MR. CRAWLEY IS TAKEN TO SILVERBRIDGE.
It had become necessary on the Monday morning that Mrs. Crawley
should obtain from her husband an undertaking that he would present
himself before the magistrates at Silverbridge on the Thursday. She
had been made to understand that the magistrates were sinning against
the strict rule of the law in not issuing a warrant at once for Mr.
Crawley's apprehension; and that they were so sinning at the instance
of Mr. Walker,--at whose instance they would have committed almost
any sin practicable by a board of English magistrates, so great was
their faith in him; and she knew that she was bound to answer her
engagement. She had also another task to perform--that, namely,
of persuading him to employ an attorney for his defence; and she
was prepared with the name of an attorney, one Mr. Mason, also of
Silverbridge, who had been recommended to her by Mr. Walker. But when
she came to the performance of these two tasks on the Monday morning,
she found that she was unable to accomplish either of them. Mr.
Crawley first declared that he would have nothing to do with any
attorney. As to that he seemed to have made up his mind beforehand,
and she saw at once that she had no hope of shaking him. But when she
found that he was equally obstinate in the other matter, and that he
declared that he would not go before the magistrates unless he were
made to do so,--unless the policemen came and fetched him, then she
almost sank beneath the burden of her troubles, and for a while was
disposed to let things go as they would. How could she strive to bear
a load that was so manifestly too heavy for her shoulders?
On the Sunday the poor man had exerted himself to get through his
Sunday duties, and he had succeeded. He had succeeded so well that
his wife had thought that things might yet come right with him, that
he would remember, before it was too late, the true history of that
unhappy bit of paper, and that he was rising above that half madness
which for months past had afflicted him. On the Sunday evening, when
he was tired with his work, she thought it best to say nothing to him
about the magistrates and the business of Thursday. But on the Monday
morning she commenced her task, feeling that she owed it to Mr.
Walker to lose no more time. He was very decided in his manners and
made her understand that he would employ no lawyer on his own behalf.
"Why should I want a lawyer? I have done nothing wrong," he said.
Then she tried to make him understand that many who may have done
nothing wrong require a lawyer's aid. "And who is to pay him?" he
asked. To this she replied, unfortunately, that there would be no
need of thinking of that at once. "And I am to get further into
debt!" he said. "I am to put myself right before the world by
incurring debts which I know I can never pay? When it has been a
question of food for the children I have been weak, but I will not be
weak in such a matter as this. I will have no lawyer." She did not
regard this denial on his part as very material, though she would
fain have followed Mr. Walker's advice had she been able; but when,
later in the day, he declared that the police should fetch him, then
her spirit gave way. Early in the morning he had seemed to assent to
the expediency of going into Silverbridge on the Thursday, and it was
not till after he had worked himself into a rage about the proposed
attorney, that he utterly refused to make the journey. During the
whole day, however, his state was such as almost to break his wife's
heart. He would do nothing. He would not go to the school, nor even
stir beyond the house-door. He would not open a book. He would not
eat, nor would he even sit at table or say the accustomed grace
when the scanty mid-day meal was placed upon the table. "Nothing is
blessed to me," he said, when his wife pressed him to say the words
for their child's sake. "Shall I say that I thank God when my heart
is thankless? Shall I serve my child by a lie?" Then for hours he
sat in the same position, in the old arm-chair, hanging over the
fire speechless, sleepless, thinking ever, as she well knew, of the
injustice of the world. She hardly dared to speak to him, so great
was the bitterness of his words when he was goaded to reply. At last,
late in the evening, feeling that it would be her duty to send in to
Mr. Walker early on the following morning, she laid her hand gently
on his shoulder and asked him for his promise. "I may tell Mr. Walker
that you will be there on Thursday?"
"No," he said, shouting at her. "No. I will have no such message
sent." She started back, trembling. Not that she was accustomed to
tremble at his ways, or to show that she feared him in his paroxysms,
but that his voice had been louder than she had before known it. "I
will hold no intercourse with them at Silverbridge in this matter. Do
you hear me, Mary?"
"I hear you, Josiah; but I must keep my word to Mr. Walker. I
promised that I would send to him."
"Tell him, then, that I will not stir a foot out of this house on
Thursday, of my own accord. On Thursday I shall be here; and here I
will remain all day,--unless they take me hence by force."
