The Chronicles of Barsetshire

by Anthony Trollope

“Miss Mary says as nobody didn’t steal it.”

  “That’s nonsense, Jane. It stands to reason as somebody had it as hadn’t ought to have had it. But I’m glad as anything as how that poor reverend gent’ll come off—I am. They tells me it’s weeks sometimes before a bit of butcher’s meat finds its way into his house.” Then the groom and the housemaid and the cook, one after another, took occasion to slip out of the back-door, and poor Jane, who had really been the owner of the news, was left alone to answer the bell.

  Miss Walker found the two Miss Prettymans sitting together over their accounts in the elder Miss Prettyman’s private room. And she could see at once by signs which were not unfamiliar to her that Miss Anne Prettyman was being scolded. It often happened that Miss Anne Prettyman was scolded, especially when the accounts were brought out upon the table. “Sister, they are illegible,” Mary Walker heard, as the servant opened the door for her.

  “I don’t think it’s quite so bad as that,” said Miss Anne, unable to restrain her defence. Then, as Mary entered the room, Miss Prettyman the elder laid her hands down on certain books and papers as though to hide them from profane eyes.

  “I am glad to see you, Mary,” said Miss Prettyman gravely.

  “I’ve brought such a piece of news,” said Mary. “I knew you’d be glad to hear it, so I ventured to disturb you.”

  “Is it good news?” said Anne Prettyman.

  “Very good news. Mr. Crawley is innocent.”

  Both the ladies sprang on to their legs. Even Miss Prettyman herself jumped up on to her legs. “No!” said Anne. “Your father has discovered it?” said Miss Prettyman.

  “Not exactly that. Mr. Toogood has come down from London to tell him. Mr. Toogood, you know, is Mr. Crawley’s cousin; and he is a lawyer, like papa.” It may be observed that ladies belonging to the families of solicitors always talk about lawyers, and never about attorneys or barristers.

  “And does Mr. Toogood say that Mr. Crawley is innocent?” asked Miss Prettyman.

  “He has heard it by a message from Mrs. Arabin. But you mustn’t mention this. You won’t, please, because papa asked me not. I told him that I should tell you.” Then, for the first time, the frown passed away entirely from Miss Prettyman’s face, and the papers and account books were pushed aside, as being of no moment. The news had been momentous enough to satisfy her. Mary continued her story almost in a whisper. “It was Mrs. Arabin who sent the cheque to Mr. Crawley. She says so herself. So that makes Mr. Crawley quite innocent. I am so glad.”

  “But isn’t it odd he didn’t say so?” said Miss Prettyman.

  “Nevertheless, it’s true.” said Mary.

  “Perhaps he forgot,” said Anne Prettyman.

  “Men don’t forget such things as that,” said the elder sister.

  “I really do think that Mr. Crawley could forget anything,” said the younger sister.

  “You may be sure it’s true,” said Mary Walker, “because papa said so.”

  “If he said so, it must be true,” said Miss Prettyman; “and I am rejoiced. I really am rejoiced. Poor man! Poor ill-used man! And nobody has ever believed that he has really been guilty, even though they may have thought that he spent the money without any proper right to it. And now he will get off. But, dear me, Mary, Mr. Smithe told me yesterday that he had already given up his living, and that Mr. Spooner, the minor canon, was trying to get it from the dean. But that was because Mr. Spooner and Mrs. Proudie had quarrelled; and as Mrs. Proudie is gone, Mr. Spooner very likely won’t want to move now.”

  “They’ll never go and put anybody into Hogglestock, Annabella, over Mr. Crawley’s head,” said Anne.

  “I didn’t say that they would. Surely I may be allowed to repeat what I hear, like another person, without being snapped up.”

  “I didn’t mean to snap you up, Annabella.”

  “You’re always snapping me up. But if this is true, I cannot say how glad I am. My poor Grace! Now, I suppose, there will be no difficulty, and Grace will become a great lady.” Then they discussed very minutely the chances of Grace Crawley’s promotion.

