“How do I pay my rent?” said Mr. Stringer, the landlord. “Well, sir, since this cursed gout has been so bad, it’s hard enough to pay it at all sometimes. You ain’t sent here to look for it, sir, are you?”
“Not I,” said Toogood. “It was only a chance question.” He felt that he had nothing more to do with Mr. Stringer, the landlord. Mr. Stringer, the landlord, knew nothing about Mr. Soames’s cheque. “What’s the name of your clerk?” said he.
“The name of my clerk?” said Mr. Stringer. “Why do you want to know the name of my clerk?”
“Does he ever pay your rent for you?”
“Well, yes; he does, at times. He pays it into the bank for the lady as owns this house. Is there any reason for your asking these questions, sir. It isn’t usual, you know, for a stranger, sir.”
Toogood the whole of this time was standing with his eye upon the red-nosed man, and the red-nosed man could not move. The red-nosed man heard all the questions and the landlord’s answers, and could not even pretend that he did not hear them. “I am my cousin’s clerk,” said he, putting on his hat, and coming up to Mr. Toogood with a swagger. “My name is Dan Stringer, and I’m Mr. John Stringer’s cousin. I’ve lived with Mr. John Stringer for twelve year and more, and I’m a’most as well known in Barchester as himself. Have you anything to say to me, sir?”
“Well, yes; I have,” said Toogood.
“I believe you’re one of them attorneys from London?” said Mr. Dan Stringer.
“That’s true. I am an attorney from London.”
“I hope there’s nothing wrong?” said the gouty man, trying to get off his chair, but not succeeding. “If there is anything wronger than usual, Dan, do tell me. Is there anything wrong, sir?” and the landlord appealed piteously to Mr. Toogood.
“Never you mind, John,” said Dan. “You keep yourself quiet, and don’t answer none of his questions. He’s one of them low sort, he is. I know him. I knowed him for what he is directly I saw him. Ferreting about—that’s his game; to see if there’s anything to be got.”
“But what is he ferreting here for?” said Mr. John Stringer.
“I’m ferreting for Mr. Soames’s cheque for twenty pounds,” said Mr. Toogood.
“That’s the cheque that the parson stole,” said Dan Stringer. “He’s to be tried for it at the ‘sizes.”
“You’ve heard about Mr. Soames and his cheque, and about Mr. Crawley, I daresay?” said Mr. Toogood.
“I’ve heard a deal about them,” said the landlord.
“And so, I daresay, have you?” said Toogood, turning to Dan Stringer. But Dan Stringer did not seem inclined to carry on the conversation any further. When he was hardly pressed, he declared that he just had heard that there was some parson in trouble about a sum of money; but that he knew no more about it than that. He didn’t know whether it was a cheque or a note that the parson had taken, and had never been sufficiently interested in the matter to make any inquiry.
“But you’ve just said that Mr. Soames’s cheque was the cheque the parson stole,” said the astonished landlord, turning with open eyes upon his cousin.
“You be blowed,” said Dan Stringer, the clerk, to Mr. John Stringer, the landlord; and then walked out of the room back to the bar.
“I understand nothing about it—nothing at all,” said the gouty man.
“I understand nearly all about it,” said Mr. Toogood, following the red-nosed clerk. There was no necessity that he should trouble the landlord any further. He left the room, and went through the bar, and as he passed out along the hall, he found Dan Stringer with his hat on talking to the waiter. The waiter immediately pulled himself up, and adjusted his dirty napkin under his arm, after the fashion of waiters, and showed that he intended to be civil to the customers of the house. But he of the red nose cocked his hat, and looked with insolence at Mr. Toogood, and defied him. “There’s nothing I do hate so much as them low-bred Old Bailey attorneys,” said Mr. Dan Stringer to the waiter, in a voice intended to reach Mr. Toogood’s ears. Then Mr. Toogood told himself that Dan Stringer was not the thief himself, and that it might be very difficult to prove that Dan had even been the receiver of stolen goods. He had, however, no doubt in his own mind but that such was the case.
