such ideas comes upon us. I say not this at all as praising myself. I speak of men as I believe that they will be found to be;—of yourself, of myself, and of others who strive to live with clean hands and a clear conscience. I do not for a moment think that you would retain your benefice at Framley if there had come upon you, after much thought, an assured conviction that you could not retain it without grievous injury to the souls of others and grievous sin to your own. Wife and children, dear as they are to you and to me,—as dear to me as to you,—fade from the sight when the time comes for judgment on such a matter as that!" They were standing quite still now, facing each other, and Crawley, as he spoke with a low voice, looked straight into his friend's eyes, and kept his hand firmly fixed on his friend's arm.
"I cannot interfere further," said Robarts.
"No,—you cannot interfere further." Robarts, when he told the story of the interview to his wife that evening, declared that he had never heard a voice so plaintively touching as was the voice of Mr. Crawley when he uttered those last words.
They returned back to the servant and the house almost without a word, and Robarts mounted without offering to see Mrs. Crawley. Nor did Mr. Crawley ask him to do so. It was better now that Robarts should go. "May God send you through all your troubles," said Mr. Robarts.
"Mr. Robarts, I thank you warmly, for your friendship," said Mr. Crawley. And then they parted. In about half an hour Mr. Crawley returned to the house. "Now for Pindar, Jane," he said, seating himself at his old desk.
No word or message from Mr. Crawley reached Barchester throughout the week, and on the Sunday morning Mr. Thumble was under a positive engagement to go out to Hogglestock, and perform the services of the church. Dr. Tempest had been quite right in saying that Mr. Thumble would be awed by the death of his patroness. Such was altogether the case, and he was very anxious to escape from the task he had undertaken at her instance, if it were possible. In the first place, he had never been a favourite with the bishop himself, and had now, therefore, nothing to expect in the diocese. The crusts from bits of loaves and the morsels of broken fishes which had come in his way had all come from the bounty of Mrs. Proudie. And then, as regarded this special Hogglestock job, how was he to get paid for it? Whence, indeed, was he to seek repayment for the actual money which he would be out of pocket in finding his way to Hogglestock and back again? But he could not get to speak to the bishop, nor could he induce any one who had access to his lordship to touch upon the subject. Mr. Snapper avoided him as much as possible; and Mr. Snapper, when he was caught and interrogated, declared that he regarded the matter as settled. Nothing could be in worse taste, Mr. Snapper thought, than to undo, immediately after the poor lady's death, work in the diocese which had been arranged and done by her. Mr. Snapper expressed his opinion that Mr. Thumble was bound to go out to Hogglestock; and, when Mr. Thumble declared petulantly that he would not stir a step out of Barchester, Mr. Snapper protested that Mr. Thumble would have to answer for it in this world and in the next if there were no services at Hogglestock on that Sunday. On the Saturday evening Mr. Thumble made a desperate attempt to see the bishop, but was told by Mrs. Draper that the bishop had positively declined to see him. The bishop himself probably felt unwilling to interfere with his wife's doings so soon after her death! So Mr. Thumble, with a heavy heart, went across to "The Dragon of Wantly," and ordered a gig, resolving that the bill should be sent in to the palace. He was not going to trust himself again upon the bishop's cob!
Up to Saturday evening Mr. Crawley did the work of his parish, and on the Saturday evening he made an address to his parishioners from his pulpit. He had given notice among the brickmakers and labourers that he wished to say a few words to them in the school-room; but the farmers also heard of this and came with their wives and daughters, and all the brickmakers came, and most of the labourers were there, so that there was no room for them in the school-house. The congregation was much larger than was customary even in the church. "They will come," he said to his wife, "to hear a ruined man declare his own ruin, but they will not come to hear the word of God." When it was found that the persons assembled were too many for the school-room, the meeting was adjourned to the church, and Mr. Crawley was forced to get into his pulpit. He said a short prayer, and then he began his story.
"They will come to hear a ruined man declare his own ruin.""They will come to hear a ruined man declare his own ruin."Click toENLARGE
His story as he told it then shall not be repeated now, as the same story has been told too often already in these pages. Surely it was a singular story for a parish clergyman to tell of himself in so solemn a manner. That he had applied the cheque to his own purposes, and was unable to account for the possession of it, was certain. He did not know when or how he had got it. Speaking to them then in God's house he told them that. He was to be tried by a jury, and all he could do was to tell the jury the same. He would not expect the jury to believe him. The jury would, of course, believe only that which was proved to them. But he did expect his old friends at Hogglestock, who had known him so long, to take his word as true. That there was no sufficient excuse for his conduct, even in his own sight, this, his voluntary resignation of his parish, was, he said, sufficient evidence. Then he explained to them, as clearly as he was able, what the bishop had done, what the commission had done, and what he had done himself. That he spoke no word of Mrs. Proudie to that audience need hardly be mentioned here. "And now, dearest friends, I leave you," he said, with that weighty solemnity which was so peculiar to the man, and which he was able to make singularly impressive even on such a congregation as that of Hogglestock, "and I trust that the heavy but pleasing burden of the charge which I have had over you may fall into hands better fitted than mine have been for such work. I have always known my own unfitness, by reason of the worldly cares with which I have been laden. Poverty makes the spirit poor, and the hands weak, and the heart sore,—and too often makes the conscience dull. May the latter never be the case with any of you." Then he uttered another short prayer, and, stepping down from the pulpit, walked out of the church, with his weeping wife hanging on his arm, and his daughter following them, almost dissolved in tears. He never again entered that church as the pastor of the congregation.
There was an old lame man from Hoggle End leaning on his stick near the door as Mr. Crawley went out, and with him was his old lame wife. "He'll pull through yet," said the old man to his wife; "you'll see else. He'll pull through because he's so dogged. It's dogged as does it."
