The Last Chronicle of Barset

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XLII.

  MR. TOOGOOD TRAVELS PROFESSIONALLY.

  Mr. Toogood paid another visit to Barsetshire, in order that he mightget a little further information which he thought would be necessarybefore despatching his nephew upon the traces of Dean Arabin andhis wife. He went down to Barchester after his work was over byan evening train, and put himself up at "The Dragon of Wantly,"intending to have the whole of the next day for his work. Mr. Walkerhad asked him to come and take a return pot-luck dinner with Mrs.Walker at Silverbridge; and this he had said that he would do. Afterhaving "rummaged about for tidings" in Barchester, as he called it,he would take the train for Silverbridge, and would get back totown in time for business on the third day. "One day won't be much,you know," he said to his partner, as he made half an apology forabsenting himself on business which was not to be in any degreeremunerative. "That sort of thing is very well when one does itwithout any expense," said Crump. "So it is," said Toogood; "and theexpense won't make it any worse." He had made up his mind, and it wasnot probable that anything Mr. Crump might say would deter him.

  He saw John Eames before he started. "You'll be ready this day week,will you?" John Eames promised that he would. "It will cost you someforty pounds, I should say. By George,--if you have to go on toJerusalem, it will cost you more." In answer to this, Johnny pleadedthat it would be as good as any other tour to him. He would see theworld. "I'll tell you what," said Toogood; "I'll pay half. Only youmustn't tell Crump. And it will be quite as well not to tell Maria."But Johnny would hear nothing of this scheme. He would pay the entirecost of his own journey. He had lots of money, he said, and wouldlike nothing better. "Then I'll run down," said Toogood, "and rummageup what tidings I can. As for writing to the dean, what's the good ofwriting to a man when you don't know where he is? Business lettersalways lie at hotels for two months, and then come back with doublepostage. From all I can hear, you'll stumble on her before you findhim. If we do nothing else but bring him back, it will be a greatthing to have the support of such a friend in the court. A Barchesterjury won't like to find a man guilty who is hand-and-glove with thedean."

  Mr. Toogood reached the "Dragon" about eleven o'clock, and allowedthe boots to give him a pair of slippers and a candlestick. Buthe would not go to bed just at that moment. He would go into thecoffee-room first, and have a glass of hot brandy-and-water. So thehot brandy-and-water was brought to him, and a cigar, and as hesmoked and drank he conversed with the waiter. The man was a waiterof the ancient class, a gray-haired waiter, with seedy clothes, anda dirty towel under his arm; not a dapper waiter, with black shinyhair, and dressed like a guest for a dinner-party. There are twodistinct classes of waiters, and as far as I have been able toperceive, the special status of the waiter in question cannot bedecided by observation of the class of waiter to which he belongs. Insuch a town as Barchester you may find the old waiter with the dirtytowel in the head inn, or in the second-class inn, and so you maythe dapper waiter. Or you may find both in each, and not know whichis senior waiter and which junior waiter. But for service I alwaysprefer the old waiter with the dirty towel, and I find it more easyto satisfy him in the matter of sixpences when my relations with theinn come to an end.

  "Have you been here long, John?" said Mr. Toogood.

  "A goodish many years, sir."

  "So I thought, by the look of you. One can see that you belong in away to the place. You do a good deal of business here, I suppose, atthis time of the year?"

  "Well, sir, pretty fair. The house ain't what it used to be, sir."

  "Times are bad at Barchester,--are they?"

  "I don't know much about the times. It's the people is worse than thetimes, I think. They used to like to have a little bit of dinner nowand again at a hotel;--and a drop of something to drink after it."

  "And don't they like it now?"

  "I think they like it well enough, but they don't do it. I supposeit's their wives as don't let 'em come out and enjoy theirselves.There used to be the Goose and Glee club;--that was once a month.They've gone and clean done away with themselves,--that club has.There's old Bumpter in the High Street,--he's the last of the oldGeese. They died off, you see, and when Mr. Biddle died they wouldn'tchoose another president. A club for having dinner, sir, ain'tnothing without a president."

  "I suppose not."