He first went to the police office, and there explained his business. Nobody at the police office pretended to forget Mr. Soames’s cheque, or Mr. Crawley’s position. The constable went so far as to swear that there wasn’t a man, woman, or child in all Barchester who was not talking of Mr. Crawley at that very moment. Then Mr. Toogood went with the constable to the private house of the mayor, and had a little conversation with the mayor. “Not guilty!” said the mayor, with incredulity, when he first heard the news about Crawley. But when he heard Mr. Toogood’s story, or as much of it as it was necessary that he should hear, he yielded reluctantly. “Dear, dear!” he said. “I’d have bet anything ‘twas he who stole it.” And after that he mayor was quite sad. Only let us think what a comfortable excitement it would create throughout England if it was surmised that an archbishop had forged a deed; and how England would lose when it was discovered that the archbishop was innocent! As the archbishop and his forgery would be to England, so was Mr. Crawley and the cheque for twenty pounds to Barchester and its mayor. Nevertheless, the mayor promised his assistance to Mr. Toogood.
Mr. Toogood, still neglecting his red-nosed friend, went next to the deanery, hoping that he might again see Mr. Harding. Mr. Harding was, he was told, too ill to be seen. Mr. Harding, Mrs. Baxter said, could never be seen now by strangers, nor yet by friends, unless they were very old friends. “There’s been a deal of change since you were here last, sir. I remember your coming, sir. You were talking to Mr. Harding about the poor clergyman as is to be tried.” He did not stop to tell Mrs. Baxter the whole story of Mr. Crawley’s innocence; but having learned that a message had been received to say that Mrs. Arabin would be home on the next Tuesday—this being Friday—he took his leave of Mrs. Baxter. His next visit was to Mr. Soames, who lived three miles out in the country.
He found it very difficult to convince Mr. Soames. Mr. Soames was more staunch in his belief of Mr. Crawley’s guilt than anyone whom Toogood had yet encountered. “I never took the cheque out of his house,” said Mr. Soames. “But you have not stated that on oath,” said Mr. Toogood. “No,” rejoined the other; “and I never will. I can’t swear to it; but yet I’m sure of it.” He acknowledged that he had been driven by a man named Scuttle, and that Scuttle might have picked up the cheque, if it had been dropped in the gig. But the cheque had not been dropped in the gig. The cheque had been dropped in Mr. Crawley’s house. “Why did he say then that I paid it to him?” said Mr. Soames, when Mr. Toogood spoke confidently of Crawley’s innocence. “Ah, why indeed?” answered Toogood. “If he had not been fool enough to do that, we should have been saved all this trouble. All the same, he did not steal your money, Mr. Soames; and Jem Scuttle did steal it. Unfortunately, Jem Scuttle is in New Zealand by this time.” “Of course, it is possible,” said Mr. Soames, as he bowed Mr. Toogood out. Mr. Soames did not like Mr. Toogood.
That evening a gentleman with a red nose asked at the Barchester station for a second-class ticket for London by the up night mail-train. He was well-known at the station, and the station-master made some little inquiry. “All the way to London to-night, Mr. Stringer?” he said.
“Yes—all the way,” said the red-nosed man, sulkily.
“I don’t think you’d better go to London to-night, Mr. Stringer,” said a tall man, stepping out of the door of the booking-office. “I think you’d better come back with me to Barchester. I do indeed.” There was some little argument on the occasion; but the stranger, who was a detective policeman, carried his point, and Mr. Dan Stringer did return to Barchester.
CHAPTER LXXIII
There is Comfort at Plumstead
Henry Grantly had written the following short letter to Mrs. Grantly when he had made up his mind to pull down the a
uctioneer’s bills.
DEAR MOTHER—
I have postponed fthe sale, not liking to refuse you anything. As far as I can see, I shall be forced to leave Cosby Lodge, as I certainly shall do all I can to make Grace Crawley my wife. I say this that there may be no misunderstanding with my father. The auctioneer has promised to have the bills removed.
Your affectionate son,
HENRY GRANTLY.
This had been written by the major on the Friday before Mr. Walker had brought up to him the tidings of Mr. Toogood and Mrs. Arabin’s solution of the Crawley difficulty; but it did not reach Plumstead till the following morning. Mrs. Grantly immediately took the glad news about the sale to her husband—not of course showing him the letter, being far too wise for that, and giving him credit for being too wise to ask for it. “Henry has arranged with the auctioneer,” she said joyfully; “and the bills have been all pulled down.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve just heard from him. He has told me so. Come, my dear, let me have the pleasure of hearing you say that things shall be pleasant again between you and him. He has yielded.”
