The Last Chronicle of Barset

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER LXX.

  MRS. ARABIN IS CAUGHT.

  One morning about the middle of April Mr. Toogood received a telegramfrom Venice which caused him instantly to leave his business inBedford Row and take the first train for Silverbridge. "It seemsto me that this job will be a deal of time and very little money,"said his partner to him, when Toogood on the spur of the moment wasmaking arrangements for his sudden departure and uncertain periodof absence. "That's about it," said Toogood. "A deal of time, someexpense, and no returns. It's not the kind of business a man can liveupon is it?" The partner growled, and Toogood went. But as we mustgo with Mr. Toogood down to Silverbridge, and as we cannot make thejourney in this chapter, we will just indicate his departure and thengo back to John Eames, who, as will be remembered, was just startingfor Florence when we last saw him.

  Our dear old friend Johnny had been rather proud of himself as hestarted from London. He had gotten an absolute victory over SirRaffle Buffle, and that alone was gratifying to his feelings. Heliked the excitement of a journey, and especially of a journeyto Italy; and the importance of the cause of his journey wassatisfactory to him. But above all things he was delighted at havingfound that Lily Dale was pleased at his going. He had seen clearlythat she was much pleased, and that she made something of a heroof him because of his alacrity in the cause of his cousin. He hadpartially understood,--had understood in a dim sort of way,--thathis want of favour in Lily's eyes had come from some deficiency ofhis own in this respect. She had not found him to be a hero. She hadknown him first as a boy, with boyish belongings around him, and shehad seen him from time to time as he became a man, almost with toomuch intimacy for the creation of that love with which he wished tofill her heart. His rival had come before her eyes for the first timewith all the glories of Pall Mall heroism about him, and Lily in herweakness had been conquered by them. Since that she had learned howweak she had been,--how silly, how childish, she would say to herselfwhen she allowed her memory to go back to the details of her ownstory; but not the less on that account did she feel the want ofsomething heroic in a man before she could teach herself to lookupon him as more worthy of her regard than other men. She had stillunconsciously hoped in regard to Crosbie, but now that hope had beendispelled as unconsciously, simply by his appearance. There hadbeen moments in which John Eames had almost risen to the necessarypoint,--had almost made good his footing on the top of some moderate,but still sufficient mountain. But there had still been a successionof little tumbles,--unfortunate slips for which he himself shouldnot always have been held responsible; and he had never quite stoodupright on his pinnacle, visible to Lily's eyes as being reallyexcelsior. Of all this John Eames himself had an inkling which hadoften made him very uncomfortable. What the mischief was it shewanted of him; and what was he to do? The days for plucking gloryfrom the nettle danger were clean gone by. He was well dressed. Heknew a good many of the right sort of people. He was not in debt. Hehad saved an old nobleman's life once upon a time, and had been agood deal talked about on that score. He had even thrashed the manwho had ill-treated her. His constancy had been as the constancy ofa Jacob! What was it that she wanted of him? But in a certain wayhe did know what was wanted; and now, as he started for Florence,intending to stop nowhere till he reached that city, he hoped thatby this chivalrous journey he might even yet achieve the thingnecessary.

  But on reaching Paris he heard tidings of Mrs. Arabin which inducedhim to change his plans and make for Venice instead of for Florence.A banker at Paris, to whom he brought a letter, told him that Mrs.Arabin would now be found at Venice. This did not perplex him atall. It would have been delightful to see Florence,--but was moredelightful still to see Venice. His journey was the same as far asTurin; but from Turin he proceeded through Milan to Venice, insteadof going by Bologna to Florence. He had fortunately come armed withan Austrian passport,--as was necessary in those bygone days ofVenetia's thraldom. He was almost proud of himself, as though hehad done something great, when he tumbled in to his inn at Venice,without having been in a bed since he left London.

