The Chronicles of Barsetshire

by Anthony Trollope

  “We are so delighted to think that you have taken up your cousin’s case,” said Mrs. Walker to Mr. Toogood, almost in a whisper.

  “He is not just my cousin, himself,” said Mr. Toogood, “but of course it’s all the same thing. And as to taking up his case, you see, my dear madam, he won’t let me take it up.”

  “I thought you had. I thought you were down here about it.”

  “Only on the sly, Mrs. Walker. He has such queer ideas that he will not allow a lawyer to be properly employed; and you can’t conceive how hard that makes it. Do you know him, Mrs. Walker?”

  “We know his daughter Grace.” And then Mrs. Walker whispered something further, which we may presume to have been an intimation that the gentleman opposite—Major Grantly—was supposed by some people to be very fond of Miss Grace Crawley.

  “Quite a child, isn’t she?” said Toogood, whose own daughter, now about to be married, was three or four years older than Grace.

  “She’s beyond being a child, I think. Of course she is young.”

  “But I suppose this affair will knock all that on the head,” said the lawyer.

  “I do not know how that may be; but they do say he is very much attached to her. The major is a man of family, and of course it would be very disagreeable if Mr. Crawley were found guilty.”

  “Very disagreeable, indeed; but, upon my word, Mrs. Walker, I don’t know what to say about it.”

  “You think it will go against him, Mr. Toogood?” Mr. Toogood shook his head, and on seeing this, Mrs. Walker sighed deeply.

  “I can only say that I have heard nothing from the bishop as yet,” said Dr. Tempest, after the ladies had left the room. “Of course, if he thinks well to order it, the inquiry must be made.”

  “But how long would it take?” asked Mr. Walker.

  “Three months, I should think—or perhaps more. Of course Crawley would do all he could to delay us, and I am not at all sure that we should be in any great hurry ourselves.”

  “Who are the ‘we’, doctor?” said Mr. Walker.

  “I cannot make such an inquiry by myself, you know. I suppose the bishop would ask me to select two or four other clergymen to act with me. That’s the usual way of doing it. But you may be quite sure of this, Walker; the assizes will be over, and the jury have found their verdict long before we have settled our preliminaries.”

  “And what will the be the good of your going on after that?”

  “Only this good—if the unfortunate man be convicted—”

  “Which he won’t,” said Toogood, who thought it expedient to put on a bolder front in talking of the matter to the rural dean, than he had assumed in his whispered conversation with Mrs. Walker.

  “I hope not, with all my heart,” said the doctor. “But, perhaps, for the sake of the argument, the supposition may be allowed to pass.”

  “Certainly, sir,” said Mr. Toogood. “For the sake of the argument, it may pass.”

  “If he be convicted, then I suppose, there will be an end of the question. He would be sentenced for not less, I should say, than twelve months; and after that—”

  “And would be as good a parson of Hogglestock when he came out of prison as when he went in,” said Mr. Walker. “The conviction and judgment in a civil court would not touch his temporality.”

  “Certainly not,” said Mr. Toogood.

  “Of course not,” said the doctor. “We all know that; and in the event of Mr. Crawley coming back to his parish it would be open to the bishop to raise the question as to his fitness for the duties.”

  “Why shouldn’t he be as fit as anyone else?” said Mr. Toogood.

  “Simply because he would have been found to be a thief,” said the doctor. “You must excuse me, Mr. Toogood, but it’s only for the sake of the argument.”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with it,” said Mr. Toogood. “He would have undergone his penalty.”

  “It is preferable that a man who preaches from a pulpit should not have undergone such a penalty,” said the doctor. “But in practice, under such circumstances—which we none of us anticipate, Mr. Toogood—the living should no doubt be vacated. Mr. Crawley would probably hardly wish to come back. The jury will do their work before we can do ours—will do it on a much better base than any we can have; and, when they have done it, the thing ought to be finished. If the jury acquit him, the bishop cannot proceed any further. If he be found guilty I think that the resignation of the living must follow.”

  “It is all spite, then, on the bishop’s part?” said the major.

  “Not at all,” said the doctor. “The poor man is weak; that is all. He is driven to persecute because he cannot escape persecution himself. But it may really be a question whether his present proceeding is not right. If I were bishop I should wait till the trial was over; that is all.”