  "And there's the Freemasons. They must meet, you know, sir, incourse, because of the dooties. But if you'll believe me, sir, theydon't so much as wet their whistles. They don't indeed. It alwaysused to be a supper, and that was once a month. Now they pays arent for the use of the room! Who is to get a living out of that,sir?--not in the way of a waiter, that is."

  "If that's the way things are going on I suppose the servants leavetheir places pretty often?"

  "I don't know about that, sir. A man may do a deal worse than 'TheDragon of Wantly.' Them as goes away to better themselves, oftenworses themselves, as I call it. I've seen a good deal of that."

  "And you stick to the old shop?"

  "Yes, sir; I've been here fifteen year, I think it is. There's a manygoes away, as doesn't go out of their own heads, you know, sir."

  "They get the sack, you mean?"

  "There's words between them and master,--or more likely, missus.That's where it is. Servants is so foolish. I often tell 'em howwrong folks are to say that soft words butter no parsnips, and hardwords break no bones."

  "I think you've lost some of the old hands here since this time lastyear, John?"

  "You knows the house then, sir?"

  "Well;--I've been here before."

  "There was four of them went, I think it's just about twelve monthsback, sir."

  "There was a man in the yard I used to know, and last time I was downhere, I found that he was gone."

  "There was one of 'em out of the yard, and two out of the house.Master and them had got to very high words. There was poor Scuttle,who had been post-boy at 'The Compasses' before he came here."

  "He went away to New Zealand, didn't he?"

  "B'leve he did, sir; or to some foreign parts. And Anne, as wasunder-chambermaid here; she went with him, fool as she was. They gottheirselves married and went off, and he was well nigh as old as me.But seems he'd saved a little money, and that goes a long way withany girl."

  "Was he the man who drove Mr. Soames that day the cheque was lost?"Mr. Toogood asked this question perhaps a little too abruptly. At anyrate he obtained no answer to it. The waiter said he knew nothingabout Mr. Soames, or the cheque, and the lawyer suspecting that thewaiter was suspecting him, finished his brandy-and-water and went tobed.

  Mr. Toogood and the old Waiter.]

  Early on the following morning he observed that he was speciallyregarded by a shabby-looking man, dressed in black, but in a blacksuit that was very old, with a red nose, whom he had seen in thehotel on the preceding day; and he learned that this man was a cousinof the landlord,--one Dan Stringer,--who acted as a clerk in thehotel bar. He took an opportunity also of saying a word to Mr.Stringer the landlord,--whom he found to be a somewhat forlorn andgouty individual, seated on cushions in a little parlour behind thebar. After breakfast he went out, and having twice walked round theCathedral close and inspected the front of the palace and looked upat the windows of the prebendaries' houses, he knocked at the door ofthe deanery. The dean and Mrs. Arabin were on the Continent, he wastold. Then he asked for Mr. Harding, having learned that Mr. Hardingwas Mrs. Arabin's father, and that he lived at the deanery. Mr.Harding was at home, but was not very well, the servant said. Mr.Toogood, however, persevered, sending up his card, and saying that hewished to have a few minutes' conversation with Mr. Harding on veryparticular business. He wrote a word upon his card before giving itto the servant,--"about Mr. Crawley." In a few minutes he was showninto the library, and had hardly time, while looking at the shelves,to remember what Mr. Crawley had said of his anger at the beautifulbindings, before an old man, very thin and very pale, shuffled intothe room. He stooped a good deal, and hi
s black clothes were veryloose about his shrunken limbs. He was not decrepit, nor did he seemto be one who had advanced to extreme old age; but yet he shuffledrather than walked, hardly raising his feet from the ground. Mr.Toogood, as he came forward to meet him, thought that he had neverseen a sweeter face. There was very much of melancholy in it, of thatsoft sadness of age which seems to acknowledge, and in some sort toregret, the waning oil of life; but the regret to be read in suchfaces has in it nothing of the bitterness of grief; there is norepining that the end has come, but simply a touch of sorrow that somuch that is dear must be left behind. Mr. Harding shook hands withhis visitor, and invited him to sit down, and then seated himself,folding his hands together over his knees, and he said a few words ina very low voice as to the absence of his daughter and of the dean.

