“Upon my word I’ve often thought so.”
“And you wouldn’t mind saying so in evidence—would you? Well, you see, there is no helping such a man in any other way. He won’t even employ a lawyer to defend him.”
“That was what I had come to you about.”
“I’m told he won’t. Now a man must be mad who won’t employ a lawyer when he wants one. You see, the point we should gain would be this—if we tried to get him through as being a little touched in the upper storey—whatever we could do for him, we could do against his own will. The more he opposed us the stronger our case would be. He would swear he was not mad at all, and we should say that that was the greatest sign of his madness. But when I say we, of course I mean you. I must not appear in it.”
“I wish you could, Mr. Walker.”
“Of course I can’t; but that won’t make any difference.”
“I suppose he must have a lawyer?”
“Yes, he must have a lawyer—or rather, his friends must.”
“And who should employ him, ostensibly?”
“Ah—there’s the difficulty. His wife wouldn’t do it, I suppose? She couldn’t do him a better turn.”
“He would never forgive her. And she would never consent to act against him.”
“Could you interfere?”
“If necessary, I will—but I hardly know him well enough.”
“Has he no father or mother, or uncles or aunts? He must have somebody belonging to him,” said Mr. Walker.
Then it occurred to Mr. Robarts that Dean Arabin would be the proper person to interfere. Dean Arabin and Mr. Crawley had been intimate friends in early life, and Dean Arabin knew more of him than did any man, at least in those parts. All this Mr. Robarts explained to Mr. Walker, and Mr. Walker agreed with him that the services of Dean Arabin should if possible be obtained. Mr. Robarts would at once write to Dean Arabin and explain at length all the circumstances of the case. “The worst of it is, he will hardly be home in time,” said Mr. Walker. “Perhaps he would come a little sooner if you were to press it?”
“But we could act in his name in his absence, I suppose?—of course with his authority?”
“I wish he could be here a month before the assizes, Mr. Robarts. It would be better.”
“And in the meantime shall I say anything to Mr. Crawley, myself, about employing a lawyer?”
“I think I would. If he turns upon you, as like enough he may, and abuses you, that will help us in one way. If he should consent, and perhaps he may, that would help us in the other way. I’m told he’s been over and upset the whole coach at the palace.”
“I shouldn’t think the bishop got much out of him,” said the parson.
“I don’t like Crawley the less for speaking his mind free to the bishop,” said the lawyer, laughing. “And he’ll speak it free to you too, Mr. Robarts.”
“He won’t break any of my bones. Tell me, Mr. Walker, what lawyer shall I name to him?”
“You can’t have a better man than Mr. Mason, up the street there.”
“Winthrop proposed Borleys at Barchester.”
“No, no, no. Borleys and Bonstock are capital people to push a fellow through on a charge of horse-stealing, or to squeeze a man for a little money; but they are not the people for Mr. Crawley in such a case as this. Mason is a better man; and then Mason and I know each other.” In saying which Mr. Walker winked.
There was then a discussion between them whether Mr. Robarts should go at once to Mr. Mason; but it was decided at last that he should see Mr. Crawley and also write to the dean before his did so. The dean might wish to employ his own lawyer, and if so the double expense should be avoided. “Always remember, Mr. Robarts, that when you go into an attorney’s office door, you will have to pay for it, first or last. In here, you see, the dingy old mahogany, bare as it is, makes you safe. Or else it’s the salt-cellar, which will not allow itself to be polluted by six-and-eightpenny considerations. But there is the other kind of tax to be paid. You must go up and see Mrs. Walker, or you won’t have her help in the matter.”
