The Chronicles of Barsetshire

by Anthony Trollope

  “Oh, papa,” the poor girl said, “don’t scold me now. I am so unhappy because of all of this.”

  “And am not I unhappy?” he said, as he closed the book. “My God, what have I done against thee, that my lines should be cast in such terrible places?”

  The letter was sent to Mr. Walker. “He knows himself to be innocent,” said the poor wife, writing what best excuse she knew how to make, “and thinks that he should take no step himself in such a matter. He will not employ a lawyer, and he says that he should prefer that he should be sent for, if the law requires his presence at Silverbridge on Thursday.” All this she wrote, as though she felt that she ought to employ a high tone in defending her husband’s purpose; but she broke down altogether in the few words of the postscript. “Indeed, indeed I have done what I could!” Mr. Walker understood it all, both the high tone and the subsequent fall.

  On the Thursday morning, at about ten o’clock, a fly stopped at the gate at Hogglestock Parsonage, and out of it there came two men. One was dressed in ordinary black clothes, and seemed from his bearing to be a respectable man of the middle class of life. He was, however, the superintendent of police for the Silverbridge district. The other man was a policeman, pure and simple, with the helmet-looking hat which has lately become common, and all the ordinary half-military and wholly disagreeable outward adjuncts of the profession. “Wilkins,” said the superintendent, “likely enough I shall want you, for they tell me the gent is uncommon strange. But if I don’t call you when I come out, just open the door like a servant, and mount up on the box when we’re in. And don’t speak nor say nothing.” Then the senior policeman entered the house.

  He found Mrs. Crawley sitting in the parlour with her bonnet and shawl on, and Mr. Crawley in the arm-chair, leaning over the fire. “I suppose we had better go with you,” said Mrs. Crawley directly the door was opened; for of course she had seen the arrival of the fly from the window.

  “The gentleman had better come with us if he’ll be so kind,” said Thompson. “I’ve brought a close carriage for him.”

  “But I may go with him?” said the wife, with frightened voice. “I may accompany my husband? He is not well, sir, and wants assistance.”

  Thompson thought about it for a moment before he spoke. There was room in the fly for only two, or if for three, still he knew his place better than to thrust himself inside together with his prisoner and his prisoner’s wife. He had been specially asked by Mr. Walker to be very civil. Only one could sit on the box with the driver, and if the request was conceded the poor policeman must walk back. The walk, however, would not kill the policeman. “All right, ma’am,” said Thompson—”that is, if the gentleman will just pass his word not to get out till I ask him.”

  “He will not! He will not!” said Mrs. Crawley.

  “I will pass my word for nothing,” said Mr. Crawley.

  Upon hearing this, Thompson assumed a very long face, and shook his head as he turned his eyes first towards the husband and then towards the wife, and shrugged his shoulders, and compressing his lips, blew out his breath, as though in this way he might blow off some of the mingled sorrow and indignation with which the gentleman’s words afflicted him.

  Mrs. Crawley rose and came close to him. “You may take my word for it, he will not stir. You may indeed. He thinks it incumbent on him not to give any undertaking himself, because he feels himself to be so harshly used.”

  “I don’t know about harshness,” said Thompson, brindling up. “A close carriage brought and—”

  “I will walk. If I am made to go, I will walk,” shouted Mr. Crawley.

  “I did not allude to you—or to Mr. Walker,” said the poor wife. “I know you have been most kind. I meant the harshness of the circumstances. Of course he is innocent, and you must feel for him.”

  “Yes, I feel for him, and for you too, ma’am.”

  “That is all I meant. He knows his own innocence, and therefore he is unwilling to give way in anything.”

  “Of course he knows hisself, that’s certain. But he’d better come in the carriage, if only because of the dirt and slush.”

  “He will go in the carriage; and I will go with him. There will be room for you there, sir.”

  Thompson looked up at the rain, and told himself that it was very cold. Then he remembered Mr. Walker’s injunction, and bethought himself that Mrs. Crawley, in spite of her poverty, was a lady. He conceived even unconsciously the idea that something was due to her because of her poverty. “I’ll go with the driver,” said he, “but he’ll only give hisself a deal of trouble if he attempts to get out.”