  "I hope you will excuse my troubling you," said Mr. Toogood.

  "It is no trouble at all,--if I could be of any use. I don't knowwhether it is proper, but may I ask whether you call as,--as,--as afriend of Mr. Crawley's?"

  "Altogether as a friend, Mr. Harding."

  "I'm glad of that; though of course I am well aware that thegentlemen engaged on the prosecution must do their duty. Still,--Idon't know,--somehow I would rather not hear them speak of this poorgentleman before the trial."

  "You know Mr. Crawley, then?"

  "Very slightly,--very slightly indeed. He is a gentleman not muchgiven to social habits, and has been but seldom here. But he is anold friend whom my son-in-law loves dearly."

  "I'm glad to hear you say that, Mr. Harding. Perhaps before I go anyfurther I ought to tell you that Mrs. Crawley and I arefirst-cousins."

  "Oh, indeed. Then you are a friend."

  "I never saw him in my life till a few days ago. He is very queeryou know,--very queer indeed. I'm a lawyer, Mr. Harding, practisingin London--an attorney, that is." At each separate announcementMr. Harding bowed, and when Toogood named his special branch of hisprofession Mr. Harding bowed lower than before, as though desirous ofshowing that he had great respect for attorneys. "And of course I'manxious, if only out of respect for the family, that my wife's cousinshould pull through this little difficulty, if possible."

  "And for the sake of the poor man himself too, and for his wife, andhis children;--and for the sake of the cloth."

  "Exactly; taking it all together it's such a pity, you know. I think,Mr. Harding, he can hardly have intended to steal the money."

  "I'm sure he did not."

  "It's very hard to be sure of anybody, Mr. Harding;--very hard."

  "I feel quite sure that he did not. He has been a most pious,hard-working clergyman. I cannot bring myself to think that he isguilty. What does the Latin proverb say? 'No one of a sudden becomesmost base.'"

  "But the temptation, Mr. Harding, was very strong. He was awfullybadgered about his debts. That butcher in Silverbridge was playingthe mischief with him."

  "All the butchers in Barsetshire could not make an honest man stealmoney, and I think that Mr. Crawley is an honest man. You'll excuseme for being a little hot about one of my own order."

  "Why; he's my cousin,--or rather, my wife's. But the fact is, Mr.Harding, we must get hold of the dean as soon as possible; and I'mgoing to send a gentleman after him."

  "To send a gentleman after him?" said Mr. Harding, almost in dismay.

  "Yes; I think that will be best."

  "I'm afraid he'll have to go a long way, Mr. Toogood."

  "The dean, I'm told, is in Jerusalem."

  "I'm afraid he is,--or on his journey there. He's to be there for theEaster week, and Sunday week will be Easter Sunday. But why shouldthe gentleman want to go to Jerusalem after the dean?"

  Then Mr. Toogood explained as well as he was able that the dean mighthave something to say on the subject which would serve Mr. Crawley'sdefence. "We shouldn't leave any stone unturned," said Mr. Toogood."As far as I can judge, Crawley still thinks,--or half thinks,--thathe got the cheque from your son-in-law." Mr. Harding shook hishead sorrowfully. "I'm not saying he did, you know," continued Mr.Toogood. "I can't see myself how it is possible;--but still, we oughtnot to leave any stone unturned. And Mrs. Arabin,--can you tell me atall where we shall find her?"

  "Has she anything to do with it, Mr. Toogood?"

  "I can't quite say that she has, but it's just possible. As I saidbefore, Mr. Harding, we mustn't leave a stone unturned. They're notexpected here till the end of April?"

  "About the 25th or 26th, I think."

  "And the assizes are the 28th. The judges come into the city on thatday. It will be too late to wait till then. We must have our defenceready you know. Can you say where my friend will find Mrs. Arabin?"