  But he was barely allowed to swim in a gondola, for on reachingVenice he found that Mrs. Arabin had gone back to Florence. He hadbeen directed to the hotel which Mrs. Arabin had used, and was theretold that she had started the day before. She had received someletter, from her husband as the landlord thought, and had done so.That was all the landlord knew. Johnny was vexed, but became a littleprouder than before as he felt it to be his duty to go on to Florencebefore he went to bed. There would be another night in a railwaycarriage, but he would live through it. There was just time to havea tub and a breakfast, to swim in a gondola, to look at the outsideof the Doge's palace, and to walk up and down the piazza before hestarted again. It was hard work, but I think he would have beenpleased had he heard that Mrs. Arabin had retreated from Florence toRome. Had such been the case, he would have folded his cloak aroundhim, and have gone on,--regardless of brigands,--thinking of Lily,and wondering whether anybody else had ever done so much beforewithout going to bed. As it was, he found that Mrs. Arabin was atthe hotel in Florence,--still in bed, as he had arrived early in themorning. So he had another tub, another breakfast, and sent up hiscard. "Mr. John Eames,"--and across the top of it he wrote, "has comefrom England about Mr. Crawley." Then he threw himself on to a sofain the hotel reading-room, and went fast to sleep.

  John had found an opportunity of talking to a young lady in thebreakfast-room, and had told her of his deeds. "I only left London onTuesday night, and I have come here taking Venice on the road."

  "Then you have travelled fast," said the young lady.

  "I haven't seen a bed, of course," said John.

  The young lady immediately afterwards told her father. "I suppose hemust be one of those Foreign Office messengers," said the young lady.

  "Anything but that," said the gentleman. "People never talk abouttheir own trades. He's probably a clerk with a fortnight's leave ofabsence, seeing how many towns he can do in the time. It's the usualway of travelling now-a-days. When I was young and there were norailways, I remember going from Paris to Vienna without sleeping."Luckily for his present happiness, John did not hear this.

  He was still fast asleep when a servant came to him from Mrs. Arabinto say that she would see him at once. "Yes, yes; I'm quite ready togo on," said Johnny, jumping up, and thinking of the journey to Rome.But there was no journey to Rome before him. Mrs. Arabin was almostin the next room, and there he found her.

  The reader will understand that they had never met before, andhitherto knew nothing of each other. Mrs. Arabin had never heard thename of John Eames till John's card was put into her hands, and wouldnot have known his business with her had he not written those fewwords upon it. "You have come about Mr. Crawley?" she said to him,eagerly. "I have heard from my father that somebody was coming."

  "Yes, Mrs. Arabin; as hard as I could travel. I had expected to findyou at Venice."

  "Have you been at Venice?"

  "I have just arrived from Venice. They told me at Paris I should findyou there. However, that does not matter, as I have found you here. Iwonder whether you can help us?"

  "Do you know Mr. Crawley? Are you a friend of his?"

  "I never saw him in my life; but he married my cousin."

  "I gave him the cheque, you know," said Mrs. Arabin.

  "What!" exclaimed Eames, literally almost knocked backwards by theeasiness of the words which contained a solution for so terrible adifficulty. The Crawley case had assumed such magnitude, and thetroubles of the Crawley family had been so terrible, that it seemedto him to be almost sacrilegious that words so simply uttered shouldsuffice to cure everything. He had hardly hoped,--had at least barelyhoped,--that Mrs. Arabin might be able to suggest something whichwould put them all on a track towards discovery of the truth. But hefound that she had the clue in her hand, and that the clue was onewhich required no further delicacy of investigation. There would benothing more to unravel; no journey to Jerusalem would be nec
essary!

  "Yes," said Mrs. Arabin, "I gave it to him. They have been writingto my husband about it, and never wrote to me; and till I received aletter about it from my father, and another from my sister, at Venicethe day before yesterday, I knew nothing of the particulars of Mr.Crawley's trouble."

  "Had you not heard that he had been taken before the magistrates?"

  "No; not so much even as that. I had seen in 'Galignani' somethingabout a clergyman, but I did not know what clergyman; and I heardthat there was something wrong about Mr. Crawley's money, but therehas always been something wrong about money with poor Mr. Crawley;and as I knew that my husband had been written to also, I did notinterfere, further than to ask the particulars. My letters havefollowed me about, and I only learned at Venice, just before I camehere, what was the nature of the case."

  "And did you do anything?"

  "I telegraphed at once to Mr. Toogood, who I understand is acting asMr. Crawley's solicitor. My sister sent me his address."