Mr. Walker returned to his work, either to some private den within his house, or to his office, and Mr. Robarts was taken upstairs to the drawing-room. There he found Mrs. Walker and her daughter, and Miss Anne Prettyman, who had just looked in, full of the story of Mr. Crawley’s walk to Barchester. Mr. Thumble had seen one of Dr. Tempest’s curates, and had told the whole story—he, Mr. Thumble, having heard Mrs. Proudie’s version of what had occurred, and having, of course, drawn his own deductions from her premises. And it seemed that Mr. Crawley had been watched as he passed through the close out of Barchester. A minor canon had seen him, and had declared that he was going at the rate of a hunt, swinging his arms on high and speaking very loud, though—as the minor canon said with regret—the words were hardly audible. But there had been no doubt as to the man. Mr. Crawley’s old hat, and short rusty cloak, and dirty boots, had been duly observed and chronicled by the minor canon; and Mr. Thumble had been enabled to put together a not altogether false picture of what had occurred. As soon as the greetings between Mr. Robarts and the ladies had been made, Miss Anne Prettyman broke out again, just where she had left off when Mr. Robarts came in. “They say that Mrs. Proudie declared that she will have him sent to Botany Bay!”
“Luckily Mrs. Proudie won’t have much to do in the matter,” said Miss Walker, who ranged herself, as to church matters, in ranks altogether opposed to those commanded by Mrs. Proudie.
“She will have nothing to do with it, my dear,” said Mrs. Walker; “and I daresay Mrs. Proudie was not foolish enough to say anything of the kind.”
“Mamma, she would be foolish enough to say anything. Would she not Mr. Robarts?”
“You forget, Miss Walker, that Mrs. Proudie is in authority over me.”
“So she is, for the matter of that,” said the young lady; “but I know very well what you all think of her, and say of her too, at Framley. Your friend, Lady Lufton, loves her dearly. I wish I could have been hidden behind a curtain in the palace, to hear what Mr. Crawley said to her.”
“Mr. Smillie declares,” said Miss Prettyman, “that the bishop has been ill ever since. Mr. Smillie went over to his mother’s at Barchester for Christmas, and took part of the cathedral duty, and we had Mr. Spooner over here in his place. So Mr. Smillie of course heard all about it. Only fancy, poor Mr. Crawley walking all the way from Hogglestock to Barchester and back—and I am told he hardly had a shoe to his foot! Is it not a shame, Mr. Robarts?”
“I don’t think it was quite so bad as you say, Miss Prettyman; but, upon the whole, I do think it is a shame. But what can we do?”
“I suppose there are tithes at Hogglestock? Why are they not given up to the church, as they ought to be?”
“My dear Miss Prettyman, that is a very large subject, and I am afraid it cannot be settled in time to relieve our poor friend from his distress.” Then Mr. Robarts escaped from the ladies in Mr. Walker’s house, who, as it seemed to him, were touching upon dangerous ground, and went back to the yard of the George Inn for his gig—the “George and Vulture” it was properly called, and was the house in which the magistrates had sat when they committed Mr. Crawley for trial.
“Footed it every inch of the way, blowed if he didn’t,” the ostler was saying to a gentleman’s groom, whom Mr. Robarts recognised to be the servant of his friend Major Grantly; and Mr. Robarts knew that they also were talking about Mr. Crawley. Everybody in the county was talking about Mr. Crawley. At home, at Framley, there was no other subject of discourse. Lady Lufton, the dowager, was full of it, being firmly convinced that Mr. Crawley was innocent, because the bishop was supposed to regard him as guilty. There had been a family conclave held at Framley Court over that basket of provisions which had been sent for the Christmas cheer of the Hogglestock parsonage, each of the three ladies, the two Lady Luftons and Mrs. Robarts, having special views of their own. How the pork had been substituted for the beef by old
Lady Lufton, young Lady Lufton thinking that after all the beef would be less dangerous, and how a small turkey had been rashly suggested by Mrs. Robarts, and how certain small articles had been inserted in the bottom of the basket which Mrs. Crawley had never shown to her husband, need not here be told at length. But Mr. Robarts, as he heard the two grooms talking about Mr. Crawley, began to feel that Mr. Crawley had achieved at least celebrity.