  From this and from much more that was said during the evening on the same subject, Mr. Toogood gradually learned the position which Mr. Crawley and the question of Mr. Crawley’s guilt really held in the county, and he returned to town resolved to go on with the case.

  “I’ll have a barrister down express, and I’ll defend him in his own teeth,” he said to his wife. “There’ll be a scene in court, I daresay, and the man will call upon his own counsel to hold his tongue and shut up his brief; and, as far as I can see, counsel in such a case would have no alternative. But there would come an explanation—how Crawley was too honourable to employ a man whom he could not pay, and there would be a romance, and it would all go down with the jury. One wants sympathy in such a case as that—not evidence.”

  “And how much will it cost, Tom?” said Maria, dolefully.

  “Only a trifle. We won’t think of that yet. There’s John Eames is going all the way to Jerusalem, out of his pocket.”

  “But Johnny hasn’t got twelve children, Tom.”

  “One doesn’t have a cousin in trouble every day,” said Toogood. “And then you see there’s something very pretty in the case. It’s quite a pleasure getting it up.”

  CHAPTER XLIII

  Mr. Crosbie Goes into the City

  “I’ve known the City now for more than ten years, Mr. Crosbie, and I never knew money to be so tight as it is at this moment. The best commercial bills going can’t be done under nine, and any other kind of paper can’t so much as get itself looked at.” Thus spoke Mr. Musselboro. He was seated in Dobbs Broughton’s arm-chair in Dobbs Broughton’s room in Hook Court, on the hind legs of which he was balancing himself comfortably; and he was communicating his experience in City matters to our old friend, Adolphus Crosbie—of whom we may surmise that he would not have been there, at that moment, in Hook Court, if things had been going well with him. It was now past eleven o’clock, and he should have been at his office at the West End. His position in his office was no doubt high enough to place him beyond the reach of any special inquiry as to such absences; but it is generally felt that when the Crosbies of the West End have calls into the City about noon, things in the world are not going well with them. The man who goes into the City to look for money is generally one who does not know where to get money when he wants it. Mr. Musselboro on this occasion kept his hat on his head, and there was something in the way in which he balanced his chair which was in itself an offence to Mr. Crosbie’s personal dignity. It was hardly as yet two months since Mr. Dobbs Broughton had assured him in that very room that there need not be the slightest anxiety about his bill. Of course it could be renewed—the commission being duly paid. As Mr. Dobbs Broughton explained on that occasion, that was his business. There was nothing he liked so much as renewing bills for such customers as Mr. Crosbie; and he was very candid at that meeting, explaining how he did this branch of his business, raising money on his own credit at four or five per cent., and lending it on his own judgment at eight or nine. Mr. Crosbie did not feel himself then called upon to exclaim that what he was called upon to pay was about twelve, perfectly understanding the comfort and grace of euphony; but
he had turned it over in his mind, considering whether twelve per cent. was not more than he ought to be mulcted for the accommodation he wanted. Now, at the moment, he would have been glad to get it from Mr. Musselboro, without further words, for twenty.

  Things had much changed with Adolphus Crosbie when he was driven to make morning visits to such a one as Mr. Musselboro with the view of having a bill renewed for two hundred and fifty pounds. In his early life he had always had the merit of being a careful man as to money. In some other respects he had gone astray very foolishly—as has been partly explained in our earlier chapters; but up to the date of his marriage with Lady Alexandrina De Courcy he had never had dealings in Hook Court or in any such locality. Money troubles had then come upon him. Lady Alexandrina, being the daughter of a countess, had high ideas; and when, very shortly after his marriage, he had submitted to a separation from his noble wife, he had found himself and his income to be tied up inextricably in the hands of one Mr. Mortimer Gazebee, a lawyer who had married one of his wife’s sisters. It was not that Mr. Gazebee was dishonest; nor did Crosbie suspect him of dishonesty; but the lawyer was so wedded to the interest of the noble family with which he was connected, that he worked for them all as an inferior spider might be supposed to work, which, from the infirmity of its nature, was compelled by its instincts to be catching flies always for superior spiders. Mr. Mortimer Gazebee had in this way entangled Mr. Crosbie in his web on behalf of those noble spiders, the De Courcys, and our poor friend, in his endeavour to fight his way through the web, had fallen into the hands of the Hook Court firm of Mrs. Van Siever, Dobbs Broughton, and Musselboro.