  "He is my uncle."

  "I telegraphed to him, telling him that I had given Mr. Crawley thecheque, and then I wrote to Archdeacon Grantly giving him the wholehistory. I was obliged to come here before I could return home, butI intended to start this evening."

  "And what is the whole history?" asked John Eames.

  The history of the gift of the cheque was very simple. It has beentold how Mr. Crawley in his dire distress had called upon his oldfriend at the deanery asking for pecuniary assistance. This he haddone with so much reluctance that his spirit had given way whilehe was waiting in the dean's library, and he had wished to departwithout accepting what the dean was quite willing to bestow uponhim. From this cause it had come to pass there had been no time forexplanatory words, even between the dean and his wife,--from whoseprivate funds had in truth come the money which had been given toMr. Crawley. For the private wealth of the family belonged to Mrs.Arabin, and not to the dean; and was left entirely in Mrs. Arabin'shands, to be disposed of as she might please. Previously to Mr.Crawley's arrival at the deanery this matter had been discussedbetween the dean and his wife, and it had been agreed between themthat a sum of fifty pounds should be given. It should be given byMrs. Arabin, but it was thought that the gift would come with morecomfort to the recipient from the hands of his old friend than fromthose of his wife. There had been much discussion between them as tothe mode in which this might be done with least offence to the man'sfeelings,--for they knew Mr. Crawley and his peculiarities well. Atlast it was agreed that the notes should be put into an envelope,which envelope the dean should have ready with him. But when themoment came the dean did not have the envelope ready, and was obligedto leave the room to seek his wife. And Mrs. Arabin explained toJohn Eames that even she had not had it ready, and had been forcedto go to her own desk to fetch it. Then, at the last moment, withthe desire of increasing the good to be done to people who were soterribly in want, she put the cheque for twenty pounds, which was inher possession as money of her own, along with the notes, and in thisway the cheque had been given by the dean to Mr. Crawley. "I shallnever forgive myself for not telling the dean," she said. "Had I donethat all this trouble would have been saved!"

  "But where did you get the cheque?" Eames asked with naturalcuriosity.

  "Exactly," said Mrs. Arabin. "I have got to show now that I did notsteal it,--have I not? Mr. Soames will indict me now. And, indeed, Ihave had some trouble to refresh my memory as to all the particulars,for you see it is more than a year past." But Mrs. Arabin's mindwas clearer on such matters than Mr. Crawley's, and she was able toexplain that she had taken the cheque as part of the rent due toher from the landlord of "The Dragon of Wantly," which inn was herproperty, having been the property of her first husband. For someyears past there had been a difficulty about the rent, things nothaving gone at "The Dragon of Wantly" as smoothly as they had used togo. At one time the money had been paid half-yearly by the landlord'scheque on the bank at Barchester. For the last year-and-a-half thishad not been done, and the money had come into Mrs. Arabin's handsat irregular periods and in irregular sums. There was at this momentrent due for twelve months, and Mrs. Arabin expressed her doubtwhether she would get it on her return to Barchester. On the occasionto which she was now alluding, the money had been paid into her ownhands, in the deanery breakfast-parlour, by a man she knew verywell,--not the landlord himself, but one bearing the landlord's name,whom she believed to be the landlord's brother, or at least hiscousin. The man in question was named Daniel Stringer, and he hadbeen employed in "The Dragon of Wantly," as a sort of clerk ormanaging man, as long as she had known it. The rent had been paidto her by Daniel Stringer quite as often as by Daniel's brother orcousin, John Stringer, who was, in truth, the landlord of the hotel.When questioned by John respecting the persons employed at theinn, she said that she did believe that there had been rumours ofsomething wrong. The house had been in the hands of the Stringers formany years,--before the property had been purchased by her husband'sfather,--and therefore there had been an unwillingness to move them;but gradually, so she said, there had come upon her and her husband afeeling that the house must be put into other hands. "But did you saynothing about the cheque?" John asked. "Yes, I said a good deal aboutit. I asked why a cheque of Mr. Soames's was brought to me, insteadof being taken to the bank for money; and Stringer explained to methat they were not very fond of going to the bank, as they owedmoney there, but that I could pay it into my account. Only I kept myaccount at the other bank."

