CHAPTER IV.
THE CLERGYMAN'S HOUSE AT HOGGLESTOCK.
Mrs. Crawley had walked from Hogglestock to Silverbridge on theoccasion of her visit to Mr. Walker, the attorney, and had beenkindly sent back by that gentleman in his wife's little opencarriage. The tidings she brought home with her to her husband werevery grievous. The magistrates would sit on the next Thursday,--itwas then Friday,--and Mr. Crawley had better appear before them toanswer the charge made by Mr. Soames. He would be served with asummons, which he could obey of his own accord. There had been manypoints very closely discussed between Walker and Mrs. Crawley, as towhich there had been great difficulty in the choice of words whichshould be tender enough in regard to the feelings of the poor lady,and yet strong enough to convey to her the very facts as they stood.Would Mr. Crawley come, or must a policeman be sent to fetch him? Themagistrates had already issued a warrant for his apprehension. Suchin truth was the fact, but they had agreed with Mr. Walker, that asthere was no reasonable ground for anticipating any attempt at escapeon the part of the reverend gentleman, the lawyer might use whatgentle means he could for ensuring the clergyman's attendance. CouldMrs. Crawley undertake to say that he would appear? Mrs. Crawleydid undertake either that her husband should appear on the Thursday,or else that she would send over in the early part of the week anddeclare her inability to ensure his appearance. In that case it wasunderstood the policeman must come. Then Mr. Walker had suggestedthat Mr. Crawley had better employ a lawyer. Upon this Mrs. Crawleyhad looked beseechingly up into Mr. Walker's face, and had askedhim to undertake the duty. He was of course obliged to explain thathe was already employed on the other side. Mr. Soames had securedhis services, and though he was willing to do all in his power tomitigate the sufferings of the family, he could not abandon the dutyhe had undertaken. He named another attorney, however, and then sentthe poor woman home in his wife's carriage. "I fear that unfortunateman is guilty. I fear he is," Mr. Walker had said to his wife withinten minutes of the departure of the visitor.
Mrs. Crawley would not allow herself to be driven up to the gardengate before her own house, but had left the carriage some threehundred yards off down the road, and from thence she walked home.It was now quite dark. It was nearly six in the evening on a wetDecember night, and although cloaks and shawls had been supplied toher, she was wet and cold when she reached her home. But at such amoment, anxious as she was to prevent the additional evil which wouldcome to them all from illness to herself, she could not pass throughto her room till she had spoken to her husband. He was sitting inthe one sitting-room on the left side of the passage as the housewas entered, and with him was their daughter Jane, a girl now nearlysixteen years of age. There was no light in the room, and hardlymore than a spark of fire showed itself in the grate. The father wassitting on one side of the hearth, in an old arm-chair, and there hehad sat for the last hour without speaking. His daughter had been inand out of the room, and had endeavoured to gain his attention nowand again by a word, but he had never answered her, and had not evennoticed her presence. At the moment when Mrs. Crawley's step washeard upon the gravel which led to the door, Jane was kneeling beforethe fire with a hand upon her father's arm. She had tried to get herhand into his, but he had either been unaware of the attempt, or hadrejected it.
"Here is mamma, at last," said Jane, rising to her feet as her motherentered the house.
"Are you all in the dark?" said Mrs. Crawley, striving to speak in avoice that should not be sorrowful.
"Yes, mamma; we are in the dark. Papa is here. Oh, mamma, how wet youare!"
"Yes, dear. It is raining. Get a light out of the kitchen, Jane, andI will go upstairs in two minutes." Then, when Jane was gone, thewife made her way in the dark over to her husband's side, and spoke aword to him. "Josiah," she said, "will you not speak to me?"
"What should I speak about? Where have you been?"
"I have been to Silverbridge. I have been to Mr. Walker. He, at anyrate, is very kind."
"I don't want his kindness. I want no man's kindness. Mr. Walker isthe attorney, I believe. Kind, indeed!"
"I mean considerate. Josiah, let us do the best we can in thistrouble. We have had others as heavy before."