  Mr. Harding began nursing his knee, patting it and being very tenderto it, as he sat meditating with his head on one side,--meditatingnot so much as to the nature of his answer as to that of thequestion. Could it be necessary that any emissary from a lawyer'soffice should be sent after his daughter? He did not like the idea ofhis Eleanor being disturbed by questions as to a theft. Though shehad been twice married and had a son who was now nearly a man, stillshe was his Eleanor. But if it was necessary on Mr. Crawley's behalf,of course it must be done. "Her last address was at Paris, sir; butI think she has gone on to Florence. She has friends there, and shepurposes to meet the dean at Venice on his return." Then Mr. Hardingturned the table and wrote on a card his daughter's address.

  "I suppose Mrs. Arabin must have heard of the affair?" said Mr.Toogood.

  "She had not done so when she last wrote. I mentioned it to her theother day, before I knew that she had left Paris. If my letters andher sister's letters have been sent on to her, she must know it now."

  Then Mr. Toogood got up to take his leave. "You will excuse me fortroubling you, I hope, Mr. Harding."

  "Oh, sir, pray do not mention that. It is no trouble, if one couldonly be of any service."

  "One can always try to be of service. In these affairs so much is tobe done by rummaging about, as I always call it. There have been manytheatrical managers, you know, Mr. Harding, who have usually made uptheir pieces according to the dresses they have happened to have intheir wardrobes."

  "Have there, indeed, now? I never should have thought of that."

  "And we lawyers have to do the same thing."

  "Not with your clothes, Mr. Toogood?"

  "Not exactly with our clothes;--but with our information."

  "I do not quite understand you, Mr. Toogood."

  "In preparing a defence we have to rummage about and get up what wecan. If we can't find anything that suits us exactly, we are obligedto use what we do find as well as we can. I remember, when I was ayoung man, an ostler was to be tried for stealing some oats in theBorough; and he did steal them too, and sold them at a rag-shopregularly. The evidence against him was as plain as a pike-staff. AllI could find out was that on a certain day a horse had trod on thefellow's foot. So we put it to the jury whether the man could walk asfar as the rag-shop with a bag of oats when he was dead lame;--and wegot him off."

  "Did you though?" said Mr. Harding.

  "Yes, we did."

  "And he was guilty?"

  "He had been at it regularly for months."

  "Dear, dear, dear! Wouldn't it have been better to have hadhim punished for the fault,--gently; so as to warn him of theconsequences of such doings?"

  "Our business was to get him off,--and we got him off. It's mybusiness to get my cousin's husband off, if I can, and we must do it,by hook or crook. It's a very difficult piece of work, because hewon't let us employ a barrister. However, I shall have one in thecourt and say nothing to him about it at all. Good-by, Mr. Harding.As you say, it would be a thousand pities that a clergyman should beconvicted of a theft;--and one so well connected too."

  Mr. Harding, when he was left alone, began to turn the matter overin his mind and to reflect whether the thousand pities of which Mr.Toogood had spoken appertained to the conviction of the criminal,or the doing of the crime. "If he did steal the
money I suppose heought to be punished, let him be ever so much a clergyman," said Mr.Harding to himself. But yet,--how terrible it would be! Of clergymenconvicted of fraud in London he had often heard; but nothing of thekind had ever disgraced the diocese to which he belonged since he hadknown it. He could not teach himself to hope that Mr. Crawley shouldbe acquitted if Mr. Crawley were guilty;--but he could teach himselfto believe that Mr. Crawley was innocent. Something of a doubt hadcrept across his mind as he talked to the lawyer. Mr. Toogood, thoughMrs. Crawley was his cousin, seemed to believe that the money hadbeen stolen; and Mr. Toogood as a lawyer ought to understand suchmatters better than an old secluded clergyman in Barchester. But,nevertheless, Mr. Toogood might be wrong; and Mr. Harding succeededin satisfying himself at last that he could not be doing harm inthinking that Mr. Toogood was wrong. When he had made up his mindon this matter he sat down and wrote the following letter, which headdressed to his daughter at the post-office in Florence:--

  Deanery, March --, 186--.