  "You might have paid it in there?" said Johnny.

  "I suppose I might, but I didn't. I gave it to poor Mr. Crawleyinstead,--like a fool, as I know now that I was. And so I havebrought all this trouble on him and on her; and now I must rush home,without waiting for the dean, as fast as the trains will carry me."

  Eames offered to accompany her, and this offer was accepted. "It ishard upon you, though," she said; "you will see nothing of Florence.Three hours in Venice, and six in Florence, and no hours at allanywhere else, will be a hard fate to you on your first trip toItaly." But Johnny said "Excelsior" to himself once more, and thoughtof Lily Dale, who was still in London, hoping that she might hear ofhis exertions; and he felt, perhaps, also, that it would be pleasantto return with a dean's wife, and never hesitated. Nor would it do,he thought, for him to be absent in the excitement caused by the newsof Mr. Crawley's innocence and injuries. "I don't care a bit aboutthat," he said. "Of course, I should like to see Florence, and, ofcourse, I should like to go to bed; but I will live in hopes that Imay do both some day." And so there grew to be a friendship betweenhim and Mrs. Arabin even before they had started.

  He was driven once through Florence; he saw the Venus de' Medici, andhe saw the Seggiola; he looked up from the side of the Duomo to thetop of the Campanile, and he walked round the back of the cathedralitself; he tried to inspect the doors of the Baptistery, and declaredthat the "David" was very fine. Then he went back to the hotel, dinedwith Mrs. Arabin, and started for England.

  The dean was to have joined his wife at Venice, and then they wereto have returned together, coming round by Florence. Mrs. Arabin hadnot, therefore, taken her things away from Florence when she leftit, and had been obliged to return to pick them up on her journeyhomewards. He,--the dean,--had been delayed in his Eastern travels.Neither Syria nor Constantinople had got themselves done as quicklyas he had expected, and he had, consequently, twice written to hiswife, begging her to pardon the transgression of his absence for evenyet a few days longer. "Everything, therefore," as Mrs. Arabin said,"has conspired to perpetuate this mystery, which a word from me wouldhave solved. I owe more to Mr. Crawley than I can ever pay him."

  "He will be very well paid, I think," said John, "when he hears thetruth. If you could see inside his mind at this moment, I'm sureyou'd find that he thinks he stole the cheque."

  "He cannot think that, Mr. Eames. Besides, at this moment I hope hehas heard the truth."

  "That may be, but he did think so. I do believe that he h
ad not theslightest notion where he got it; and, which is more, not a singleperson in the whole county had a notion. People thought that he hadpicked it up, and used it in his despair. And the bishop has been sohard upon him."

  "Oh, Mr. Eames, that is the worst of all."

  "So I am told. The bishop has a wife, I believe."

  "Yes, he has a wife, certainly," said Mrs. Arabin.

  "And people say that she is not very good-natured."

  "There are some of us at Barchester who do not love her very dearly.I cannot say that she is one of my own especial friends."

  "I believe she has been hard to Mr. Crawley," said John Eames.

  "I should not be in the least surprised," said Mrs. Arabin.

  Then they reached Turin, and there, taking up "Galignani's Messenger"in the reading-room of Trompetta's Hotel, John Eames saw that Mrs.Proudie was dead. "Look at that," said he, taking the paragraphto Mrs. Arabin; "Mrs. Proudie is dead!" "Mrs. Proudie dead!" sheexclaimed. "Poor woman! Then there will be peace at Barchester!""I never knew her very intimately," she afterwards said to hercompanion, "and I do not know that I have a right to say that sheever did me an injury. But I remember well her first coming intoBarchester. My sister's father-in-law, the late bishop, was justdead. He was a mild, kind, dear old man, whom my father loved beyondall the world, except his own children. You may suppose we were alla little sad. I was not specially connected with the cathedral then,except through my father,"--and Mrs. Arabin, as she told all this,remembered that in the days of which she was speaking she was ayoung mourning widow,--"but I think I can never forget the sort ofharsh-toned paean of low-church trumpets with which that poor womanmade her entry into the city. She might have been more lenient, aswe had never sinned by being very high. She might, at any rate, havebeen more gentle with us at first. I think we had never attemptedmuch beyond decency, good-will and comfort. Our comfort she utterlydestroyed. Good-will was not to her taste. And as for decency, when Iremember some things, I must say that when the comfort and good-willwent, the decency went along with them. And now she is dead! I wonderhow the bishop will get on without her."