"But none to crush me as this will crush me. Well; what am I to do?Am I to go to prison--to-night?" At this moment his daughter returnedwith a candle, and the mother could not make her answer at once. Itwas a wretched, poverty-stricken room. By degrees the carpet haddisappeared, which had been laid down some nine or ten years since,when they had first come to Hogglestock, and which even then had notbeen new. Now nothing but a poor fragment of it remained in front ofthe fire-place. In the middle of the room there was a table whichhad once been large; but one flap of it was gone altogether, and theother flap sloped grievously towards the floor, the weakness of oldage having fallen into its legs. There were two or three smallertables about, but they stood propped against walls, thence obtaininga security which their own strength would not give them. At thefurther end of the room there was an ancient piece of furniture,which was always called "papa's secretary," at which Mr. Crawleycustomarily sat and wrote his sermons, and did all work that was doneby him within his house. The man who had made it, some time in thelast century, had intended it to be a locked guardian for domesticdocuments, and the receptacle for all that was most private in thehouse of some paterfamilias. But beneath the hands of Mr. Crawley italways stood open; and with the exception of the small space at whichhe wrote, was covered with dog's-eared books, from nearly all ofwhich the covers had disappeared. There were there two odd volumes ofEuripides, a Greek Testament, an Odyssey, a duodecimo Pindar, and aminiature Anacreon. There was half a Horace,--the two first books ofthe Odes at the beginning, and the De Arte Poetica at the end havingdisappeared. There was a little bit of a volume of Cicero, and therewere Caesar's Commentaries, in two volumes, so stoutly bound that theyhad defied the combined ill-usage of time and the Crawley family. Allthese were piled upon the secretary, with many others,--odd volumesof sermons and the like; but the Greek and Latin lay at the top, andshowed signs of most frequent use. There was one arm-chair in theroom,--a Windsor-chair, as such used to be called, made soft by anold cushion in the back, in which Mr. Crawley sat when both he andhis wife were in the room, and Mrs. Crawley when he was absent.And there was an old horsehair sofa,--now almost denuded of itshorsehair,--but that, like the tables, required the assistance of afriendly wall. Then there was half a dozen of other chairs,--all ofdifferent sorts,--and they completed the furniture of the room. Itwas not such a room as one would wish to see inhabited by a beneficedclergyman of the Church of England; but they who know what money willdo and what it will not, will understand how easily a man with afamily, and with a hundred and thirty pounds a year, may be broughtto the need of inhabiting such a chamber. When it is remembered thatthree pounds of meat a day, at ninepence a pound, will cost overforty pounds a year, there need be no difficulty in understandingthat it may be so. Bread for such a family must cost at leasttwenty-five pounds. Clothes for five persons, of whom one must at anyrate wear the raiment of a gentleman, can hardly be found for lessthan ten pounds a year a head. Then there remains fifteen pounds fortea, sugar, beer, wages, education, amusements, and the like. In suchcircumstances a gentleman can hardly pay much for the renewal of hisfurniture!
Mrs. Crawley could not answer her husband's question before herdaughter, and was therefore obliged to make another excuse for againsending her out of the room. "Jane, dear," she said, "bring my thingsdown to the kitchen and I will change them by the fire. I will bethere in two minutes, when I have had a word with your papa." Thegirl went immediately and then Mrs. Crawley answered her husband'squestion. "No, my dear; there is no question of your going toprison."
"But there will be."
"I have undertaken that you shall attend before the magistrates atSilverbridge on Thursday next, at twelve o'clock. You will do that?"
"Do it! You mean, I suppose, to say that I must go there. Is anybodyto c
ome and fetch me?"
"Nobody will come. Only you must promise that you will be there. Ihave promised for you. You will go; will you not?" She stood leaningover him, half embracing him, waiting for an answer; but for awhile he gave none. "You will tell me that you will do what I haveundertaken for you, Josiah?"
"I think I would rather that they fetched me. I think that I will notgo myself."
"And have policemen come for you into the parish! Mr. Walker haspromised that he will send over his phaeton. He sent me home in itto-day."