  DEAREST NELLY,--

  When I wrote on Tuesday I told you about poor Mr. Crawley, that he was the clergyman in Barsetshire of whose misfortune you read an account in Galignani's Messenger,--and I think Susan must have written about it also, because everybody here is talking of nothing else, and because, of course, we know how strong a regard the dean has for Mr. Crawley. But since that something has occurred which makes me write to you again,--at once. A gentleman has just been here, and has indeed only this moment left me, who tells me that he is an attorney in London, and that he is nearly related to Mrs. Crawley. He seems to be a very good-natured man, and I daresay he understands his business as a lawyer. His name is Toogood, and he has come down as he says to get evidence to help the poor gentleman on his trial. I cannot understand how this should be necessary, because it seems to me that the evidence should all be wanted on the other side. I cannot for a moment suppose that a clergyman and a gentleman such as Mr. Crawley should have stolen money, and if he is innocent I cannot understand why all this trouble should be necessary to prevent a jury finding him guilty.

  Mr. Toogood came here because he wanted to see the dean,--and you also. He did not explain, as far as I can remember, why he wanted to see you; but he said it would be necessary, and that he was going to send off a messenger to find you first, and the dean afterwards. It has something to do with the money which was given to Mr. Crawley last year, and which, if I remember right, was your present. But of course Mr. Toogood could not have known anything about that. However, I gave him the address,--poste restante, Florence,--and I daresay that somebody will make you out before long, if you are still stopping at Florence. I did not like letting him go without telling you about it, as I thought that a lawyer's coming to you would startle you.

  The bairns are quite well, as I told you in my other letter, and Miss Jones says that little Elly is as good as gold. They are with me every morning and evening, and behave like darling angels, as they are. Posy is my own little jewel always. You may be quite sure I do nothing to spoil them.

  God bless you, dearest Nelly, Your most affectionate father,

  SEPTIMUS HARDING.

  After this he wrote another letter to his other daughter, Mrs.Grantly, telling her also of Mr. Toogood's visit; and then he spentthe remainder of the day thinking over the gravity of the occurrence.How terrible would it be if a beneficed clergyman in the dioceseshould really be found guilty of theft by a jury from the city! Andthen he had always heard so high a character of this man from hisson-in-law. No,--it was impossible to believe that Mr. Crawley had intruth stolen a cheque for twenty pounds!

  Mr. Toogood could get no other information in Barchester, and went onto Silverbridge early in the afternoon. He was half disposed to goby Hogglestock and look up his cousin, whom he had never seen, andhis cousin's husband, upon whose business he was now intent; but onreflection he feared that he might do more harm than good. He hadquite appreciated the fact that Mr. Crawley was not like other men."The man's not above half-saved," he had said to his wife,--meaningthereby to insinuate that the poor clergyman was not in fullpossession of his wits. And, to tell the truth of Mr. Toogood, hewas a little afraid of his relative. There was a something in Mr.Crawley's manner, in spite of his declared poverty, and in spite alsoof his extreme humility, which seemed to announce that he expected tobe obeyed when he spoke on any point with authority. Mr. Toogood hadnot forgotten the tone in which Mr. Crawley had said to him, "Sir,this thing you cannot do." And he thought that, upon the whole, hehad better not go to Hogglestock on this occasion.

  When at Silverbridge, he began at once to "rummage about." His chiefrummaging was to be done at Mr. Walker's table; but before dinner hehad time to call upon the magistrate's clerk, and ask a few questionsas to the proceedings at the sitting from which Mr. Crawley wascommitted. He found a very taciturn old man, who was nearly asdifficult to deal with in any rummaging process as a porcupine. But,nevertheless, at last he reached a state of conversation which wasnot absolutely hostile. Mr. Toogood pleaded that he was the poorman's cousin,--pleaded that, as the family lawyer, he was naturallythe poor man's protector at such a time as the present,--pleaded alsothat as the poor man was so very poor, no one else could come forwardon his behalf,--and in this way somewhat softened the hard sharpnessof the old porcupine's quills. But after all this, there was verylittle to be learned from the old porcupine. "There was not amagistrate on the bench," he said, "who had any doubt that theevidence was sufficient to justify them in sending the case to theassizes. They had all regretted,"--the porcupine said in his softestmoment,--"that the gentleman had come there without a legal adviser.""Ah, that's been the mischief of it all!" said Mr. Toogood, dashinghis hand against the porcupine's mahogany table. "But the facts wereso strong, Mr. Toogood!" "Nobody there to soften 'em down, you know,"said Mr. Toogood, shaking his head. Very little more than this waslearned from the porcupine; and then Mr. Toogood went away, andprepared for Mr. Walker's dinner.