  John Walker, Mr. Winthrop, and several others of the chosen spirits of Silverbridge, were playing whist at a provincial club, which had established itself in the town, when the news was brought to them. Though Mr. Winthrop was the partner of the great Walker, and though John Walker was the great man’s son, I fear that the news reached their ears in but an underhand sort of way. As for the great man himself, he never went near the club, preferring his slippers and tea at home. The Walkerian groom, rushing up the street to the “George and Vulture”, paused a moment to tell his tidings to the club porter; from the club porter it was whispered respectfully to the Silverbridge apothecary, who, by special grace, was a member of the club—and was by him repeated with much cautious solemnity over the card-table. “Who told you that, Balsam?” said John Walker, throwing down his cards.

  “I’ve just heard it,” said Balsam.

  “I don’t believe it,” said John.

  “I shouldn’t wonder if it’s true,” said Winthrop. “I always said that something would turn up.”

  “Will you bet three to one he is not found guilty?” said John Walker.

  “Done,” said Winthrop; “in pounds.” That morning the odds in the club against the event had been only two to one. But as the matter was discussed, the men in the club began to believe the tidings, and before he went home, John Walker would have been glad to hedge his bet on any terms. After he had spoken to his father, he gave his money up for lost.

  But Mr. Walker—the great Walker—had more to do that night before his son came home from the club. He and Mr. Toogood agreed that it would be right that they should see Dr. Tempest at once, and they went over together to the rectory. It was past ten at this time, and they found the doctor almost in the act of putting out the candles for the night. “I could not but come to you, doctor,” said Mr. Walker, “with the news my friend has brought. Mrs. Arabin gave the cheque to Crawley. Here is a telegram from her saying so.” And the telegram was handed to the doctor.

  He stood perfectly silent for a few minutes, reading it over and over again. “I see it all,” he said, when he spoke at last. “I see it all now; and I must own I was never before so much puzzled in my life.”

  “I own I can’t see why she should have given him Mr. Soames’s cheque,” said Mr. Walker.

  “I can’t say where she got it, and I own I don’t much care,” said Dr. Tempest. “But I don’t doubt but what she gave it him without telling the dean, and that Crawley thought it came from the dean. I’m very glad. I am, indeed, very glad. I do not know that I ever pitied a man so much in my life as I have pitied Mr. Crawley.”

  “It must have been a hard case when it has moved him,” said Mr. Walker to Mr. Toogood as they left the clergyman’s house; and then the Silverbridge attorney saw the attorney from London home to his inn.

  It was the general opinion at Silverbridge that the news from Venice ought to be communicated to the Crawleys by Major Grantly. Mary Walker had expressed this opinion very strongly, and her mother had agreed with her. Miss Prettyman also felt that poetical justice, or, at least, the romance of justice, demanded this; and, as she told her sister Anne after Mary Walker left her, she was of opinion that such an arrangement might tend to make things safe. “I do think he is an honest man and a fine fellow,” said Miss Prettyman; “but, my dear, you know what the proverb says, ‘There’s many a slip ‘twixt the cup and the lip.’” Miss Prettyman thought than anything which might be done to prevent a slip ought to be done. The idea that the pleasant task of taking the news out to Hogglestock ought to be confided to Major Grantly was very general; but then Mr. Walker was of the opinion that the news ought not to be taken to Hogglestock at all till something more certain than the telegram had reached them. Early on the following morning the two lawyers again met, and it was arranged between them that the London lawyer should go over at once to Barchester, and that the Silverbridge
lawyer should see Major Grantly. Mr. Toogood was still of the opinion that with due diligence something might yet be learned as to the cheque by inquiry among the denizens of “The Dragon of Wantly”; and his opinion to this effect was stronger than ever when he learned from Mr. Walker that the “Dragon of Wantly” belonged to Mrs. Arabin.

  Mr. Walker, after breakfast, had himself driven up in his open carriage to Cosby Lodge, and, as he entered the gates, observed that the auctioneer’s bills as to the sale had been pulled down. The Mr. Walkers of the world know everything, and our Mr. Walker had quite understood that the major was leaving Cosby Lodge because of some misunderstanding with his father. The exact nature of the misunderstanding he did not know, even though he was Mr. Walker, but had little doubt that it referred in some way to Grace Crawley. If the archdeacon’s objection to Grace arose from the imputation against the father, that objection would now be removed, but the abolition of the posters could not as yet have been owing to any such cause as that. Mr. Walker found the major at the gate of the farmyard attached to Cosby Lodge, and perceived that at that very moment he was engaged in superintending the abolition of sundry other auctioneer’s bills from sundry posts. “What is all this about?” said Mr. Walker, greeting the major. “Is there to be no sale after all?”