“I don’t see much yielding in it.”
“He has done what you wanted. What more can he do?”
“I want him to come over here, and take an interest in things, and not treat me as though I were nobody.” Within an hour of this the major arrived at Plumstead, laden with the story of Mrs. Arabin and the cheque, and of Mr. Crawley’s innocence—laden not only with such tidings as he had received from Mr. Walker, but also with further details, which he had received from Mr. Toogood. For he had come through Barchester, and had seen Mr. Toogood on his way. This was on the Saturday morning, and he had breakfasted with Mr. Toogood at “The Dragon of Wantly”. Mr. Toogood had told him of his suspicions—how the red-nosed man had been stopped and had been summoned as a witness for Mr. Crawley’s trial—and how he was now under the surveillance of the police. Grantly had not cared very much about the red-nosed man, confining his present solicitude to the question whether Grace Crawley’s father would certainly be shown to have been innocent of the theft. “There’s not a doubt about it, major,” said Mr. Toogood; “not a doubt on earth. But we’d better be a little quiet till your aunt comes home—just a little quiet. She’ll be here in a day or two, and I won’t budge till she comes.” In spite of his desire for quiescence Mr. Toogood consented to a revelation being at once made to the archdeacon and Mrs. Grantly. “And I’ll tell you what, major; as soon as ever Mrs. Arabin is here, and has given us her own word to act on, you and I will go over to Hogglestock and astonish them. I should like to go myself, because, you see, Mrs. Crawley is my cousin, and we have taken a little trouble about this matter.” To this the major assented; but he altogether declined to assist in Mr. Toogood’s speculations respecting the unfortunate Dan Stringer. It was agreed between them that for the present no visit should be made to the palace, as it was thought that Mr. Thumble had better be allowed to do the Hogglestock duties on the next Sunday. As matters went, however, Mr. Thumble did not do so. He had paid his last visit to Hogglestock.
It may be as well to explain here that the unfortunate Mr. Snapper was constrained to go out to Hogglestock on the Sunday which was now approaching—which fell out as follows. It might be all very well for Mr. Toogood to arrange that he would not tell this person or that person of the news which he had brought down from London; but as he had told various people in Silverbridge, as he had told Mr. Soames, and as he had told the police at Barchester, of course the tale found its way to the palace. Mr. Thumble heard it, and having come by this time thoroughly to hate Hogglestock and all that belonged to it, he pleaded to Mr. Snapper that this report offered ample reason why he need not again visit that detestable parish. Mr. Snapper did not see it in the same light. “You may be sure Mr. Crawley will not get into the pulpit after his resignation, Mr. Thumble,” said he.
“His resignation means nothing,” said Thumble.
“It means a great deal,” said Snapper; “and the duties must be provided for.”
“I won’t provide for them,” said Thumble; “and so you may tell the bishop.” In these days Mr. Thumble was very angry with the bishop, for the bishop had not yet seen him since the death of Mrs. Proudie.
Mr. Snapper had no alternative but to go to the bishop. The bishop in these days was very mild to those whom he saw, given but to few words, and a little astray—as though he had had one of his limbs cut off—as Mr. Snapper expressed it to Mrs. Snapper. “I shouldn’t wonder if he felt as though all his limbs were cut off,” said Mrs. Snapper; “you must give him time, and he’ll come round by-and-by.” I am inclined to think that Mrs. Snapper’s opinion of the bishop’s feelings and condition was correct. In his difficulty respecting Hogglestock and Mr. Thumble, Mr. Snapper went to the bishop, and spoke perhaps a little too harshly of Mr. Thumble.
“I think, upon the whole, Snapper, that you had better go yourself,” said the bishop.
“Do you think so, my lord?” said Snapper. “It will be inconvenient.”
“Everything is inconvenient; but you’d better go. And look here, Snapper, if I were you, I wouldn’t say anything out at Hogglestock about the cheque. We don’t know what it may come to yet.” Mr. Snapper, with a heavy heart, left his patron, not at all liking the task that was before him. But his wife encouraged him to be obedient. He was the owner of a one-horse carriage, and the work was not, therefore, so hard on him as it would have been and had been to poor Mr. Thumble. And, moreover, his wife promised to go with him. Mr. Snapper and Mrs. Snapper did go over to Hogglestock, and the duty was done. Mrs. Snapper spoke a word or two to Mrs. Crawley, and Mr. Snapper spoke a word or two to Mr. Crawley; but not a word was said about the news as to Mr. Soames’s cheque, which were now almost current in Barchester. Indeed, no whisper about it had as yet reached Hogglestock.