"I want nobody's phaeton. If I go I will walk. If it were ten timesthe distance, and though I had not a shoe left to my feet I wouldwalk. If I go there at all, of my own accord, I will walk there."
"But you will go?"
"What do I care for the parish? What matters it who sees me now? Icannot be degraded worse than I am. Everybody knows it."
"There is no disgrace without guilt," said his wife.
"Everybody thinks me guilty. I see it in their eyes. The childrenknow of it, and I hear their whispers in the school, 'Mr. Crawley hastaken some money.' I heard the girl say it myself."
"What matters what the girl says?"
"And yet you would have me go in a fine carriage to Silverbridge, asthough to a wedding. If I am wanted there let them take me as theywould another. I shall be here for them,--unless I am dead."
At this moment Jane reappeared, pressing her mother to take off herwet clothes, and Mrs. Crawley went with her daughter to the kitchen.The one red-armed young girl who was their only servant was sentaway, and then the mother and child discussed how best they mightprevail with the head of the family. "But, mamma, it must come right;must it not?"
"I trust it will. I think it will. But I cannot see my way as yet."
"Papa cannot have done anything wrong."
"No, my dear; he has done nothing wrong. He has made greatmistakes, and it is hard to make people understand that he has notintentionally spoken untruths. He is ever thinking of other things,about the school, and his sermons, and he does not remember."
"And about how poor we are, mamma."
"He has much to occupy his mind, and he forgets things which dwell inthe memory with other people. He said that he had got this money fromMr. Soames, and of course he thought that it was so."
"And where did he get it, mamma?"
"Ah,--I wish I knew. I should have said that I had seen everyshilling that came into the house; but I know nothing of thischeque,--whence it came."
"But will not papa tell you?"
"He would tell me if he knew. He thinks it came from the dean."
"And are you sure it did not?"
"Yes; quite sure; as sure as I can be of anything. The dean told mehe would give him fifty pounds, and the fifty pounds came. I had themin my own hands. And he has written to say that it was so."
"But couldn't this be part of the fifty pounds?"
"No, dear, no."
"Then where did papa get it? Perhaps he picked it up, and hasforgotten?"
To this Mrs. Crawley made no reply. The idea that the cheque had beenfound by her husband,--had been picked up as Jane had said,--hadoccurred also to Jane's mother. Mr. Soames was confident that he haddropped the pocket-book at the parsonage. Mrs. Crawley had alwaysdisliked Mr. Soames, thinking him to be hard, cruel, and vulgar. Shewould not have hesitated to believe him guilty of a falsehood, oreven of direct dishonesty, if by so believing she could in her ownmind have found the means of reconciling her husband's possession ofthe cheque with absolute truth on his part. But she could not do so.Even though Soames had, with devilish premeditated malice, slippedthe cheque into her husband's pocket, his having done so would notaccount for her husband's having used the cheque when he found itthere. She was driven to make excuses for him which, valid as theymight be with herself, could not be valid with others. He had saidthat Mr. Soames had paid the cheque to him. That was clearly amistake. He had said that the cheque had been given to him by thedean. That was clearly another mistake. She knew, or thought sheknew, that he, being such as he was, might make such blunders asthese, and yet be true. She believed that such statements might beblunders and not falsehoods,--so convinced was she that her husband'smind would not act at all times as do the minds of other men. Buthaving such a conviction she was driven to believe also that almostanything might be possible. Soames may have been right, or he mighthave dropped, not the book, but the cheque. She had no difficultyin presuming Soames to be wrong in any detail, if by so supposingshe could make the exculpation of her husband easier to herself. Ifvillany on the part of Soames was needful to her theory, Soames wouldbecome to her a villain at once,--of the blackest dye. Might it notbe possible that the cheque having thus fallen into her husband'shands, he had come, after a while, to think that it had been sent tohim by his friend, the dean? And if it were so, would it be possibleto make others so believe? That there was some mistake which wouldbe easily explained were her husband's mind lucid at all points, butwhich she could not explain because of the darkness of his mind, shewas thoroughly convinced. But were she herself to put forward sucha defence on her husband's part, she would in doing so be driven tosay that he was a lunatic,--that he was incapable of managing theaffairs of himself or his family. It seemed to her