The Last Chronicle of Barset

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XIX.

  WHERE DID IT COME FROM?

  When Christmas morning came no emissary from the bishop appeared atHogglestock to interfere with the ordinary performance of the day'sservices. "I think we need fear no further disturbance," Mr. Crawleysaid to his wife,--and there was no further disturbance.

  On the day after his walk from Framley to Barchester, and fromBarchester back to Hogglestock, Mr. Crawley had risen not much theworse for his labour, and had gradually given to his wife a fullaccount of what had taken place. "A poor weak man," he said, speakingof the bishop. "A poor weak creature, and much to be pitied."

  "I have always heard that she is a violent woman."

  "Very violent, and very ignorant; and most intrusive withal."

  "And you did not answer her a word?"

  "At last my forbearance with her broke down, and I bade her mind herdistaff."

  "What;--really? Did you say those words to her?"

  "Nay; as for my exact words I cannot remember them. I was thinkingmore of the words with which it might be fitting that I should answerthe bishop. But I certainly told her that she had better mind herdistaff."

  "And how did she behave then?"

  "I did not wait to see. The bishop had spoken, and I had replied; andwhy should I tarry to behold the woman's violence? I had told himthat he was wrong in law, and that I at least would not submit tousurped authority. There was nothing to keep me longer, and so I wentwithout much ceremony of leave-taking. There had been little ceremonyof greeting on their part, and there was less in the making of adieuxon mine. They had told me that I was a thief--"

  "No, Josiah,--surely not so? They did not use that very word?"

  "I say they did;--they did use the very word. But stop. I am wrong.I wrong his lordship, and I crave pardon for having done so. If mymemory serve me, no expression so harsh escaped from the bishop'smouth. He gave me, indeed, to understand more than once that theaction taken by the magistrates was tantamount to a conviction,and that I must be guilty because they had decided that there wasevidence sufficient to justify a trial. But all that arose from mylord's ignorance of the administration of the laws of his country.He was very ignorant,--puzzle-pated, as you may call it,--led by thenose by his wife, weak as water, timid, and vacillating. But he didnot wish, I think, to be insolent. It was Mrs. Proudie who told me tomy face that I was a--thief."

  "May she be punished for the cruel word!" said Mrs. Crawley. "May theremembrance that she has spoken it come, some day, heavily upon herheart!"

  "'Vengeance is mine. I will repay,' saith the Lord," answered Mr.Crawley. "We may safely leave all that alone, and rid our minds ofsuch wishes, if it be possible. It is well, I think, that violentoffences, when committed, should be met by instant rebuke. To turnthe other cheek instantly to the smiter can hardly be suitable inthese days, when the hands of so many are raised to strike. But thereturn blow should be given only while the smart remains. She hurtme then; but what is it to me now, that she called me a thief to myface? Do I not know that, all the country round, men and women arecalling me the same behind my back?"

  "No, Josiah, you do not know that. They say that the thing is verystrange,--so strange that it requires a trial; but no one thinks youhave taken that which was not your own."

  "I think I did. I myself think I took that which was not my own. Mypoor head suffers so;--so many grievous thoughts distract me, thatI am like a child, and know not what I do." As he spoke thus he putboth hands up to his head, leaning forward as though in anxiousthought,--as though he were striving to bring his mind to bear withaccuracy upon past events. "It could not have been mine, and yet--"Then he sat silent, and made no effort to continue his speech.

  "And yet?"--said his wife, encouraging him to proceed. If she couldonly learn the real truth, she thought that she might perhaps yetsave him, with assistance from their friends.

  "When I said that I had gotten it from that man I must have beenmad."

  "From which man, love?"

  "From the man Soames,--he who accuses me. And yet, as the Lord hearsme, I thought so then. The truth is, that there are times when Iam not--sane. I am not a thief,--not before God; but I am--mad attimes." These last words he spoke very slowly, in a whisper,--withoutany excitement,--indeed with a composure which was horrible towitness. And what he said was the more terrible because she was sowell convinced of the truth of his words. Of course he was no thief.She wanted no one to tell her that. As he himself had expressed it,he was no thief before God, however the money might have come intohis possession. That there were times when his reason, once sofine and clear, could not act, could not be trusted to guide himright, she had gradually come to know with fear and trembling. Buthe himself had never before hinted his own consciousness of thiscalamity. Indeed he had been so unwilling to speak of himself and ofhis own state, that she had been unable even to ask him a questionabout the money,--lest he should suspect that she suspected him. Nowhe was speaking,--but speaking with such heartrending sadness thatshe could hardly urge him to go on.

  "You have sometimes been ill, Josiah, as any of us may be," she said,"and that has been the cause."

  "There are different kinds of sickness. There is sickness of thebody, and sickness of the heart, and sickness of the spirit;--andthen there is sickness of the mind, the worst of all."

  "With you, Josiah, it has chiefly been the first."