On that night the position of the members of Mr. Crawley's household seemed to have been changed. There was something almost of elation in his mode of speaking, and he said soft loving words, striving to comfort his wife. She, on the other hand, could say nothing to comfort him. She had been averse to the step he was taking, but had been unable to press her objection in opposition to his great argument as to duty. Since he had spoken to her in that strain which he had used with Robarts, she also had felt that she must be silent. But she could not even feign to feel the pride which comes from the performance of a duty. "What will he do when he comes out?" she said to her daughter. The coming out spoken of by her was the coming out of prison. It was natural enough that she should feel no elation.
The breakfast on Sunday morning was to her, perhaps, the saddest scene of her life. They sat down, the three together, at the usual hour,—nine o'clock,—but the morning had not been passed as was customary on Sundays. It had been Mr. Crawley's practice to go into the school from eight to nine; but on this Sunday he felt, as he told his wife, that his presence would be an intrusion there. But he requested Jane to go and perform her usual task. "If Mr. Thumble should come," he said to her, "be submissive to him in all things." Then he stood at his door, watching to see at what hour Mr. Thumble would reach the school. But Mr. Thumble did not attend the school on that morning. "And yet he was very express to me in his desire that I would not myself meddle with the duties," said Mr. Crawley to his wife as he stood at the door,—"unnecessarily urgent, as I must say I thought at the time." If Mrs. Crawley could have spoken out her thoughts about Mr. Thumble at that moment, her words would, I think, have surprised her husband.
At breakfast there was hardly a word spoken. Mr. Crawley took his crust and eat it mournfully,—almost ostentatiously. Jane tried and failed, and tried to hide her failure, failing in that also. Mrs. Crawley made no attempt. She sat behind her old teapot, with her hands clasped and her eyes fixed. It was as though some last day had come upon her,—this, the first Sunday of her husband's degradation. "Mary," he said to her, "why do you not eat?"
"I cannot," she replied, speaking not in a whisper, but in words which would hardly get themselves articulated. "I cannot. Do not ask me."
"For the honour of the Lord you will want the strength which bread alone can give you," he said, intimating to her that he wished her to attend the service.
"Do not ask me to be there, Josiah. I cannot. It is too much for me."
"Nay; I will not press it," he said. "I can go alone." He uttered no word expressive of a wish that his daughter should attend the church; but when the moment came, Jane accompanied him. "What shall I do, mamma," she said, "if I find I cannot bear it?" "Try to bear it," the mother said. "Try, for his sake. You are stronger now than I am."
The tinkle of the church bell was heard at the usual time, and Mr. Crawley, hat in hand, stood ready to go forth. He had heard nothing of Mr. Thumble, but had made up his mind that Mr. Thumble would not trouble him. He had taken the precaution to request his churchwarden to be early at the church, so that Mr. Thumble might encounter no difficulty. The church was very near to the house, and any vehicle arriving might have been seen had Mr. Crawley watched closely. But no one had cared to watch Mr. Thumble's arrival at the church. He did not doubt that Mr. Thumble would be at the church. With reference to the school, he had had some doubt.
But just as he was about to start he heard the clatter of a gig. Up came Mr. Thumble to the door of the parsonage, and having come down from his gig was about to enter the house as though it were his own. Mr. Crawley greeted him in the pathway, raising his hat from his head, and expressing a wish that Mr. Thumble might not feel himself fatigued with his drive. "I will not ask you into my poor house," he said, standing in the middle of the pathway; "for that my wife is ill."
"Nothing catching, I hope?" said Mr. Thumble.
"Her malady is of the spirit rather than of the flesh," said Mr. Crawley. "Shall we go on to the church?"
"Certainly,—by all means. How about the surplice?"
"You will find, I trust, that the churchwarden has everything in readiness. I have notified to him expressly your coming, with the purport that it may be so."
"You'll take a part in the service, I suppose?" said Mr. Thumble.
"No part,—no part whatever," said Mr. Crawley, standing still for a moment as he spoke, and showing plainly by the tone of his voice how dismayed he was, how indignant he had been made, by so indecent a proposition. Was he giving up his pulpit to a stranger for any reason less cogent than one which made it absolutely imperative on him to be silent in that church which had so long been his own?
"Just as you please," said Mr. Thumble. "Only it's rather hard lines to have to do it all myself after coming all the way from Barchester this morning." To this Mr. Crawley condescended to make no reply whatever.
In the porch of the church, which was the only entrance, Mr. Crawley introduced Mr. Thumble to the churchwarden, simply by a wave of the hand, and then passed on with his daughter to a seat which opened upon the aisle. Jane was going on to that which she had hitherto always occupied with her mother in the little chancel; but Mr. Crawley would not allow this. Neither to him nor to any of his family was there attached any longer the privilege of using the chancel of the church of Hogglestock.
Mr. Thumble scrambled into the reading-desk some ten minutes after the proper time, and went through the morning service under, what must be admitted to be, serious difficulties. There were the eyes of Mr. Crawley fixed upon him throughout the work, and a feeling pervaded him that everybody there regarded him as an intruder. At first this was so strong upon him that Mr. Crawley pitied him, and would have encouraged him had it been possible. But as the work progressed, and as custom and the sound of his own voice emboldened him, there came to the man some touches of the arrogance which so generally accompanies cowardice, and Mr. Crawley's acute ear detected the moment when it was so. An observer might have seen that the motion of his hands was altered as they were lifted in prayer. Though he was praying, even in prayer he could not forget the man who was occupying his desk.