  “He won’t; he won’t,” said Mrs. Crawley. “And I thank you with all my heart.”

  “Come along, then,” said Thompson.

  She went up to her husband, hat in hand, and looking round to see that she was not watched, put the hat on his head, and then lifted him as it were from the chair. He did not refuse to be led, and allowed her to throw round his shoulders the old cloak which was hanging in the passage, and then he passed out, and was the first to seat himself in the Silverbridge fly. His wife followed him, and did not hear the blandishments with which Thompson instructed his myrmidon to follow through the mud on foot. Slowly they made their way through the lanes, and it was nearly twelve when the fly was driven into the yard of the “George and Vulture” at Silverbridge.

  Silverbridge, though it was blessed with a mayor and corporation, and was blessed also with a Member of Parliament all to itself, was not blessed with any courthouse. The magistrates were therefore compelled to sit in the big room at the “George and Vulture”, in which the county balls were celebrated, and the meeting of the West Barsetshire freemasons was held. That part of the country was, no doubt, very much ashamed of its backwardness in this respect, but as yet nothing had been done to remedy the evil. Thompson and his fly were therefore driven into the yard of the inn, and Mr. and Mrs. Crawley were ushered by him up into a little bed-chamber close adjoining to the big room in which the magistrates were already assembled. “There’s a bit of fire here,” said Thompson, “and you can make yourselves a little warm.” He himself was shivering with the cold. “When the gents is ready in there, I’ll just come and fetch you.”

  “I may go in with him?” said Mrs. Crawley.

  “I’ll have a chair for you at the end of the table, just nigh to him,” said Thompson. “You can slip into it and say nothing to nobody.” Then he left them and went away to the magistrates.

  Mr. Crawley had not spoken a word since he had entered the vehicle. Nor had she said much to him, but had sat with him holding his hand in hers. Now he spoke to her—”Where is it that we are?” he asked.

  “At Silverbridge, dearest.”

  “But what is this chamber? And why are we here?”

  “We are to wait here till the magistrates are ready. They are in the next room.”

  “But this is the Inn?”

  “Yes dear, it is the Inn.”

  “And I see crowds of people about.” There were crowds of people about. There had been men in the yard, and others standing about on the stairs, and the public room was full of men who were curious to see the clergyman who had stolen twenty pounds, and to hear what would be the result of the case before the magistrates. He must be committed; so, at least said everybody; but then there would be the question of bail. Would the magistrates let him out on bail, and who would be the bailsmen? “Why are the people here?” said Mr. Crawley.

  “I suppose it is a custom when the magistrates are sitting,” said his wife.

  “They have come to see the degradation of a clergyman,” said he—”and they will not be disappointed.”

  “Nothing can degrade but guilt,” said his wife.

  “Yes—misfortune can degrade, and poverty. A man is degraded when the cares of the world press so heavily upon him that he cannot rouse himself. They have come to look at me as though I were a hunted beast.”

  “It is but their custom always on su
ch days.”

  “They have not always a clergyman before them as a criminal.” Then he was silent for a while, while she was chafing his cold hands. “Would that I were dead, before they had brought me to this! Would that I were dead!”

  “Is it not right, dear, that we should all bear what He sends us?”

  “Would that I were dead!” he repeated. “The load is too heavy for me to bear, and I would that I were dead.”

  The time seemed to be very long before Thompson returned and asked them to accompany him into the big room. When he did so, Mr. Crawley grasped hold of the chair as though he had resolved that he would not go. But his wife whispered a word to him, and he obeyed her. “He will follow me,” she said to the policeman. And in that way they went from the smaller room into the large one. Thompson went first; Mrs. Crawley with her veil down came next; and the wretched man followed his wife, with his eyes fixed upon the ground and his hands clasped together upon his breast. He could at first have seen nothing, and could hardly have known where he was when they placed him in a chair. She, with better courage, contrived to look round through her veil, and saw that there was a long board or table covered with green cloth, and that six or seven gentlemen were sitting at one end of it, while there seemed to be a crowd standing along the sides and about the room. Her husband was seated at the other end of the table, near the corner, and round the corner—so that she might be close to him—her chair had been placed. On the other side of him there was another chair, now empty, intended for any professional gentleman whom he might choose to employ.