  Mr. Walker had invited Dr. Tempest and Miss Anne Prettyman and MajorGrantly to meet Mr. Toogood, and had explained, in a manner intendedto be half earnest and half jocose, that though Mr. Toogood was anattorney, like himself, and was at this moment engaged in a nobleway on behalf of his cousin's husband, without any idea of receivingback even the money which he would be out of pocket; still he wasn'tquite,--not quite, you know--"not quite so much of a gentleman asI am,"--Mr. Walker would have said, had he spoken out freely thatwhich he insinuated. But he contented himself with the emphasis heput upon the "not quite," which expressed his meaning fully. And Mr.Walker was correct in his opinion of Mr. Toogood. As regards the twoattorneys I will not venture to say that either of them was not a"perfect gentleman." A perfect gentleman is a thing which I cannotdefine. But undoubtedly Mr. Walker was a bigger man in his way thanwas Mr. Toogood in his, and did habitually consort in the countyof Barsetshire with men of higher standing than those with whom Mr.Toogood associated in London.

  It seemed to be understood that Mr. Crawley was to be the generalsubject of conversation, and no one attempted to talk about anythingelse. Indeed, at this time, very little else was talked about inthat part of the county;--not only because of the interest naturallyattaching to the question of the suspected guilt of a parishclergyman, but because much had become lately known of Mr. Crawley'scharacter, and because it was known also that an internecine feudhad arisen between him and the bishop. It had undoubtedly become thegeneral opinion that Mr. Crawley had picked up and used a chequewhich was not his own;--that he had, in fact, stolen it; but therewas, in spite of that belief, a general wish that he might beacquitted and left in his living. And when the tidings of Mr.Crawley's victory over the bishop at the palace had become bruitedabout, popular sympathy went with the victor. The theft was, asit were, condoned, and people made excuses which were not alwaysrational, but which were founded on the instincts of true humanity.And now the tidings of
another stage in the battle, as fought againstMr. Crawley by the bishop, had gone forth through the county, and menhad heard that the rural dean was to be instructed to make inquirieswhich should be preliminary to proceedings against Mr. Crawley inan ecclesiastical court. Dr. Tempest, who was now about to meet Mr.Toogood at Mr. Walker's, was the rural dean to whom Mr. Crawley wouldhave to submit himself in any such inquiry; but Dr. Tempest had notas yet received from the bishop any official order on the subject.

  "We are so delighted to think that you have taken up your cousin'scase," said Mrs. Walker to Mr. Toogood, almost in a whisper.

  "He is not just my cousin, himself," said Mr. Toogood, "but of courseit's all the same thing. And as to taking up his case, you see, mydear madam, he won't let me take it up."

  "I thought you had. I thought you were down here about it?"

  "Only on the sly, Mrs. Walker. He has such queer ideas that he willnot allow a lawyer to be properly employed; and you can't conceivehow hard that makes it. Do you know him, Mrs. Walker?"

  "We know his daughter Grace." And then Mrs. Walker whisperedsomething further, which we may presume to have been an intimationthat the gentleman opposite,--Major Grantly,--was supposed by somepeople to be very fond of Miss Grace Crawley.

  "Quite a child, isn't she?" said Toogood, whose own daughter, nowabout to be married, was three or four years older than Grace.

  "She's beyond being a child, I think. Of course she is young."

  "But I suppose this affair will knock all that on the head," said thelawyer.

  "I do not know how that may be; but they do say he is very muchattached to her. The major is a man of family, and of course it wouldbe very disagreeable if Mr. Crawley were found guilty."

  "Very disagreeable, indeed; but, upon my word, Mrs. Walker, I don'tknow what to say about it."