Then came the sermon, preached very often before, lasting exactly half-an-hour, and then Mr. Thumble's work was done. Itinerant clergymen, who preach now here and now there, as it had been the lot of Mr. Thumble to do, have at any rate this relief,—that they can preach their sermons often. From the communion-table Mr. Thumble had stated that, in the present peculiar circumstances of the parish, there would be no second service at Hogglestock for the present; and this was all he said or did peculiar to the occasion. The moment the service was over he got into his gig, and was driven back to Barchester.
"Mamma," said Jane, as they sat at their dinner, "such a sermon I am sure was never heard in Hogglestock before. Indeed, you can hardly call it a sermon. It was downright nonsense."
"My dear," said Mr. Crawley, energetically, "keep your criticisms for matters that are profane; then, though they be childish and silly, they may at least be innocent. Be critical on Euripides, if you must be critical." But when Jane kissed her father after dinner, she, knowing his humour well, felt assured that her remarks had not been taken altogether in ill part.
Mr. Thumble was neither seen nor heard of again in the parish during the entire week.
One morning about the middle of April Mr. Toogood received a telegram from Venice which caused him instantly to leave his business in Bedford Row and take the first train for Silverbridge. "It seems to me that this job will be a deal of time and very little money," said his partner to him, when Toogood on the spur of the moment was making arrangements for his sudden departure and uncertain period of absence. "That's about it," said Toogood. "A deal of time, some expense, and no returns. It's not the kind of business a man can live upon; is it?" The partner growled, and Toogood went. But as we must go with Mr. Toogood down to Silverbridge, and as we cannot make the journey in this chapter, we will just indicate his departure and then go back to John Eames, who, as will be remembered, was just starting for Florence when we last saw him.
Our dear old friend Johnny had been rather proud of himself as he started from London. He had gotten an absolute victory over Sir Raffle Buffle, and that alone was gratifying to his feelings. He liked the excitement of a journey, and especially of a journey to Italy; and the importance of the cause of his journey was satisfactory to him. But above all things he was delighted at having found that Lily Dale was pleased at his going. He had seen clearly that she was much pleased, and that she made something of a hero of him because of his alacrity in the cause of his cousin. He had partially understood,—had understood in a dim sort of way,—that his want of favour in Lily's eyes had come from some deficiency of his own in this respect. She had not found him to be a hero. She had known him first as a boy, with boyish belongings around him, and she had seen him from time to time as he became a man, almost with too much intimacy for the creation of that love with which he wished to fill her heart. His rival had come before her eyes for the first time with all the glories of Pall Mall heroism about him, and Lily in her weakness had been conquered by them. Since that she had learned how weak she had been,—how silly, how childish, she would say to herself when she allowed her memory to go back to the details of her own story; but not the less on that account did she feel the want of something heroic in a man before she could teach herself to look upon him as more worthy of her regard than other men. She had still unconsciously hoped in regard to Crosbie, but now that hope had been dispelled as unconsciously, simply by his appearance. There had been moments in which John Eames had almost risen to the necessary point,—had almost made good his footing on the top of some moderate, but still sufficient mountain. But there had still been a succession of little tumbles,—unfortunate slips for which he himself should not always have been held responsible; and he had never quite stood upright on his pinnacle, visible to Lily's eyes as being really excelsior. Of all this John Eames himself had an inkling which had often made him very uncomfortable. What the mischief was it she wanted of him; and what was he to do? The days for plucking glory from the nettle danger were clean gone by. He was well dressed. He knew a good many of the right sort of people. He was not in debt. He had saved an old nobleman's life once upon a time, and had been a good deal talked about on that score. He had even thrashed the man who had ill-treated her. His constancy had been as the constancy of a Jacob! What was it that she wanted of him? But in a certain way he did know what was wanted; and now, as he started for Florence, intending to stop nowhere till he reached that city, he hoped that by this chivalrous journey he might even yet achieve the thing necessary.
But on reaching Paris he heard tidings of Mrs. Arabin which induced him to change his plans and make for Venice instead of for Florence. A banker at Paris, to whom he brought a letter, told him that Mrs. Arabin would now be found at Venice. This did not perplex him at all. It would have been delightful to see Florence,—but was more delightful still to see Venice. His journey was the same as far as Turin; but from Turin he proceeded through Milan to Venice, instead of going by Bologna to Florence. He had fortunately come armed with an Austrian passport,—as was necessary in those bygone days of Venetia's thraldom. He was almost proud of himself, as though he had done something great, when he tumbled in to his inn at Venice, without having been in a bed since he left London.
But he was barely allowed to swim in a gondola, for on reaching Venice he found that Mrs. Arabin had gone back to Florence. He had been directed to the hotel which Mrs. Arabin had used, and was there told that she had started the day before. She had received some letter, from her husband as the landlord thought, and had done so. That was all the landlord knew. Johnny was vexed, but became a little prouder than before as he felt it to be his duty to go on to Florence before he went to bed. There would be another night in a railway carriage, but he would live through it. There was just time to have a tub and a breakfast, to swim in a gondola, to look at the outside of the Doge's palace, and to walk up and down the piazza before he started again. It was hard work, but I think he would have been pleased had he heard that Mrs. Arabin had retreated from Florence to Rome. Had such been the case, he would have folded his cloak around him, and have gone on,—regardless of brigands,—thinking of Lily, and wondering whether anybody else had ever done so much before without going to bed. As it was, he found that Mrs. Arabin was at the hotel in Florence,—still in bed, as he had arrived early in the morning. So he had another tub, another breakfast, and sent up his card. "Mr. John Eames,"—and across the top of it he wrote, "has come from England about Mr. Crawley." Then he threw himself on to a sofa in the hotel reading-room, and went fast to sleep.
John had found an opportunity of talking to a young lady in the breakfast-room, and had told her of his deeds. "I only left London on Tuesday night, and I have come here taking Venice on the road."