  There were five magistrates sitting there. Lord Lufton, from Framley, was in the chair—a handsome man, still young, who was very popular in the county. The cheque which had been cashed had borne his signature, and he had consequently expressed his intention of not sitting at the board; but Mr. Walker, desirous of having him there, had overruled him, showing him that the loss was not his loss. The cheque, if stolen, had not been stolen from him. He was not the prosecutor. “No, by Jove,” said Lord Lufton, “if I could quash the whole thing, I’d do it at once!”

  “You can’t do that, my lord, but you may help us at the board,” said Mr. Walker.

  Then there was the Hon. George De Courcy, Lord De Courcy’s brother, from Castle Courcy. Lord De Courcy did not live in the county, but his brother did so, and endeavoured to maintain the glory of the family by the discretion of his conduct. He was not, perhaps, among the wisest of men, but he did very well as a county magistrate, holding his tongue, keeping his eyes open, and, on such occasions as this, obeying Mr. Walker in all things. Dr. Tempest was also there, the rector of the parish, he being both magistrate and clergyman. There were many in Silverbridge who declared that Dr. Tempest would have done far better to stay away when a brother clergyman was thus to be brought before the bench; but it had been long since Dr. Tempest had cared what was said about him in Silverbridge. He had become so accustomed to the life he led as to like to be disliked, and to be enamoured of unpopularity. So when Mr. Walker had ventured to suggest to him that, perhaps, he might not choose to be there, he had laughed Mr. Walker to scorn. “Of course I shall be there,” he said. “I am interested in the case—very much interested. Of course I shall be there.” And had not Lord Lufton been present he would have made himself more conspicuous by taking the chair. Mr. Fothergill was the fourth. Mr. Fothergill was man of business to the Duke of Omnium, who was the great owner of property in and about Silverbridge, and he was the most active magistrate in that part of the county. He was a sharp man, and not at all likely to have any predisposition in favour of a clergyman. The fifth was Dr. Thorne, of Chaldicotes, a gentleman whose name has been already mentioned in these pages. He had been for many years a medical man practising in a little village in the further end of the county; but it had come to be his fate, late in life, to marry a great heiress, with whose money the ancient house and domain of Chaldicotes had been purchased from the Sowerbys. Since then Dr. Thorne had done his duty well as a country gentleman—not, however, without some little want of smoothness between him and the duke’s people.

  Chaldicotes lay next to the duke’s territory, and the duke had wished to buy Chaldicotes. When Chaldicotes slipped through the duke’s fingers and went into the hands of Dr. Thorne—or of Dr. Thorne’s wife—the duke had been very angry with Mr. Fothergill. Hence it had come to pass that there had not always been smoothness between the duke’s people and the Chaldicotes people. It was now rumoured that Dr. Thorne intended to stand for the county on the next vacancy, and that did not tend to make things smoother. On the right hand of Lord Lufton sat Lord George and Mr. Fothergill, and beyond Mr. Fothergill sat Mr. Walker, and beyond Mr. Walker sat Mr. Walker’s clerk. On the left hand of the chairman were Dr. Tempest and Dr. Thorne, and a little lower down was Mr. Zachary Winthrop, who held the situation of clerk to the magistrates. Many people in Silverbridge said that this was all wrong, as Mr. Winthrop was partner with Mr. Walker, who was always employed before the magistrates if there was any employment going for an attorney. For this, however, Mr. Walker cared very little. He had so much of his own way in Silverbridge, that he was supposed to care nothing for anybody.

  There were many other gentlemen in the room, and some who knew Mr. Crawley with more or less intimacy. He, however, took notice of no one, and when one friend, who had really known him well, came up behind and spoke to him gently leaning over his chair, the poor man hardly recognised his friend.

