At breakfast there was hardly a word spoken. Mr. Crawley took his crust and ate 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 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 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 the 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 belief—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.
CHAPTER LXX
Mrs. Arabin is Caught
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 is not the kind of business a man can live upon, is it?” The partner growled, and Toogood went. But 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 who 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 have seen 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 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 nowadays. 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. Previ
ously 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 once time the money had been paid half-yearly by the landlord’s cheque on the bank of 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 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 remove 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 check?” 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.”
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