"But, Josiah--"
"Will you obey me, or I shall walk into Silverbridge myself and tell
the man that I will not come to him." Then he arose from his chair
and stretched forth his hand to his hat as though he were going forth
immediately, on his way to Silverbridge. The night was now pitch
dark, and the rain was falling, and abroad he would encounter all the
severity of the pitiless winter. Still it might have been better that
he should have gone. The exercise and the fresh air, even the wet and
the mud, would have served to bring back his mind to reason. But his
wife thought of the misery of the journey, of his scanty clothing, of
his worn boots, of the need there was to preserve the raiment which
he wore; and she remembered that he was fasting,--that he had eaten
nothing since the morning, and that he was not fit to be alone. She
stopped him, therefore, before he could reach the door.
"Your bidding shall be done," she said,--"of course."
"Tell them, then, that they must seek me here if they want me."
"But, Josiah, think of the parish,--of the people who respect
you,--for their sakes let it not be said that you were taken away by
policemen."
"Was St. Paul not bound in prison? Did he think of what the people
might see?"
"If it were necessary, I would encourage you to bear it without a
murmur."
"It is necessary, whether you murmur, or do not murmur. Murmur,
indeed! Why does not your voice ascend to heaven with one loud wail
against the cruelty of man?" Then he went forth from the room into an
empty chamber on the other side of the passage; and his wife, when
she followed him there after a few minutes, found him on his knees,
with his forehead against the floor, and with his hands clutching at
the scanty hairs of his head. Often before had she seen him so, on
the same spot, half grovelling, half prostrate in prayer, reviling
in his agony all things around him,--nay, nearly all things above
him,--and yet striving to reconcile himself to his Creator by the
humiliation of confession.
It might be better with him now, if only he could bring himself to
some softness of heart. Softly she closed the door, and placing the
candle on the mantel-shelf, softly she knelt beside him, and softly
touched his hand with hers. He did not stir nor utter a word, but
seemed to clutch at his thin locks more violently than before. Then
she kneeling there, aloud, but with low voice, with her thin hands
clasped, uttered a prayer in which she asked her God to remove from
her husband the bitterness of that hour. He listened till she had
finished, and then he rose slowly to his feet. "It is in vain," said
he. "It is all in vain. It is all in vain." Then he returned back to
the parlour, and seating himself again in the arm-chair, remained
there without speaking till past midnight. At last, when she told him
that she herself was very cold, and reminded him that for the last
hour there had been no fire, still speechless, he went up with her to
their bed.
Early on the following morning she contrived to let him know that she
was about to send a neighbour's son over with a note to Mr. Walker,
fearing to urge him further to change his mind; but hoping that he
might express his purpose of doing so when he heard that the letter
was to be sent; but he took no notice whatever of her words. At this
moment he was reading Greek with his daughter, or rather rebuking her
because she could not be induced to read Greek.
"Oh, papa," the poor girl said, "don't scold me now. I am so unhappy
because of all this."
"And am not I unhappy?" he said, as he closed the book. "My God,
what have I done against thee, that my lines should be cast in such
terrible places?"
The letter was sent to Mr. Walker. "He knows himself to be innocent,"
said the poor wife, writing what best excuse she knew how to make,
"and thinks that he should take no step himself in such a matter. He
will not employ a lawyer, and he says that he should prefer that he
should be sent for, if the law requires his presence at Silverbridge
on Thursday." All this she wrote, as though she felt that she ought
to employ a high tone in defending her husband's purpose; but she
broke down altogether in the few words of the postscript. "Indeed,
indeed I have done what I could!" Mr. Walker understood it all, both
the high tone and the subsequent fall.
On the Thursday morning, at about ten o'clock, a fly stopped at the
gate of the Hogglestock Parsonage, and out of it there came two
men. One was dressed in ordinary black clothes, and seemed from his
bearing to be a respectable man of the middle class of life. He
was, however, the superintendent of police for the Silverbridge
district. The other man was a policeman, pure and simple, with the
helmet-looking hat which has lately become common, and all the
ordinary half-military and wholly disagreeable outward adjuncts of
the profession. "Wilkins," said the superintendent, "likely enough I
shall want you, for they tell me the gent is uncommon strange. But if
I don't call you when I come out, just open the door like a servant,
and mount up on the box when we're in. And don't speak nor say
nothing." Then the senior policeman entered the house.
He found Mrs. Crawley sitting in the parlour with her bonnet and
shawl on, and Mr. Crawley in the arm-chair, leaning over the fire.
"I suppose we had better go with you," said Mrs. Crawley directly the
door was opened; for of course she had seen the arrival of the fly
from the window.
"The gentleman had better come with us if he'll be so kind," said
Thompson. "I've brought a close carriage for him."
"But I may go with him?" said the wife, with frightened voice. "I may
accompany my husband. He is not well, sir, and wants assistance."