  “It has been postponed,” said the major.

  “Postponed for good, I hope? Bill to be read again this day six months!” said Mr. Walker.

  “I rather think not. But circumstances have induced me to have it put off.”

  Mr. Walker had got out of the carriage and had taken Major Grantly aside. “Just come a little further,” he said; “I’ve something special to tell you. News reached me last night which will clear Mr. Crawley altogether. We know now where he got the cheque.”

  “You don’t tell me so!”

  “Yes, I do. And though the news has reached us in such a way that we cannot act upon it till it’s confirmed, I do not in the least doubt it.”

  “And how did he get it?”

  “You cannot guess?”

  “Not in the least,” said the major; “unless, after all, Soames gave it to him.”

  “Soames did not give it to him, but Mrs. Arabin did.”

  “Mrs. Arabin?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Arabin.”

  “Not the dean?”

  “No, not the dean. What we know is this, that your aunt has telegraphed to Crawley’s cousin, Toogood, to say that she gave Crawley the cheque, and that she has written to your father about it at length. We do not like to tell Crawley till that letter has been received. It is so easy, you know, to misunderstand a telegram, and the wrong copying of a word may make such a mistake!”

  “When was it received?”

  “Toogood received it in London only yesterday morning. Your father will not get his letter, as I calculate, till the day after to-morrow. But, perhaps, you had better go over and see him, and prepare him for it. Toogood has gone to Barchester this morning.” To this proposition Grantly made no immediate answer. He could not but remember the terms on which he had left his father; and though he had, most unwillingly, pulled down the auctioneer’s bills, in compliance with his mother’s last prayer to him—and, indeed, had angrily told the auctioneer to send him his bill when the auctioneer had demurred to these proceedings—nevertheless he was hardly prepared to discuss the matter of Mr. Crawley with his father in pleasant words—in words which should be full of rejoicing. It was a great thing for him, Henry Grantly, that Mr. Crawley should be innocent, and he did rejoice; but he had intended his father to understand that he meant to persevere, whether Mr. Crawley were innocent or guilty, and thus he would now lose an opportunity for establishing his obstinacy—an opportunity which had not been without a charm for him. He must console himself as best he might with the returning prospect of assured prosperity, and with his renewed hopes as to the Plumstead foxes! “We think, major, that when the time comes you ought to be the bearer of the news to Hogglestock,” said Mr. Walker. Then the major did undertake to convey the news to Hogglestock, but he made no promise as to going over to Plumstead.

  CHAPTER LXXII

  Mr. Toogood at “The Dragon of Wantly”

  In accordance with his arrangement with Mr. Walker, Mr. Toogood went over to Barchester early in the morning and put himself up at “The Dragon of Wantly”. He now knew the following facts: that Mr. Soames, when he lost the cheque, had had with him one of the servants from that inn—that the man who had been with Mr. Soames had gone to New Zealand—that the cheque had found its way into the hands of Mrs. Arabin, and that Mrs. Arabin was the owner of the inn in question. So much he believed to be within his knowledge, and if his knowledge should prove to be correct, his work would be done as far as Mr. Crawley was concerned. If Mr. Crawley had not stolen the cheque, and if that could be proved, it would be a question of no great moment to Mr. Toogood who had stolen it. But he was a sportsman in his own line who liked to account for his own fox. As he was down at Barchester, he thought that he might as well learn how the cheque had got into Mrs. Arabin’s hands. No doubt that for her own personal possession of it she would be able to account on her return. Probably such account would be given in her first letter home. But it might be well that he should be prepared with any small circumstantial details which he might be able to pick up at the inn.