that she would becompelled to have him proved to be either a thief or a madman. Andyet she knew that he was neither. That he was not a thief was asclear to her as the sun at noonday. Could she have lain on the man'sbosom for twenty years, and not yet have learned the secrets of theheart beneath? The whole mind of the man was, as she told herself,within her grasp. He might have taken the twenty pounds; he mighthave taken it and spent it, though it was not his own; but yet hewas no thief. Nor was he a madman. No man more sane in preachingthe gospel of his Lord, in making intelligible to the ignorant thepromises of his Saviour, ever got into a parish pulpit, or taught ina parish school. The intellect of the man was as clear as runningwater in all things not appertaining to his daily life and itsdifficulties. He could be logical with a vengeance,--so logical as tocause infinite trouble to his wife, who, with all her good sense, wasnot logical. And he had Greek at his fingers' ends,--as his daughterknew very well. And even to this day he would sometimes recite tothem English poetry, lines after lines, stanzas upon stanzas, in asweet low melancholy voice, on long winter evenings when occasionallythe burden of his troubles would be lighter to him than was usual.Books in Latin and in French he read with as much ease as in English,and took delight in such as came to him, when he would condescendto accept such loans from the deanery. And there was at times alightness of heart about the man. In the course of the last winter hehad translated into Greek irregular verse the very noble ballad ofLord Bateman, maintaining the rhythm and the rhyme, and had repeatedit with uncouth glee till his daughter knew it all by heart. And whenthere had come to him a five-pound note from some admiring magazineeditor as the price of the same,--still through the dean's hands,--hehad brightened up his heart and had thought for an hour or two thateven yet the world would smile upon him. His wife knew well that hewas not mad; but yet she knew that there were dark moments with him,in which his mind was so much astray that he could not justly becalled to account as to what he might remember and what he mightforget. How would it be possible to explain all this to a judge andjury, so that they might neither say that he was dishonest, nor yetthat he was mad? "Perhaps he picked it up, and had forgotten," herdaughter said to her. Perhaps it was so, but she might not as yetadmit as much even to her child.
"It is a mystery, dear, as yet, which, with God's aid, will beunravelled. Of one thing we at least may be sure; that your papa hasnot wilfully done anything wrong."
"Of course we are sure of that, mamma."
Mrs. Crawley had many troubles during the next four or five days, ofwhich the worst, perhaps, had reference to the services of the Sundaywhich intervened between the day of her visit to Silverbridge, andthe sitting of the magistrates. On the Saturday it was necessarythat he should prepare his sermons, of which he p
reached two onevery Sunday, though his congregation consisted only of farmers,brickmakers, and agricultural labourers, who would willingly havedispensed with the second. Mrs. Crawley proposed to send over toMr. Robarts, a neighbouring clergyman, for the loan of a curate. Mr.Robarts was a warm friend to the Crawleys, and in such an emergencywould probably have come himself; but Mr. Crawley would not hear ofit. The discussion took place early on the Saturday morning, beforeit was as yet daylight, for the poor woman was thinking day andnight of her husband's troubles, and it had this good effect, thatimmediately after breakfast he seated himself at his desk, and workedat his task as though he had forgotten all else in the world.
And on the Sunday morning he went into his school before the hour ofthe church service, as had been his wont, and taught there as thougheverything with him was as usual. Some of the children were absent,having heard of their teacher's tribulation, and having been toldprobably that he would remit his work; and for these absent ones hesent in great anger. The poor bairns came creeping in, for he was aman who by his manners had been able to secure their obedience inspite of his poverty. And he preached to the people of his parish onthat Sunday, as he had always preached; eagerly, clearly, with aneloquence fitted for the hearts of such an audience. No one wouldhave guessed from his tones and gestures and appearance on thatoccasion, that there was aught wrong with him,--unless there had beenthere some observer keen enough to perceive that the greater carewhich he used, and the special eagerness of his words, denoted aspecial frame of mind.
After that, after those church services were over, he sank again andnever roused himself till the dreaded day had come.
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