Thompson thought about it for a moment before he spoke. There was
room in the fly for only two, or if for three, still he knew his
place better than to thrust himself inside together with his prisoner
and his prisoner's wife. He had been specially asked by Mr. Walker
to be very civil. Only one could sit on the box with the driver, and
if the request was conceded the poor policeman must walk back. The
walk, however, would not kill the policeman. "All right, ma'am," said
Thompson;--"that is, if the gentleman will just pass his word not to
get out till I ask him."
"He will not! He will not!" said Mrs. Crawley.
"I will pass my word for nothing," said Mr. Crawley.
Upon hearing this, Thompson assumed a very long face, and shook his
head as he turned his eyes first towards the husband and then towards
the wife, and shrugged his shoulders, and compressing his lips, blew
out his breath, as though in this way he might blow off some of the
mingled sorrow and indignation with which the gentleman's words
afflicted him.
Mrs. Crawley rose and came close to him. "You may take my word for
it, he will not stir. You may indeed. He thinks it incumbent on him
not to give any undertaking himself, because he feels himself to be
so harshly used."
"I don't know about harshness," said Thompson, brindling up. "A close
carriage brought, and--"
"I will walk. If I am made to go, I will walk," shouted Mr. Crawley.
"I did not allude to you,--or to Mr. Walker," said the poor wife.
"I know you have been most kind. I meant the harshness of the
circumstances. Of course he is innocent, and you must feel for him."
"Yes, I feel for him, and for you too, ma'am."
"That is all I meant. He knows his own innocence, and therefore he is
unwilling to give way in anything."
"Of course he knows hisself, that's certain. But he'd better come in
the carriage, if only because of the dirt and slush."
"He will go in the carriage; and I will go with him. There will be
room there for you, sir."
Thompson looked up at the rain, and told himself that it was very
cold. Then he remembered Mr. Walker's injunction, and bethought
himself that Mrs. Crawley, in spite of her poverty, was a lady. He
conceived even unconsciously the idea that something was due to her
because of her poverty. "I'll go with the driver," said he, "but
he'll only give hisself a deal of trouble if he attempts to get out."
"He won't; he won't," said Mrs. Crawley. "And I thank you with all my
heart."
"Come along, then," said Thompson.
She went up to her husband, hat in hand, and looking round to see
that she was not watched, put the hat on his head, and then lifted
him as it were from his chair. He did not refuse to be led, and
allowed her to throw round his shoulders the old cloak which was
hanging in the passage, and then he passed out, and was the first
to seat himself in the Silverbridge fly. His wife followed him, and
did not hear the blandishments with which Thompson instructed his
myrmidon to follow through the mud on foot. Slowly they made their
way through the lanes, and it was nearly twelve when the fly was
driven into the yard of the "George and Vulture" at Silverbridge.
Silverbridge, though it was blessed with a mayor and corporation,
and was blessed also with a Member of Parliament all to itself, was
not blessed with any court-house. The magistrates were therefore
compelled to sit in the big room at the "George and Vulture," in
which the county balls were celebrated, and the meeting of the West
Barsetshire freemasons was held. That part of the country was, no
doubt, very much ashamed of its backwardness in this respect, but
as yet nothing had been done to remedy the evil. Thompson and his
fly were therefore driven into the yard of the Inn, and Mr. and
Mrs. Crawley were ushered by him up into a little bed-chamber close
adjoining to the big room in which the magistrates were already
assembled. "There's a bit of fire here," said Thompson, "and you can
make yourselves a little warm." He himself was shivering with the
cold. "When the gents is ready in there, I'll just come and fetch
you."
"I may go in with him?" said Mrs. Crawley.
"I'll have a chair for you at the end of the table, just nigh to
him," said Thompson. "You can slip into it and say nothing to
nobody." Then he left them and went away to the magistrates.
Mr. Crawley had not spoken a word since he had entered the vehicle.
Nor had she said much to him, but had sat with him holding his hand
in hers. Now he spoke to her,--"Where is it that we are?" he asked.
"At Silverbridge, dearest."
"But what is this chamber? And why are we here?"
"We are to wait here till the magistrates are ready. They are in the
next room."
"But this is the Inn?"
"Yes, dear, it is the Inn."
"And I see crowds of people about." There were crowds of people
about. There had been men in the yard, and others standing about on
the stairs, and the public room was full of men who were curious to
see the clergyman who had stolen twenty pounds, and to hear what
would be the result of the case before the magistrates. He must be
committed; so, at least, said everybody; but then there would be the
question of bail. Would the magistrates let him out on bail, and who
would be the bailsmen? "Why are the people here?" said Mr. Crawley.
"I suppose it is the custom when the magistrates are sitting," said
his wife.
"They have come to see the degradation of a clergyman," said
he;--"and they will not be disappointed."
"Nothing can degrade but guilt," said his wife.