"Then you have travelled fast," said the young lady.
"I haven't seen a bed, of course," said John.
The young lady immediately afterwards told her father. "I suppose he must be one of those Foreign Office messengers," said the young lady.
"Anything but that," said the gentleman. "People never talk about their own trades. He's probably a clerk with a fortnight's leave of absence, seeing how many towns he can do in the time. It's the usual way of travelling now-a-days. When I was young and there were no railways, I remember going from Paris to Vienna without sleeping." Luckily for his present happiness, John did not hear this.
He was still fast asleep when a servant came to him from Mrs. Arabin to say that she would see him at once. "Yes, yes; I'm quite ready to go on," said Johnny, jumping up, and thinking of the journey to Rome. But there was no journey to Rome before him. Mrs. Arabin was almost in the next room, and there he found her.
The reader will understand that they had never met before, and hitherto knew nothing of each other. Mrs. Arabin had never heard the name of John Eames till John's card was put into her hands, and would not have known his business with her had he not written those few words upon it. "You have come about Mr. Crawley?" she said to him eagerly. "I have heard from my father that somebody was coming."
"Yes, Mrs. Arabin; as hard as I could travel. I had expected to find you at Venice."
"Have you been at Venice?"
"I have just arrived from Venice. They told me at Paris I should find you there. However, that does not matter, as I have found you here. I wonder whether you can help us?"
"Do you know Mr. Crawley? Are you a friend of his?"
"I never saw him in my life; but he married my cousin."
"I gave him the cheque, you know," said Mrs. Arabin.
"What!" exclaimed Eames, literally almost knocked backwards by the easiness of the words which contained a solution for so terrible a difficulty. The Crawley case had assumed such magnitude, and the troubles of the Crawley family had been so terrible, that it seemed to him to be almost sacrilegious that words so simply uttered should suffice to cure everything. He had hardly hoped,—had at least barely hoped,—that Mrs. Arabin might be able to suggest something which would put them all on a track towards discovery of the truth. But he found that she had the clue in her hand, and that the clue was one which required no further delicacy of investigation. There would be nothing more to unravel; no journey to Jerusalem would be necessary!
"Yes," said Mrs. Arabin, "I gave it to him. They have been writing to my husband about it, and never wrote to me; and till I received a letter about it from my father, and another from my sister, at Venice the day before yesterday, I knew nothing of the particulars of Mr. Crawley's trouble."
"Had you not heard that he had been taken before the magistrates?"
"No; not so much even as that. I had seen in 'Galignani' something about a clergyman, but I did not know what clergyman; and I heard that there was something wrong about Mr. Crawley's money, but there has always been something wrong about money with poor Mr. Crawley; and as I knew that my husband had been written to also, I did not interfere, further than to ask the particulars. My letters have followed me about, and I only learned at Venice, just before I came here, what was the nature of the case."
"And did you do anything?"
"I telegraphed at once to Mr. Toogood, who I understand is acting as Mr. Crawley's solicitor. My sister sent me his address."
"He is my uncle."
"I telegraphed to him, telling him that I had given Mr. Crawley the cheque, and then I wrote to Archdeacon Grantly giving him the whole history. I was obliged to come here before I could return home, but I intended to start this evening."
"And what is the whole history?" asked John Eames.
The history of the gift of the cheque was very simple. It has been told how Mr. Crawley in his dire distress had called upon his old friend at the deanery asking for pecuniary assistance. This he had done with so much reluctance that his spirit had given way while he was waiting in the dean's library, and he had wished to depart without accepting what the dean was quite willing to bestow upon him. From this cause it had come to pass there had been no time for explanatory words, even between the dean and his wife,—from whose private funds had in truth come the money which had been given to Mr. Crawley. For the private wealth of the family belonged to Mrs. Arabin, and not to the dean; and was left entirely in Mrs. Arabin's hands, to be disposed of as she might please. Previously to Mr. Crawley's arrival at the deanery this matter had been discussed between the dean and his wife, and it had been agreed between them that a sum of fifty pounds should be given. It should be given by Mrs. Arabin, but it was thought that the gift would come with more comfort to the recipient from the hands of his old friend than from those of his wife. There had been much discussion between them as to the mode in which this might be done with least offence to the man's feelings,—for they knew Mr. Crawley and his peculiarities well. At last it was agreed that the notes should be put into an envelope, which envelope the dean should have ready with him. But when the moment came the dean did not have the envelope ready, and was obliged to leave the room to seek his wife. And Mrs. Arabin explained to John Eames that even she had not had it ready, and had been forced to go to her own desk to fetch it. Then, at the last moment, with the desire of increasing the good to be done to people who were so terribly in want, she put the cheque for twenty pounds, which was in her possession as money of her own, along with the notes, and in this way the cheque had been given by the dean to Mr. Crawley. "I shall never forgive myself for not telling the dean," she said. "Had I done that all this trouble would have been saved!"
"But where did you get the cheque?" Eames asked with natural curiosity.