  He reached Barchester before breakfast, and in ordering his tea and toast, reminded the old waiter with the dirty towel of his former acquaintance with him. “I remember you, sir,” said the old waiter. “I remember you very well. You was asking questions about the cheque which Mr. Soames lost afore Christmas.” Mr. Toogood certainly had asked one question on the subject. He had inquired whether a certain man who had gone to New Zealand had been the post-boy who accompanied Mr. Soames when the cheque was lost; and the waiter had professed to know nothing about Mr. Soames or the cheque. He now perceived at once that the gist of the question had remained on the old man’s mind, and that he was recognised as being in some way connected with the lost money.

  “Did I? Ah, yes; I think I did. And I think you told me that he was the man?”

  “No, sir; I never told you that.”

  “Then you told me that he wasn’t.”

  “Nor I didn’t tell you that neither,” said the waiter angrily.

  “Then what the devil did you tell me?” To this further question the waiter sulkily declined to give any answer, and soon afterwards left the room. Toogood, as soon as he had done his breakfast, rang the bell, and the same man appeared. “Will you tell Mr. Stringer that I should be glad to see him if he’s disengaged,” said Mr. Toogood. “I know he’s bad with the gout, and therefore if he’ll allow me, I’ll go to him instead of his coming to me.” Mr. Stringer was the landlord of the inn. The waiter hesitated a moment, and then declared that to the best of his belief his master was not down. He would go and see. Toogood, however, would not wait for that; but rising quickly and passing the waiter, crossed the hall from the coffee-room, and entered what was called the bar. The bar was a small room connected with the hall by a large open window, at which orders for rooms were given and cash was paid, and glasses of beer were consumed—and a good deal of miscellaneous conversation was carried on. The barmaid was here at the window, and there was also, in a corner of the room, a man at a desk with a red nose. Toogood knew that the man at the desk with the red nose was Mr. Stringer’s clerk. So much he had learned in his former rummaging about the inn. And he also remembered at this moment that he had observed the man with the red nose standing under a narrow archway in the close as he was coming out of the deanery, on the occasion of his visit to Mr. Harding. It had not occurred to him then that the man with the red nose was watching him, but it did occur to him now that the man with the red nose had been there, under the arch, with the express purpose of watching him on that occasion. Mr. Toogood passed quickly through the bar into an inner parlour, in which was sitting Mr. Stringer, the landlord, propped among his cushions. Toogood, as he entered t
he hotel, had seen Mr. Stringer so placed, through the two doors, which at that moment had both happened to be open. He knew therefore that his old friend the waiter had not been quite true to him in suggesting that his master was not as yet down. As Toogood cast a glance of his eye on the man with the red nose, he told himself the old story of the apparition under the archway.

  “Mr. Stringer,” said Mr. Toogood to the landlord, “I hope I’m not intruding.”

  “Oh dear, no, sir,” said the forlorn man. “Nobody ever intrudes coming in here. I’m always happy to see gentlemen—only, mostly, I’m so bad with the gout.”

  “Have you got a sharp touch of it just now, Mr. Stringer?”

  “Not just to-day, sir. I’ve been a little easier since Saturday. The worst of this burst is over. But Lord bless you, sir, it don’t leave me—not for a single fortnight at a time, now; it don’t. And it ain’t what I drink, nor it ain’t what I eat.”

  “Constitutional, I suppose?” said Toogood.

  “Look here, sir”; and Stringer showed his visitor the chalk stones in all his knuckles. “They say I’m a mass of chalk. I sometimes think they’ll break me up to mark the scores behind my own door with.” And Mr. Stringer laughed at his own wit.

  Mr. Toogood laughed too. He laughed loud and cheerily. And then he asked a sudden question, keeping his eye as he did so upon a little square open window, which communicated between the landlord’s private room and the bar. Through this small aperture he could see as he stood a portion of the hat worn by the man with the red nose. Since he had been in the room with the landlord, the man with the red nose had moved his head twice, on each occasion drawing himself closer into his corner; but Mr. Toogood, by moving also, had still contrived to keep a morsel of the hat in sight. He laughed cheerily at the landlord’s joke, and then he asked a sudden question—looking well at the morsel of the hat as he did so. “Mr. Stringer,” said he, “how do you pay your rent, and to whom do you pay it?” There was immediately a jerk in the hat, and then it disappeared. Toogood, stepping to the open door, saw that the red-nosed clerk had taken his hat off and was very busy at his accounts.