  “Mr. Broughton told me when I was last here,” said Crosbie, “that there would be no difficulty about it.”

  “And it was renewed then; wasn’t it?”

  “Of course it was—for two months. But he was speaking of a continuation of renewal.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t do it, Mr. Crosbie. I’m afraid we can’t, indeed. Money is so awful tight.”

  “Of course I must pay what you choose to charge me.”

  “It isn’t that, Mr. Crosbie. The bill is out for collection, and must be collected. In times like these we must draw ourselves in a little, you know. Two hundred and fifty pounds isn’t a great deal of money, you will say; but every little helps, you know; and, besides, of course we go upon a system. Business is business, and must not be made pleasure of. I should have a great deal of pleasure in doing this for you, but it can’t be done in the way of business.”

  “When will Broughton be here?”

  “He may be in at any time—I can’t say when. I suppose he’s down at the court now.”

  “What court?”

  “Capel Court.”

  “I suppose I can see him there?” said Crosbie.

  “If you catch him you can see him, of course. But what good will that do you, Mr. Crosbie? I tell you that we can’t do it for you. If Broughton was here at this moment it couldn’t make the slightest difference.”

  Now Mr. Crosbie had an idea that Mr. Musselboro, though he sat in Dobbs Broughton’s seat and kept on his hat, and balanced his chair on two legs, was in truth nothing more than a clerk. He did not quite understand the manner in which the affairs of the establishment were worked, though he had been informed that Mrs. Van Siever was one of the partners. That Dobbs Broughton was the managing man, who really did the business, he was convinced; and he did not therefore like to be answered peremptorily by such a one as Musselboro. “I should wish to see Mr. Broughton,” he said.

  “You can call again—or you can go down to the court if you like it. But you may take this as an answer from me that the bill can’t be renewed by us.” At this moment the door of the room was opened, and Dobbs Broughton himself came into it. His face was not at all pleasant, and anyone might have seen with half an eye that the money-market was a great deal tighter than he liked it to be. “Here is Mr. Crosbie here—about that bill,” said Musselboro.

  “Mr. Crosbie must take up his bill; that’s all,” said Dobbs Broughton.

  “But it doesn’t suit me to take it up,” said Crosbie.

  “Then you must take it up without suiting you,” said Dobbs Broughton.

  It might have been seen, I said, with half an eye, that Mr. Broughton did not like the state of the money-market; and it might also be seen with the other half that he had been endeavouring to mitigate the bitterness of his dislike by alcoholic aid. Musselboro at once perceived that his patron and partner was half drunk, and Crosbie was aware that he had been drinking. But, nevertheless, it was necessary that something more should be said. The bill would be due to-morrow—was payable at Crosbie’s bankers; and, as Mr. Crosbie too well knew, there were no funds there for the purpose. And there were other purposes, very needful, for which Mr. Crosbie’s funds were at the present moment unfortunately by no means sufficient. He stood for a few moments thinking what he would do—whether he would leave the drunken man and his office and let the bill take its chance or whether he would make one more effort for an arrangement. He did not for a moment believe that Broughton himself was subject to any pecuniary difficulty. Broughton lived in a big house, as rich men live, and had a name for commercial success. It never occurred to Crosbie that it was a matter of great moment to Dobbs Broughton himself that the bill should be taken up. Crosbie still thought that Musselboro was his special enemy, and that Broughton had joined Musselboro in his hostility simply because he was too drunk to know better. “You might, at any rate, answer me civilly, Mr. Broughton,” he said.

  “I know nothing about civility with things as they are at present,” said Broughton. “Civil by ——! There’s nothing so civil as paying money when you owe it. Musselboro, reach me down the decanter and some glasses. Perhaps Mr. Crosbie will wet his whistle.”

  “He don’t want any wine—nor you either,” said Musselboro.

  “What’s up now?” said Broughton, staggering across the room towards a cupboard, in which it was his custom to keep a provision of that comfort which he needed at the present moment. “I suppose I may stand a glass of wine to a fellow in my own room, if I like it.”