"Exactly," said Mrs. Arabin. "I have got to show now that I did not steal it,—have I not? Mr. Soames will indict me now. And, indeed, I have had some trouble to refresh my memory as to all the particulars, for you see it is more than a year past." But Mrs. Arabin's mind was clearer on such matters than Mr. Crawley's, and she was able to explain that she had taken the cheque as part of the rent due to her from the landlord of "The Dragon of Wantly," which inn was her property, having been the property of her first husband. For some years past there had been a difficulty about the rent, things not having gone at "The Dragon of Wantly" as smoothly as they had used to go. At one time the money had been paid half-yearly by the landlord's cheque on the bank at Barchester. For the last year-and-a-half this had not been done, and the money had come into Mrs. Arabin's hands at irregular periods and in irregular sums. There was at this moment rent due for twelve months, and Mrs. Arabin expressed her doubt whether she would get it on her return to Barchester. On the occasion to which she was now alluding, the money had been paid into her own hands, in the deanery breakfast-parlour, by a man she knew very well,—not the landlord himself, but one bearing the landlord's name, whom she believed to be the landlord's brother, or at least his cousin. The man in question was named Daniel Stringer, and he had been employed in "The Dragon of Wantly," as a sort of clerk or managing man, as long as she had known it. The rent had been paid to her by Daniel Stringer quite as often as by Daniel's brother or cousin, John Stringer, who was, in truth, the landlord of the hotel. When questioned by John respecting the persons employed at the inn, she said that she did believe that there had been rumours of something wrong. The house had been in the hands of the Stringers for many years,—before the property had been purchased by her husband's father,—and therefore there had been an unwillingness to move them; but gradually, so she said, there had come upon her and her husband a feeling that the house must be put into other hands. "But did you say nothing about the cheque?" John asked. "Yes, I said a good deal about it. I asked why a cheque of Mr. Soames's was brought to me, instead of being taken to the bank for money; and Stringer explained to me that they were not very fond of going to the bank, as they owed money there, but that I could pay it into my account. Only I kept my account at the other bank."
"You might have paid it in there?" said Johnny.
"I suppose I might, but I didn't. I gave it to poor Mr. Crawley instead,—like a fool, as I know now that I was. And so I have brought all this trouble on him and on her; and now I must rush home, without waiting for the dean, as fast as the trains will carry me."
Eames offered to accompany her, and this offer was accepted. "It is hard upon you, though," she said; "you will see nothing of Florence. Three hours in Venice, and six in Florence, and no hours at all anywhere else, will be a hard fate to you on your first trip to Italy." But Johnny said "Excelsior" to himself once more, and thought of Lily Dale, who was still in London, hoping that she might hear of his exertions; and he felt, perhaps, also, that it would be pleasant to return with a dean's wife, and never hesitated. Nor would it do, he thought, for him to be absent in the excitement caused by the news of Mr. Crawley's innocence and injuries. "I don't care a bit about that," he said. "Of course, I should like to see Florence, and, of course, I should like to go to bed; but I will live in hopes that I may do both some day." And so there grew to be a friendship between him and Mrs. Arabin even before they had started.
He was driven once through Florence; he saw the Venus de' Medici, and he saw the Seggiola; he looked up from the side of the Duomo to the top of the Campanile, and he walked round the back of the cathedral itself; he tried to inspect the doors of the Baptistery, and declared that the "David" was very fine. Then he went back to the hotel, dined with Mrs. Arabin, and started for England.
The dean was to have joined his wife at Venice, and then they were to have returned together, coming round by Florence. Mrs. Arabin had not, therefore, taken her things away from Florence when she left it, and had been obliged to return to pick them up on her journey homewards. He,—the dean,—had been delayed in his Eastern travels. Neither Syria nor Constantinople had got themselves done as quickly as he had expected, and he had, consequently, twice written to his wife, begging her to pardon the transgression of his absence for even yet a few days longer. "Everything, therefore," as Mrs. Arabin said, "has conspired to perpetuate this mystery, which a word from me would have solved. I owe more to Mr. Crawley than I can ever pay him."
"He will be very well paid, I think," said John, "when he hears the truth. If you could see inside his mind at this moment, I'm sure you'd find that he thinks he stole the cheque."
"He cannot think that, Mr. Eames. Besides, at this moment I hope he has heard the truth."
"That may be, but he did think so. I do believe that he had not the slightest notion where he got it; and, which is more, not a single person in the whole county had a notion. People thought that he had picked it up, and used it in his despair. And the bishop has been so hard upon him."
"Oh, Mr. Eames, that is the worst of all."
"So I am told. The bishop has a wife, I believe."
"Yes, he has a wife, certainly," said Mrs. Arabin.
"And people say that she is not very good-natured."
"There are some of us at Barchester who do not love her very dearly. I cannot say that she is one of my own especial friends."
"I believe she has been hard to Mr. Crawley," said John Eames.
"I should not be in the least surprised," said Mrs. Arabin.
Then they reached Turin, and there, taking up "Galignani's Messenger" in the reading-room of Trompetta's Hotel, John Eames saw that Mrs. Proudie was dead. "Look at that," said he, taking the paragraph to Mrs. Arabin; "Mrs. Proudie is dead!" "Mrs. Proudie dead!" she exclaimed. "Poor woman! Then there will be peace at Barchester!" "I never knew her very intimately," she afterwards said to her companion, "and I do not know that I have a right to say that she ever did me an injury. But I remember well her first coming into Barchester. My sister's father-in-law, the late bishop, was just dead. He was a mild, kind, dear old man, whom my father loved beyond all the world, except his own children. You may suppose we were all a little sad. I was not specially connected with the cathedral then, except through my father,"—and Mrs. Arabin, as she told all this, remembered that in the days of which she was speaking she was a young mourning widow,—"but I think I can never forget the sort of harsh-toned pæan of low-church trumpets with which that poor woman made her entry into the city. She might have been more lenient, as we had never sinned by being very high. She might, at any rate, have been more gentle with us at first. I think we had never attempted much beyond decency, good-will and comfort. Our comfort she utterly destroyed. Good-will was not to her taste. And as for decency, when I remember some things, I must say that when the comfort and good-will went, the decency went along with them. And now she is dead! I wonder how the bishop will get on without her."
"Like a house on fire, I should think," said Johnny.
"Fie, Mr. Eames; you shouldn't speak in such a way on such a subject."