  "Like a house on fire, I should think," said Johnny.

  "Fie, Mr. Eames; you shouldn't speak in such a way on such asubject."

  Mrs. Arabin and Johnny became fast friends as they journeyed home.There was a sweetness in his character which endeared him readilyto women; though, as we have seen, there was a want of something tomake one woman cling to him. He could be soft and pleasant-mannered.He was fond of making himself useful, and was a perfect master ofall those little caressing modes of behaviour in which the caressis quite impalpable, and of which most women know the value andappreciate the comfort. By the time that they had reached Paris Johnhad told Mrs. Arabin the whole story of Lily Dale and Crosbie, andMrs. Arabin had promised to assist him, if any assistance might be inher power.

  "Of course I have heard of Miss Dale," she said, "because we know theDe Courcys." Then she turned away her face, almost blushing, as sheremembered the first time that she had seen that Lady AlexandrinaDe Courcy whom Mr. Crosbie had married. It had been at Mr. Thorne'shouse at Ullathorne, and on that day she had done a thing which shehad never since remembered without blushing. But it was an old storynow, and a story of which her companion knew nothing,--of which henever could know anything. That day at Ullathorne Mrs. Arabin, thewife of the Dean of Barchester, than whom there was no more discreetclerical matron in the diocese, had--boxed a clergyman's ears!

  "Yes," said John, speaking of Crosbie, "he was a wise fellow; he knewwhat he was about; he married an earl's daughter."

  "And now I remember hearing that somebody gave him a terriblebeating. Perhaps it was you?"

  "It wasn't terrible at all," said Johnny.

  "Then it was you?"

  "Oh, yes; it was I."

  "Then it was you who saved poor old Lord De Guest from the bull?"

  "Go on, Mrs. Arabin. There is no end of the grand things I've done."

  "You're quite a hero of romance."

  He bit his lip as he told himself that he was not enough of a hero."I don't know about that," said Johnny. "I think what a man ought todo in these days is to seem not to care what he eats and drinks, andto have his linen very well got up. Then he'll be a hero." But thatwas hard upon Lily.

  "Is that what Miss Dale requires?" said Mrs. Arabin.

  "I was not thinking about her particularly," said Johnny, lying.

  They slept a night in Paris, as they had done also at Turin,--Mrs.Arabin not finding herself able to accomplish such marvels in theway of travelling as her companion had achieved--and then arrivedin London in the evening. She was taken to a certain quiet clericalhotel at the top of Suffolk Street, much patronized by bishops anddeans of the better sort, expecting to find a message there fromher husband. And there was the message--just arrived. The dean hadreached Florence three days after her departure; and as he would dothe journey home in twenty-four hours less than she had taken, hewould be there, at the hotel, on the day after to-morrow. "I supposeI may wait for him, Mr. Eames?" said Mrs. Arabin.

  "I will see Mr. Toogood to-night, and I will call here to-morrow,whether I see him or not. At what hour will you be in?"

  "Don't trouble yourself to do that. You must take care of Sir RaffleBuffle, you know."

  "I shan't go near Sir Raffle Buffle to-morrow, nor yet the next day.You mustn't suppose that I am afraid of Sir Raffle Buffle."

  "You are only afraid of Lily Dale." From all which it may be seenthat Mrs. Arabin and John Eames had become very intimate on their wayhome.

  It was then arranged that he should call on Mr. Toogood that samenight or early the next morning, and that he should come to the hotelat twelve o'clock on the next day. Going along one of the passageshe passed two gentlemen in shovel-hats, with very black new coats,and knee-breeches; and Johnny could not but hear a few words whichone clerical gentleman said to the other. "She was a woman of greatenergy, of wonderful spirit, but a firebrand, my lord,--a completefirebrand!" Then Johnny knew that the Dean of A. was talking to theBishop of B. about the late Mrs. Proudie.