  “I will take no wine, thank you,” said Crosbie.

  “Then you can to do the other thing. When I ask a gentleman to take a glass of wine, there is no compulsion. But about the bill there is compulsion. Do you understand that? You may drink, or let it alone; but pay you must. Why, Mussy, what d’ye think?—there’s Carter, Ricketts and Carter—I’m blessed if Carter just now didn’t beg for two months, as though two months would be all the world to him, and that for a trumpery five hundred pounds. I never saw money like it is now; never.” To this appeal, Musselboro made no reply, not caring, perhaps, at the present moment to sustain his partner. He still balanced himself in his chair, and still kept his hat on his head. Even Mr. Crosbie began to perceive that Mr. Musselboro’s genius was in the ascendant in Hook Court.

  “I can hardly believe,” said Crosbie, “that things can be so bad that I cannot have a bill for two hundred and fifty pounds renewed when I am willing to pay for the accommodation. I have not done much in the way of bills, but I never had one dishonoured yet.”

  “Don’t let this be the first,” said Dobbs Broughton.

  “Not if I can prevent it,” said Crosbie. “But to tell you the truth, Mr. Broughton, my bill will be dishonoured unless I can have it renewed. If it does not suit you to do it, I suppose you can recommend me to some one who can make it convenient.”

  “Why don’t you go to your bankers?” said Musselboro.

  “I never did ask my bankers for anything of the kind.”

  “Then you should try what your credit with them is worth,” said Broughton. “It isn’t worth much here, as you can perceive. Ha, ha, ha!”

  Crosbie, when he heard this, became very angry; and Musselboro, perceiving this, got out of his chair, so that he might be in readiness to prevent any violence, if violence were attempted. “It really is no good your staying her
e,” he said. “You see that Broughton has been drinking. There’s no knowing what he may say or do.”

  “You be blowed,” said Broughton, who had taken the arm-chair as soon as Musselboro had left it.

  “But you may believe me in the way of business,” continued Musselboro, “when I tell you that it really does not suit us to renew the bill. We’re pressed ourselves, and we must press others.”

  “And who will do it for me?” said Crosbie, almost in despair.

  “There are Burton and Bangles there, the wine-merchants down in the yard; perhaps they may accommodate you. It’s all in their line; but I’m told they charge uncommon dear.”

  “I don’t know Messrs. Burton and Bangles,” said Crosbie.

  “That needn’t stand in your way. You tell them where you come from, and they’ll make inquiry. If they think it’s about right, they’ll give you the money; and if they don’t, they won’t.”

  Mr. Crosbie then left the office without exchanging another word with Dobbs Broughton, and went down into Hook Court. As he descended the stairs he turned over in his mind the propriety of going to Messrs. Burton and Bangles with the view of relieving himself from his present difficulty. He knew that it was ruinous. Dealing even with such men as Dobbs Broughton and Musselboro, whom he presumed to be milder in their greed than Burton and Bangles, were, all of them, steps on the road to ruin. But what was he to do? If his bill were dishonoured, the fact would certainly become known at his office, and he might even ultimately be arrested. In the doorway at the bottom of the stairs he stood for some moments, looking over at Burton and Bangles’, and he did not at all like the aspect of the establishment. Inside the office he could see a man standing with a cigar in his mouth, very resplendent with a new hat—with a hat remarkable for the bold upward curve of its rim, and this man was copiously decorated with a chain and seals hanging about widely over his waistcoat. He was leaning with his back against the counter, and was talking to some one on the other side of it. There was something in the man’s look and manner that was utterly repulsive to Crosbie. He was more vulgar to the eye even than Musselboro, and his voice, which Crosbie could hear as he stood in the other doorway, was almost as detestable as that of Dobbs Broughton in his drunkenness. Crosbie did not doubt that this was either Burton or Bangles, and that the man standing inside was either Bangles or Burton. He could not bring himself to accost these men and tell them of his necessities, and propose to them that they should relieve him. In spite of what Musselboro had just said to him, he could not believe it possible that he should succeed, were he to do so without some introduction. So he left Hook Court and went out into the lane, hearing as he went the loud voice of the man with the turned-up hat and the chain.