  "You think it will go against him, Mr. Toogood?" Mr. Toogood shookhis head, and on seeing this, Mrs. Walker sighed deeply.

  "I can only say that I have heard nothing from the bishop as yet,"said Dr. Tempest, after the ladies had left the room. "Of course, ifhe thinks well to order it, the inquiry must be made."

  "But how long would it take?" asked Mr. Walker.

  "Three months, I should think,--or perhaps more. Of course Crawleywould do all that he could to delay us, and I am not at all sure thatwe should be in any very great hurry ourselves."

  "Who are the 'we,' doctor?" said Mr. Walker.

  "I cannot make such an inquiry by myself, you know. I suppose thebishop would ask me to select two or four other clergymen to act withme. That's the usual way of doing it. But you may be quite sure ofthis, Walker; the assizes will be over, and the jury have found theirverdict long before we have settled our preliminaries."

  "And what will be the good of your going on after that?"

  "Only this good:--if the unfortunate man be convicted--"

  "Which he won't," said Mr. Toogood, who thought it expedient to puton a bolder front in talking of the matter to the rural dean, than hehad assumed in his whispered conversation with Mrs. Walker.

  "I hope not, with all my heart," said the doctor. "But, perhaps, forthe sake of the argument, the supposition may be allowed to pass."

  "Certainly, sir," said Mr. Toogood. "For the sake of the argument, itmay pass."

  "If he be convicted, then, I suppose, there will be an end of thequestion. He would be sentenced for not less, I should say, thantwelve months; and after that--"

  "And would be as good a parson of Hogglestock when he came out ofprison as when he went in," said Mr. Walker. "The conviction andjudgment in a civil court would not touch his temporality."

  "Certainly not," said Mr. Toogood.

  "Of course not," said the doctor. "We all know that; and in the eventof Mr. Crawley coming back to his parish it would be open to thebishop to raise the question as to his fitness for the duties."

  "Why shouldn't he be as fit as any one else?" said Mr. Toogood.

  "Simply because he would have been found to be a thief," said thedoctor. "You must excuse me, Mr. Toogood, but it's only for the sakeof the argument."

  "I don't see what that has to do with it," said Mr. Toogood. "Hewould have undergone his penalty."

  "It is preferable that a man who preaches from a pulpit should nothave undergone such a penalty," said the doctor. "But in practice,under such circumstances,--which we none of us anticipate, Mr.Toogood,--the living should no doubt be vacated. Mr. Crawley wouldprobably hardly wish to come back. The jury will do their work beforewe can do ours,--will do it on a much better base than any we canhave; and, when they have done it, the thing ought to be finished. Ifthe jury acquit him, the bishop cannot proceed any further. If he befound guilty I think that the resignation of the living must follow."

  "It is all spite, then, on the bishop's part?" said the major.

  "Not at all," said the doctor. "The poor man is weak; that is all. Heis driven to persecute because he cannot escape persecution himself.But it may really be a question whether his present proceeding is notright. If I were bishop I should wait till the trial was over; thatis all."

  From this and from much more that was said during the evening on thesame subject Mr. Toogood gradually learned the position which Mr.Crawley and the question of Mr. Crawley's guilt really held in thecounty, and he returned to town resolved to go on with the case.

  "I'll have a barrister down express, and I'll defend him in hisown teeth," he said to his wife. "There'll be a scene in court,I daresay, and the man will call upon his own counsel to hold histongue and shut up his brief; and, as far as I can see, counselin such a case would have no alternative. But there would come anexplanation,--how Crawley was too honourable to employ a man whomhe could not pay, and there would be a romance, and it would all godown with the jury. One wants sympathy in such a case as that--notevidence."

  "And how much will it cost, Tom?" said Maria, dolefully.

  "Only a trifle. We won't think of that yet. There's John Eames isgoing all the way to Jerusalem, out of his pocket."

  "But Johnny hasn't got twelve children, Tom."

  "One doesn't have a cousin in trouble every day," said Toogood. "Andthen you see there's something very pretty in the case. It's quite apleasure getting it up."