Mrs. Arabin and Johnny became fast friends as they journeyed home. There was a sweetness in his character which endeared him readily to women; though, as we have seen, there was a want of something to make one woman cling to him. He could be soft and pleasant-mannered. He was fond of making himself useful, and was a perfect master of all those little caressing modes of behaviour in which the caress is quite impalpable, and of which most women know the value and appreciate the comfort. By the time that they had reached Paris John had told Mrs. Arabin the whole story of Lily Dale and Crosbie, and Mrs. Arabin had promised to assist him, if any assistance might be in her power.
"Of course I have heard of Miss Dale," she said, "because we know the De Courcys." Then she turned away her face, almost blushing, as she remembered the first time that she had seen that Lady Alexandrina De Courcy whom Mr. Crosbie had married. It had been at Mr. Thorne's house at Ullathorne, and on that day she had done a thing which she had never since remembered without blushing. But it was an old story now, and a story of which her companion knew nothing,—of which he never could know anything. That day at Ullathorne Mrs. Arabin, the wife of the Dean of Barchester, than whom there was no more discreet clerical matron in the diocese, had—boxed a clergyman's ears!
"Yes," said John, speaking of Crosbie, "he was a wise fellow; he knew what he was about; he married an earl's daughter."
"And now I remember hearing that somebody gave him a terrible beating. Perhaps it was you?"
"It wasn't terrible at all," said Johnny.
"Then it was you?"
"Oh, yes; it was I."
"Then it was you who saved poor old Lord De Guest from the bull?"
"Go on, Mrs. Arabin. There is no end of the grand things I've done."
"You're quite a hero of romance."
He bit his lip as he told himself that he was not enough of a hero. "I don't know about that," said Johnny. "I think what a man ought to do in these days is to seem not to care what he eats and drinks, and to have his linen very well got up. Then he'll be a hero." But that was hard upon Lily.
"Is that what Miss Dale requires?" said Mrs. Arabin.
"I was not thinking about her particularly," said Johnny, lying.
They slept a night in Paris, as they had done also at Turin,—Mrs. Arabin not finding herself able to accomplish such marvels in the way of travelling as her companion had achieved—and then arrived in London in the evening. She was taken to a certain quiet clerical hotel at the top of Suffolk Street, much patronized by bishops and deans of the better sort, expecting to find a message there from her husband. And there was the message—just arrived. The dean had reached Florence three days after her departure; and as he would do the journey home in twenty-four hours less than she had taken, he would be there, at the hotel, on the day after to-morrow. "I suppose I may wait for him, Mr. Eames?" said Mrs. Arabin.
"I will see Mr. Toogood to-night, and I will call here to-morrow, whether I see him or not. At what hour will you be in?"
"Don't trouble yourself to do that. You must take care of Sir Raffle Buffle, you know."
"I shan't go near Sir Raffle Buffle to-morrow, nor yet the next day. You mustn't suppose that I am afraid of Sir Raffle Buffle."
"You are only afraid of Lily Dale." From all which it may be seen that Mrs. Arabin and John Eames had become very intimate on their way home.
It was then arranged that he should call on Mr. Toogood that same night or early the next morning, and that he should come to the hotel at twelve o'clock on the next day. Going along one of the passages he passed two gentlemen in shovel-hats, with very black new coats, and knee-breeches; and Johnny could not but hear a few words which one clerical gentleman said to the other. "She was a woman of great energy, of wonderful spirit, but a firebrand, my lord,—a complete firebrand!" Then Johnny knew that the Dean of A. was talking to the Bishop of B. about the late Mrs. Proudie.
We will now go back to Mr. Toogood as he started for Silverbridge, on the receipt of Mrs. Arabin's telegram from Venice. "I gave cheque to Mr. Crawley. It was part of a sum of money. Will write to Archdeacon Grantly to-day, and return home at once." That was the telegram which Mr. Toogood received at his office, and on receiving which he resolved that he must start to Barchester immediately. "It isn't certainly what you may call a paying business," he said to his partner, who continued to grumble; "but it must be done all the same. If it don't get into the ledger in one way it will in another." So Mr. Toogood started for Silverbridge, having sent to his house in Tavistock Square for a small bag, a clean shirt, and a toothbrush. And as he went down in the railway-carriage, before he went to sleep, he turned it all over in his mind. "Poor devil! I wonder whether any man ever suffered so much before. And as for that woman,—it's ten thousand pities that she should have died before she heard it. Talk of heart-complaint; she'd have had a touch of heart-complaint if she had known this!" Then, as he was speculating how Mrs. Arabin could have become possessed of the cheque, he went to sleep.
He made up his mind that the first person to be seen was Mr. Walker, and after that he would, if possible, go to Archdeacon Grantly. He was at first minded to go at once out to Hogglestock; but when he remembered how very strange Mr. Crawley was in all his ways, and told himself professionally that telegrams were but bad sources of evidence on which to depend for details, he thought that it would be safer if he were first to see Mr. Walker. There would be very little delay. In a day or two the archdeacon would receive his letter, and in a day or two after that Mrs. Arabin would probably be at home.
It was late in the evening before Mr. Toogood reached the house of the Silverbridge solicitor, having the telegram carefully folded in his pocket; and he was shown into the dining-room while the servant took his name up to Mr. Walker. The clerks were gone, and the office was closed; and persons coming on business at such times,—as they often did come to that house,—were always shown into the parlour. "I don't know whether master can see you to-night," said the girl; "but if he can, he'll come down."
When the card was brought up to Mr. Walker he was sitting alone with his wife. "It's Toogood," said he; "poor Crawley's cousin."