“One word with you, reverend sir,” said Mr. Crawley to the chaplain, as the latter was coming out of the church, “as to the parish work, sir, during the week—I should be glad if you would favour me with your opinion.”
“About what, Mr. Crawley?”
“Whether you think that I may be allowed, without scandal, to visit the sick—and to give instruction in the school.”
“Surely—surely, Mr. Crawley. Why not?”
“Mr. Thumble gave me to understand that the bishop was very urgent that I should interfere in no way in the ministrations of the parish. Twice did he enjoin on me that I should not interfere—unnecessarily, as it seemed to me.”
“Quite unnecessary,” said Mr. Snapper. “And the bishop will be obliged to you, Mr. Crawley, if you’ll just see that the things go on all straight.”
“I wish it were possible to know with accuracy what his idea of straightness is,” said Mr. Crawley to his wife. “It may be that things are straight to him when they are buried as it were out of sight, and put away without trouble. I hope it be not so with the bishop.” When he went into his school and remembered—as he did remember through every minute of his teaching—that he was to receive no portion of the poor stipend which was allotted for the clerical duties of the parish, he told himself that there was gross injustice in the way in which things were being made straight at Hogglestock.
But we must go back to the major and to the archdeacon at Plumstead—in which comfortable parish things were generally made straight more easily than at Hogglestock. Henry Grantly went over from Barchester to Plumstead in a gig from “The Dragon”, and made his way at once into his father’s study. The archdeacon was seated there with sundry manuscripts before him, and with one half-finished manuscript—as was his wont on every Saturday morning. “Hallo, Harry,” he said. “I didn’t expect you in the least.” It was barely an hour since he had told Mrs. Grantly that his complaint against his son was that he wouldn’t come and make himself comfortable at the rectory.
“Father,” said he, giving the archdeacon his hand, “you have heard nothing yet about Mr. Crawley?”
“No,” said the archdeacon, jumping up; “nothing new—what is it?” Many ideas about Mr. Crawley at that moment flitted across the archdeacon’s mind. Could it be that the unfortunate man had committed suicide, overcome by his troubles?
“It has all come out. He got the cheque from my aunt.”
“From your aunt Eleanor?”
“Yes; from my aunt Eleanor. She has telegraphed over from Venice to say that she gave the identical cheque to Crawley. That is all we know at present—except that she has written an account of the matter to you, and that she will be here herself as quick as she can come.”
“Who got the message, Henry?”
“Crawley’s lawyer—a fellow named Toogood, a cousin of his wife’s—a very decent fellow,” added the major, remembering how necessary it was that he should reconcile his father to all the Crawley belongings. “He’s to be over here on Monday, and then will arrange what is to be done.”
“Done in what way, Henry?”
“There’s a great deal to be done yet. Crawley does not know himself at this moment how the cheque got into his hands. He must be told, and something must be settled about the living. They’ve taken the living away from him among them. And then the indictment must be quashed, or something of that kind done. Toogood has got hold of the scoundrel at Barchester who really stole the cheque from Soames—or thinks he has. It’s that Dan Stringer.”
“He’s got hold of a regular scamp, then. I never knew any good of Dan Stringer,” said the archdeacon.
Then Mrs. Grantly was told, and the whole story was repeated again, with many expressions of commiseration in reference to all the Crawleys. The archdeacon did not join in these at first, being rather shy on that head. It was very hard for him to have to speak to his son about the Crawleys as though they were people in all respects estimable and well-conducted, and satisfactory. Mrs. Grantly understood this so well, that every now and then she said some half-laughing word respecting Mr. Crawley’s peculiarities, feeling that in this way she might ease her husband’s difficulties. “He must be the oddest man that ever lived,” said Mrs. Grantly, “not to have known where he got the cheque.” The archdeacon shook his head, and rubbed his hands as he walked about the room. “I suppose too much learning has upset him,” said the archdeacon. “They say he’s not very good at talking English, but put him on in Greek and he never stops.”
The Chronicles of Barsetshire Page 364