  "With me, Mary, it has been all of them,--every one! My spirit isbroken, and my mind has not been able to keep its even tenour amidstthe ruins. But I will strive. I will strive. I will strive still. Andif God helps me, I will prevail." Then he took up his hat and cloak,and went forth among the lanes; and on this occasion his wife wasglad that he should go alone.

  This occurred a day or two before Christmas, and Mrs. Crawley duringthose days said nothing more to her husband on the subject which hehad so unexpectedly discussed. She asked him no questions about themoney, or as to the possibility of his exercising his memory, nor didshe counsel him to plead that the false excuses given by him for hispossession of the cheque had been occasioned by the sad slip to whichsorrow had in those days subjected his memory and his intellect. Butthe matter had always been on her mind. Might it not be her paramountduty to do something of this at the present moment? Might it not bethat his acquittal or conviction would depend on what she might nowlearn from him? It was clear to her that he was brighter in spiritsince his encounter with the Proudies than he had ever been since theaccusation had been first made against him. And she knew well thathis present mood would not be of long continuance. He would fallagain into his moody silent ways, and then the chance of learningaught from him would be past, and perhaps, for ever.

  He performed the Christmas services with nothing of specialdespondency in his tone or manner, and his wife thought that shehad never heard him give the sacrament with more impressive dignity.After the service he stood awhile at the churchyard gate, andexchanged a word of courtesy as to the season with such of thefamilies of the farmers as had stayed for the Lord's supper.

  "I waited at Framley for your reverence till arter six,--so I did,"said farmer Mangle.

  "I kept the road, and walked the whole way," said Mr. Crawley. "Ithink I told you that I should not return to the mill. But I am notthe less obliged by your great kindness."

  "Say nowt o' that," said the farmer. "No doubt I had business at themill,--lots to do at the mill." Nor did he think that the fib he wastelling was at all incompatible with the Holy Sacrament in which hehad just taken a part.

  The Christmas dinner at the parsonage was not a repast that did muchhonour to the season, but it was a better dinner than the inhabitantsof that house usually saw on the board before them. There was roastpork and mince-pies, and a bottle of wine. As Mrs. Crawley with herown hand put the meat upon the table, and then, as was her custom intheir house, proceeded to cut it up, she looked at her husband's faceto see whether he was scrutinizing the food with painful eye. It wasbetter that she should tell the truth at once
than that she shouldbe made to tell it, in answer to a question. Everything on the table,except the bread and potatoes, had come in a basket from FramleyCourt. Pork had been sent instead of beef, because people in thecountry, when they kill their pigs, do sometimes give each otherpork,--but do not exchange joints of beef, when they slay their oxen.All this was understood by Mrs. Crawley, but she almost wished thatbeef had been sent, because beef would have attracted less attention.He said, however, nothing to the meat; but when his wife proposed tohim that he should eat a mince-pie he resented it. "The bare food,"said he, "is bitter enough, coming as it does; but that would chokeme." She did not press it, but eat one herself, as otherwise her girlwould have been forced also to refuse the dainty.

  That evening, as soon as Jane was in bed, she resolved to ask himsome further questions. "You will have a lawyer, Josiah,--will younot?" she said.

  "Why should I have a lawyer?"

  "Because he will know what questions to ask, and how questions on theother side should be answered."

  "I have no questions to ask, and there is only one way in whichquestions should be answered. I have no money to pay a lawyer."

  "But, Josiah, in such a case as this, where your honour, and our verylife depend upon it--"

  "Depend on what?"

  "On your acquittal."

  "I shall not be acquitted. It is as well to look it in the face atonce. Lawyer, or no lawyer, they will say that I took the money. WereI upon the jury, trying the case myself, knowing all that I knownow,"--and as he said this he struck forth with his hands into theair,--"I think that I should say so myself. A lawyer will do no good.It is here. It is here." And again he put his hands up to his head.

  So far she had been successful. At this moment it had in truth beenher object to induce him to speak of his own memory, and not of theaid that a lawyer might give. The proposition of the lawyer had beenbrought in to introduce the subject.

  "But, Josiah,--"

  "Well?"

  It was very hard for her to speak. She could not bear to torment himby any allusion to his own deficiencies. She could not endure to makehim think that she suspected him of any frailty either in intellector thought. Wifelike, she desired to worship him, and that he shouldknow that she worshipped him. But if a word might save him! "Josiah,where did it come from?"

  "Yes," said he; "yes; that is the question. Where did it comefrom?"--and he turned sharp upon her, looking at her with all thepower of his eyes. "It is because I cannot tell you where it camefrom that I ought to be,--either in Bedlam, as a madman, or in thecounty gaol as a thief." The words were so dreadful to her that shecould not utter at the moment another syllable. "How is a man--tothink himself--fit--for a man's work, when he cannot answer his wifesuch a plain question as that?" Then he paused again. "They shouldtake me to Bedlam at once,--at once,--at once. That would notdisgrace the children as the gaol will do."

  Mrs. Crawley could ask no further questions on that evening.