"I wonder whether he has found anything out," said Mrs. Walker. "May he not come up here?" Then Mr. Toogood was summoned into the drawing-room, to the maid's astonishment; for Mr. Toogood had made no toilet sacrifices to the goddess or grace who presides over evening society in provincial towns,—and presented himself with the telegram in his hand. "We have found out all about poor Crawley's cheque," he said, before the maid-servant had closed the door. "Look at that," and he handed the telegram to Mr. Walker. The poor girl was obliged to go, though she would have given one of her ears to know the exact contents of that bit of paper.
"Walker, what is it?" said his wife, before Walker had had time to make the contents of the document his own.
"He got it from Mrs. Arabin," said Toogood.
"No!" said Mrs. Walker. "I thought that was it all along."
"It's a pity you didn't say so before," said Mr. Walker.
"So I did; but a lawyer thinks that nobody can ever see anything but himself;—begging your pardon, Mr. Toogood, but I forgot you were one of us. But, Walker, do read it." Then the telegram was read. "I gave cheque to Mr. Crawley. It was part of a sum of money,"—with the rest of it. "I knew it would come out," said Mrs. Walker. "I was quite sure of it."
"But why the mischief didn't he say so?" said Walker.
"He did say that he got it from the dean," said Toogood.
"But he didn't get it from the dean; and the dean clearly knew nothing about it."
"I'll tell you what it is," said Mrs. Walker; "it has been some private transaction between Mr. Crawley and Mrs. Arabin, which the dean was to know nothing about; and so he wouldn't tell. I must say I honour him."
"I don't think it has been that," said Walker. "Had he known all through that it had come from Mrs. Arabin, he would never have said that Mr. Soames gave it to him, and then that the dean gave it him."
"The truth has been that he has known nothing about it," said Toogood; "and we shall have to tell him."
At that moment Mary Walker came into the room, and Mrs. Walker could not constrain herself. "Mary, Mr. Crawley is all right. He didn't steal the cheque. Mrs. Arabin gave it to him."
"Who says so? How do you know? Oh, dear; I am so happy, if it's true." Then she saw Mr. Toogood and, curtseyed.
"It is quite true, my dear," said Mr. Walker. "Mr. Toogood has had a message by the wires from Mrs. Arabin at Venice. She is coming home at once, and no doubt everything will be put right. In the meantime, it may be a question whether we should not hold our tongues. Mr. Crawley himself, I suppose, knows nothing of it yet?"
"Not a word," said Toogood.
"Papa, I must tell Miss Prettyman," said Mary.
"I should think that probably all Silverbridge knows it by this time," said Mrs. Walker, "because Jane was in the room when the announcement was made. You may be sure that every servant in the house has been told." Mary Walker, not waiting for any further command from her father, hurried out of the room to convey the secret to her special circle of friends.
It was known throughout Silverbridge that night, and indeed it made so much commotion that it kept many people for an hour out of their beds. Ladies who were not in the habit of going out late at night without the fly from the "George and Vulture," tied their heads up in their handkerchiefs, and hurried up and down the street to tell each other that the great secret had been discovered, and that in truth Mr. Crawley had not stolen the cheque. The solution of the mystery was not known to all,—was known on that night only to the very select portion of the aristocracy of Silverbridge to whom it was communicated by Mary Walker or Miss Anne Prettyman. For Mary Walker, when earnestly entreated by Jane, the parlour-maid, to tell her something more of the great news, had so far respected her father's caution as to say not a word about Mrs. Arabin. "Is it true, Miss Mary, that he didn't steal it?" Jane asked imploringly. "It is true. He did not steal it." "And who did, Miss Mary? Indeed I won't tell anybody." "Nobody. But don't ask any more questions, for I won't answer them. Get me my hat at once, for I want to go up to Miss Prettyman's." Then Jane got Miss Walker's hat, and immediately afterwards scampered into the kitchen with the news. "Oh, law, cook, it's all come out! Mr. Crawley's as innocent as the unborn babe. The gentleman upstairs what's just come, and was here once before,—for I know'd him immediate,—I heard him say so. And master said so too."
"Did master say so his own self?" asked the cook.
"Indeed he did; and Miss Mary told me the same this moment."
"If master said so, then there ain't a doubt as they'll find him innocent. And who took'd it, Jane?"
"Miss Mary says as nobody didn't steal it."
"That's nonsense, Jane. It stands to reason as somebody had it as hadn't ought to have had it. But I'm as glad as anything as how that poor reverend gent 'll come off;—I am. They tells me it's weeks sometimes before a bit of butcher's meat finds its way into his house." Then the groom and the housemaid and the cook, one after another, took occasion to slip out of the back-door, and poor Jane, who had really been the owner of the news, was left alone to answer the bell.
Miss Walker found the two Miss Prettymans sitting together over their accounts in the elder Miss Prettyman's private room. And she could see at once by signs which were not unfamiliar to her that Miss Anne Prettyman was being scolded. It often happened that Miss Anne Prettyman was scolded, especially when the accounts were brought out upon the table. "Sister, they are illegible," Mary Walker heard, as the servant opened the door for her.
"I don't think it's quite so bad as that," said Miss Anne, unable to restrain her defence. Then, as Mary entered the room, Miss Prettyman the elder laid her hands down on certain books and papers as though to hide them from profane eyes.
"I am glad to see you, Mary," said Miss Prettyman, gravely.
"I've brought such a piece of news," said Mary. "I knew you'd be glad to hear it, so I ventured to disturb you."
"Is it good news?" said Anne Prettyman.
"Very good news. Mr. Crawley is innocent."
Both the ladies sprung on to their legs. Even Miss Prettyman herself jumped up on to her legs. "No!" said Anne. "Your father has discovered it?" said Miss Prettyman.
"Not exactly that. Mr. Toogood has come down from London to tell him. Mr. Toogood, you know, is Mr. Crawley's cousin; and he is a lawyer, like papa." It may be observed that ladies belonging to the families of solicitors always talk about lawyers, and never about attorneys or barristers.