  “I’m sure your husband won’t forget me,” said Mr. Robarts, the clergyman at Framley, as he gave his hand to that lady across the back of Mr. Crawley’s chair.

  “No, Mr. Robarts, he does not forget you. But you must excuse him if at this moment he is not quite himself. It is a trying situation for a clergyman.”

  “I can understand all that; but I’ll tell you why I have come. I suppose this inquiry will finish the whole affair, and clear up whatever may be the difficulty. But should it not do so, it may be just possible, Mrs. Crawley, that something may be said about bail. I don’t understand much about it, and I daresay you do not either; but if there should be anything of that sort, let Mr. Crawley name me. A brother clergyman will be best, and I’ll have some other gentleman with me.” Then he left without waiting for any answer.

  At the same time there was a conversation going on between Mr. Walker and another attorney standing behind him, Mr. Mason. “I’ll go to him,” said Walker, “and try to arrange it.” So Mr. Walker seated himself in the empty chair beside Mr. Crawley, and endeavoured to explain to the wretched man, that he would do well to allow Mr. Mason to assist him. Mr. Crawley seemed to listen to all that was said, and then turned upon the speaker sharply: “I will have no one to assist me,” he said so loudly that everyone in the room heard the words. “I am innocent. Why should I want assistance? Nor have I money to pay for it.” Mr. Mason made a quick movement forward, intending to explain that that consideration need offer no impediment, but was stopped by further speech from Mr. Crawley. “I will have no one to help me,” said he, standing upright, and for the first time removing his hat from his head. “Go on, and do what it is you have to do.” After than he did not sit down till the proceedings were nearly over, though he was invited more than once by Lord Lufton to do so.

  We need not go through all the evidence that was brought to bear upon the question. It was proved that money for the cheque was paid to Mr. Crawley’s messenger, and that this money was given to Mr. Crawley. When there occurred some little delay in the chain of evidence necessary to show that Mr. Crawley had signed and sent the cheque and got the money, he became impatient. “Why do you trouble the man?” he said. “I had the cheque, and I sent him; I got the money. Has anyone denied it, that you would strive to drive a poor man like that beyond his wits?” Then Mr. Soames and the manager of the bank showed what inquiry had been made as soon as the cheque came back from the London bank; how at first they had both thought that Mr. Crawley could of course explain the matter, and how he had e
xplained it by a statement which was manifestly untrue. Then there was evidence to prove that the cheque could not have been paid to him by Mr. Soames, and as this was given, Mr. Crawley shook his head and again became impatient. “I erred in that,” he exclaimed. “Of course I erred. In my haste I thought it was so, and in my haste I said so. I am not good at reckoning money and remembering sums; but I saw that I had been wrong when my error was shown to me, and I acknowledged at once that I had been wrong.”

  Up to this point he had behaved not only with so much spirit, but with so much reason, that his wife began to hope that the importance of the occasion had brought back the clearness of his mind, and that he would, even now, be able to place himself right as the inquiry went on. Then it was explained that Mr. Crawley had stated that the cheque had been given to him by Dean Arabin, as soon as it was shown that it could not have been given to him by Mr. Soames. In reference to this, Mr. Walker was obliged to explain that application had been made to the dean, who was abroad, and that the dean had stated that he had given fifty pounds to his friend. Mr. Walker explained also that the very notes of which this fifty pounds had consisted had been traced back to Mr. Crawley, and that they had no connexion with the cheque or with the money which had been given for the cheque at the bank.

  Mr. Soames stated that he had lost the cheque with a pocket-book; that he had certainly lost it on the day on which he had called on Mr. Crawley at Hogglestock; and that he missed his pocket-book on his journey back from Hogglestock to Barchester. At the moment of missing it he remembered that he had taken the book out from his pocket in Mr. Crawley’s room, and, at that moment, he had not doubted but that he had left it in Mr. Crawley’s house. He had written and sent to Mr. Crawley to inquire, but had been assured that nothing had been found. There had been no other property of value in the pocket-book—nothing but a few visiting-cards and a memorandum, and he had therefore stopped the cheque at the London bank, and thought no more about it.