The groom touched his hat as Mr. Robarts walked up. “Has the major returned home yet?” Mr. Robarts asked. The groom said that his master was still at Plumstead, and that he was to go over to Plumstead to fetch the major and Miss Edith in a day or two. Then Mr. Robarts got into his gig, and as he drove out of the yard he heard the words of the men as they returned to the same subject. “Footed it all the way,” said one. “And yet he’s a gen’leman, too,” said the other. Mr. Robarts thought of this as he drove on, intending to call at Hogglestock on that very day on his way home. It was undoubtedly the fact that Mr. Crawley was recognised to be a gentleman by all who knew him, high or low, rich or poor, by those who thought well of him and by those who thought ill. These grooms, who had been telling each other that this parson, who was to be tried as a thief, had been constrained to walk from Hogglestock to Barchester and back, because he could not afford to travel any other way, and that his boots were cracked and his clothes ragged, had still known him to be a gentleman! Nobody doubted it; not even they who thought he had stolen the money. Mr. Robarts himself was certain of it, and told himself that he knew it by the evidences which his own education made clear to him. But how was it that the grooms knew it? For my part I think that there are no better judges of the article than the grooms.
Thinking still of all which he had heard, Mr. Robarts found himself at Mr. Crawley’s gate at Hogglestock.
CHAPTER XXI
Mr. Robarts on his Embassy
Mr. Robarts was not altogether easy in his mind as he approached Mr. Crawley’s house. He was aware that the task before him was a very difficult one, and he had not confidence in himself—that he was exactly the man fitted for the performance of such a task. He was a little afraid of Mr. Crawley, acknowledging tacitly to himself that the man had a power of ascendancy with which he would hardly be able to cope successfully. In old days he had once been rebuked by Mr. Crawley, and had been cowed by the rebuke; and though there was no touch of rancour in his heart on this account, no slightest remaining venom—but rather increased respect and friendship—still he was unable to overcome the remembrance of the scene in which the perpetual curate of Hogglestock had undoubtedly had the mastery of him. So, when two dogs have fought and one has conquered, the conquered dog will always show an unconscious submission to the conqueror.
He hailed a boy on the road as he drew near to the house, knowing that he would find no one at the parsonage to hold his horse for him, and was thus able without delay to walk through the garden and knock at the door. “Papa was not at home,” Jane said. “Papa was at the school. But papa could certainly be summoned.” She herself would run across to the school if Mr. Robarts would come in. So Mr. Robarts entered, and found Mrs. Crawley in the sitting-room. Mr. Crawley would be in directly, she said. And then, hurrying on to the subject with confused haste, in order that a word or two might be spoken before her husband came back, she expressed her thanks and his for the good things which had been sent to them at Christmas-tide.
“It’s old Lady Lufton’s doings,” said Mr. Robarts, trying to laugh the matter over.
“I knew that it came from Framley, Mr. Robarts, and I know how good you all are there. I have not written to thank Lady Lufton. I thought it better not to write. Your sister will understand why, if no one else does. But you will tell them from me, I am sure, that it was, as they intended, a comfort to us. Your sister knows too much of us for me to suppose that our great poverty can be a secret from her. And, as far as I am concerned, I do not now much care who knows it.”
“There is no disgrace in not being rich,” said Mr. Robarts.
“No; and the feeling of disgrace which does attach itself to being so poor as we are is deadened by the actual suffering which such poverty brings with it. At least it has become so with me. I am not ashamed to say that I am very grateful for what you all have done for us at Framley. But you must not say anything to him about that.”
“Of course I will not, Mrs. Crawley.”
“His spirit is higher than mine, I think, and he suffers more from the natural disinclination which we all have to receiving alms. Are you going to speak to him about the affair of the—the cheque, Mr. Robarts?”
“I am going to ask him to put his case into some lawyer’s hands.”
“Oh! I wish he would!”
“And will he not?”
“It is very kind of you, your coming to ask him, but—”
“Has he so strong an objection?”
“He will tell you that he has no money to pay a lawyer.”
“But, surely, if he were convinced that it was absolutely necessary for the vindication of his innocence, he would submit to charge himself with an expense so necessary, not only for himself, but for his family?”
“He will say it ought not to be necessary. You know, Mr. Robarts, that in some respects he is not like other men. You will not let what I say of him set you against him?”
“Indeed, no.”