"And does Mr. Toogood say that Mr. Crawley is innocent?" asked Miss Prettyman.
"He has heard it by a message from Mrs. Arabin. But you mustn't mention this. You won't, please, because papa has asked me not. I told him that I should tell you." Then, for the first time, the frown passed away entirely from Miss Prettyman's face, and the papers and account-books were pushed aside, as being of no moment. The news had been momentous enough to satisfy her. Mary continued her story almost in a whisper. "It was Mrs. Arabin who sent the cheque to Mr. Crawley. She says so herself. So that makes Mr. Crawley quite innocent. I am so glad."
"But isn't it odd he didn't say so?" said Miss Prettyman.
"Nevertheless, it's true," said Mary.
"Perhaps he forgot," said Anne Prettyman.
"Men don't forget such things as that," said the elder sister.
"I really do think Mr. Crawley could forget anything," said the younger sister.
"You may be sure it's true," said Mary Walker, "because papa said so."
"If he said so, it must be true," said Miss Prettyman; "and I am rejoiced. I really am rejoiced. Poor man! Poor ill-used man! And nobody has ever believed that he has really been guilty, even though they may have thought that he spent the money without any proper right to it. And now he will get off. But dear me, Mary, Mr. Smithe told me yesterday that he had already given up his living, and that Mr. Spooner, the minor canon, was trying to get it from the dean. But that was because Mr. Spooner and Mrs. Proudie had quarrelled; and as Mrs. Proudie is gone, Mr. Spooner very likely won't want to move now."
"They'll never go and put anybody into Hogglestock, Annabella, over Mr. Crawley's head," said Anne.
"I didn't say that they would. Surely I may be allowed to repeat what I hear, like another person, without being snapped up."
"I didn't mean to snap you up, Annabella."
"You're always snapping me up. But if this is true, I cannot say how glad I am. My poor Grace! Now, I suppose, there will be no difficulty, and Grace will become a great lady." Then they discussed very minutely the chances of Grace Crawley's promotion.
John Walker, Mr. Winthrop, and several others of the chosen spirits of Silverbridge, were playing whist at a provincial club, which had established itself in the town, when the news was brought to them. Though Mr. Winthrop was the partner of the great Walker, and though John Walker was the great man's son, I fear that the news reached their ears in but an underhand sort of way. As for the great man himself, he never went near the club, preferring his slippers and tea at home. The Walkerian groom, rushing up the street to the "George and Vulture," paused a moment to tell his tidings to the club porter; from the club porter it was whispered respectfully to the Silverbridge apothecary, who, by special grace, was a member of the club;—and was by him repeated with much cautious solemnity over the card-table. "Who told you that, Balsam?" said John Walker, throwing down his cards.
"I've just heard it," said Balsam.
"I don't believe it," said John.
"I shouldn't wonder if it's true," said Winthrop. "I always said that something would turn up."
"Will you bet three to one he is not found guilty?" said John Walker.
"Done," said Winthrop; "in pounds." That morning the odds in the club against the event had been only two to one. But as the matter was discussed, the men in the club began to believe the tidings, and before he went home, John Walker would have been glad to hedge his bet on any terms. After he had spoken to his father, he gave his money up for lost.
But Mr. Walker,—the great Walker,—had more to do that night before his son came home from the club. He and Mr. Toogood agreed that it would be right that they should see Dr. Tempest at once, and they went over together to the rectory. It was past ten at this time, and they found the doctor almost in the act of putting out the candles for the night. "I could not but come to you, doctor," said Mr. Walker, "with the news my friend has brought. Mrs. Arabin gave the cheque to Crawley. Here is a telegram from her saying so." And the telegram was handed to the doctor.
He stood perfectly silent for a few minutes, reading it over and over again. "I see it all," he said, when he spoke at last. "I see it all now; and I must own I was never before so much puzzled in my life."
"I own I can't see why she should have given him Mr. Soames's cheque," said Mr. Walker.
"I can't say where she got it, and I own I don't much care," said Dr. Tempest. "But I don't doubt but what she gave it him without telling the dean, and that Crawley thought it came from the dean. I'm very glad. I am, indeed, very glad. I do not know that I ever pitied a man so much in my life as I have pitied Mr. Crawley."
"It must have been a hard case when it has moved him," said Mr. Walker to Mr. Toogood as they left the clergyman's house; and then the Silverbridge attorney saw the attorney from London home to his inn.
It was the general opinion at Silverbridge that the news from Venice ought to be communicated to the Crawleys by Major Grantly. Mary Walker had expressed this opinion very strongly, and her mother had agreed with her. Miss Prettyman also felt that poetical justice, or, at least, the romance of justice, demanded this; and, as she told her sister Anne after Mary Walker left her, she was of opinion that such an arrangement might tend to make things safe. "I do think he is an honest man and a fine fellow," said Miss Prettyman; "but, my dear, you know what the proverb says, 'There's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip.'" Miss Prettyman thought that anything which might be done to prevent a slip ought to be done. The idea that the pleasant task of taking the news out to Hogglestock ought to be confided to Major Grantly was very general; but then Mr. Walker was of opinion that the news ought not to be taken to Hogglestock at all till something more certain than the telegram had reached them. Early on the following morning the two lawyers again met, and it was arranged between them that the London lawyer should go over at once to Barchester, and that the Silverbridge lawyer should see Major Grantly. Mr. Toogood was still of opinion that with due diligence something might yet be learned as to the cheque, by inquiry among the denizens of "The Dragon of Wantly;" and his opinion to this effect was stronger than ever when he learned from Mr. Walker that "The Dragon of Wantly" belonged to Mrs. Arabin.