“It is most kind of you to make the attempt. He will be here directly, and when he comes I will leave you together.”
While she was yet speaking his step was heard along the gravel-path, and he hurried into the room with quick steps. “I crave your pardon, Mr. Robarts,” he said, “that I should keep you waiting.” now Robarts had not been there ten minutes, and any such asking of pardon was hardly necessary. And, even in his own house, Mr. Crawley affected a mock humility, as though, either through his own debasement, or because of the superior station of the other clergyman, he were not entitled to put himself on an equal footing with his visitor. He would not have shaken hands with Mr. Robarts—intending to indicate that he did not presume to do so while the present accusation was hanging over him—had not the action been forced upon him. And then there was something of a protest in his manner, as though remonstrating against a thing that was unbecoming to him. Mr. Robarts, without analysing it, understood it all, and knew that behind the humility there was a crushing pride—a pride which, in all probability, would rise up and crush him before he could get himself out of the room again. It was, perhaps, after all, a question whether the man was not served rightly by the extremities to which he was reduced. There was something radically wrong within him, which had put him into antagonism with all the world, and which produced these never-dying grievances. There were many clergymen in the country with incomes as small as that which had fallen to the lot of Mr. Crawley, but they managed to get on without displaying their sores as Mr. Crawley displayed his. They did not wear their old rusty cloaks with all that ostentatious bitterness of poverty which seemed to belong to that garment when displayed on Mr. Crawley’s shoulders. Such, for a moment, were Mr. Robarts’ thoughts, and he almost repented himself of his present mission. But then he thought of Mrs. Crawley, and remembering that her sufferings were at any rate undeserved, determined that he would persevere.
Mrs. Crawley disappeared almost as soon as her husband appeared, and Mr. Robarts found himself standing in front of his friend, who remained fixed to the spot, with his hands folded over each other and his neck slightly bent forward, in token also of humility. “I regret,” he said, “that your horse should be left there, exposed to the inclemency of the weather; but—”
“The horse won’t mind it a bit,” said Mr. Robarts. “A parson’s horse is like a butcher’s, and knows he mustn’t be particular about waiting in the cold.”
“I never have had one myself,” said Mr. Crawley. Now Mr. Robarts had had more horses than one before now, and had been thought by some to have incurred greater expense than was befitting in his stable comfor
ts. The subject, therefore, was a sore one, and he was worried a little. “I just wanted to say a few words to you, Crawley,” he said, “and if I am not occupying too much of your time—”
“My time is altogether at your disposal. Will you be seated?”
Then Mr. Robarts sat down, and, swinging his hat between his legs, bethought himself how he should begin his work. “We had the archdeacon over at Framley the other day,” he said. “Of course you know the archdeacon?”
“I never had the advantage of any acquaintance with Dr. Grantly. Of course I know him well by name, and also personally—that is, by sight.”
“And by character?”
“Nay; I can hardly say so much as that. But I am aware that his name stands high with many of his order.”
“Exactly; that is what I mean. You know that his judgment is thought more of in clerical matters than that of any other clergyman in the county.”
“By a certain party, Mr. Robarts.”
“Well, yes. They don’t think much of him, I suppose, at the palace. But that won’t lower him in your estimation.”
“I by no means wish to derogate from Dr. Grantly’s high position in his own archdeaconry—to which, as you are aware, I am not attached—nor to criticise his conduct in any respect. It would be unbecoming in me to do so. But I cannot accept it as a point in a clergyman’s favour, that he should be opposed to his bishop.”
Now this was too much for Mr. Robarts. After all that he had heard of the visit paid by Mr. Crawley to the palace—of the venom displayed by Mrs. Proudie on that occasion, and of the absolute want of subordination to episcopal authority which Mr. Crawley himself was supposed to have shown—Mr. Robarts did feel it hard that his friend the archdeacon should be snubbed in this way because he was deficient in reverence for his bishop! “I thought, Crawley,” he said, “that you yourself were inclined to dispute orders coming to you from the palace. The world at least says as much concerning you.”
The Chronicles of Barsetshire Page 300