"Yes,--misfortune can degrade, and poverty. A man is degraded when
the cares of the world press so heavily upon him that he cannot rouse
himself. They have come to look at me as though I were a hunted
beast."
"It is but their custom always on such days."
"They have not always a clergyman before them as a criminal." Then he
was silent for a while, while she was chafing his cold hands. "Would
that I were dead, before they had brought me to this! Would that I
were dead!"
"Is it not right, dear, that we should all bear what He sends us?"
"Would that I were dead!" he repeated. "The load is too heavy for me
to bear, and I would that I were dead!"
The time seemed to be very long before Thompson returned and asked
them to accompany him into the big room. When he did so, Mr. Crawley
grasped hold of his chair as though he had resolved that he would not
go. But his wife whispered a word to him, and he obeyed her. "He will
follow me," she said to the policeman. And in that way they went from
the small room into the large one. Thompson went first; Mrs. Crawley
with her veil down came next; and the wretched man followed his wife,
with his eyes fixed upon the ground and his hands clasped together
upon his breast. He could at first have seen nothing, and could
hardly have known where he was when they placed him in a chair. She,
with a better courage, contrived to look round through her veil, and
saw that there was a long board or table covered with green cloth,
and that six or seven gentlemen were sitting at one end of it, while
there seemed to be a crowd standing along the sides and about the
room. Her husband was seated at the other end of the table, near
the corner, and round the corner,--so that she might be close to
him,--her chair had been placed. On the other side of him there was
another chair, now empty, intended for any professional gentleman
whom he might choose to employ.
There were five magistrates sitting there. Lord Lufton, from Framley,
was in the chair;--a handsome man, still young, who was very popular
in the county. The cheque which had been cashed had borne his
signature, and he had consequently expressed his intention of not
sitting at the board; but Mr. Walker, desirous of having him there,
had overruled him, showing him that the loss was not his loss. The
cheque, if stolen, had not been stolen from him. He was not the
prosecutor. "No, by Jove," said Lord Lufton, "if I could quash the
whole thing, I'd do it at once!"
"You can't do that, my lord, but you may help us at the board," said
Mr. Walker.
Then there was the Hon. George De Courcy, Lord De Courcy's brother,
from Castle Courcy. Lord De Courcy did not live in the county, but
his brother did so, and endeavoured to maintain the glory of the
family by the discretion of his conduct. He was not, perhaps, among
the wisest of men, but he did very well as a country magistrate,
holding his tongue, keeping his eyes open, and, on such occasions as
this, obeying Mr. Walker in all things. Dr. Tempest was also there,
the rector of the parish, he being both magistrate and clergyman.
There were many in Silverbridge who declared that Dr. Tempest would
have done far better to stay away when a brother clergyman was
thus to be brought before the bench; but it had been long since Dr.
Tempest had cared what was said about him in Silverbridge. He had
become so accustomed to the life he led as to like to be disliked,
and to be enamoured of unpopularity. So when Mr. Walker had ventured
to suggest to him that, perhaps, he might not choose to be there, he
had laughed Mr. Walker to scorn. "Of course I shall be there," he
said. "I am interested in the case,--very much interested. Of course
I shall be there." And had not Lord Lufton been present he would have
made himself more conspicuous by taking the chair. Mr. Fothergill was
the fourth. Mr. Fothergill was man of business to the Duke of Omnium,
who was the great owner of property in and about Silverbridge, and he
was the most active magistrate in that part of the county. He was a
sharp man, and not at all likely to have any predisposition in favour
of a clergyman. The fifth was Dr. Thorne, of Chaldicotes, a gentleman
whose name has been already mentioned in these pages. He had been
for many years a medical man practising in a little village in the
further end of the county; but it had come to be his fate, late in
life, to marry a great heiress, with whose money the ancient house
and domain of Chaldicotes had been purchased from the Sowerbys. Since
then Dr. Thorne had done his duty well as a country gentleman,--not,
however, without some little want of smoothness between him and the
duke's people.
Chaldicotes lay next to the duke's territory, and the duke had wished
to buy Chaldicotes. When Chaldicotes slipped through the duke's
fingers and went into the hands of Dr. Thorne,--or of Dr. Thorne's
wife,--the duke had been very angry with Mr. Fothergill. Hence it had
come to pass that there had not always been smoothness between the
duke's people and the Chaldicotes people. It was now rumoured that
Dr. Thorne intended to stand for the county on the next vacancy, and
that did not tend to make things smoother. On the right hand of Lord
Lufton sat Lord George and Mr. Fothergill, and beyond Mr. Fothergill
sat Mr. Walker, and beyond Mr. Walker sat Mr. Walker's clerk. On the
left hand of the chairman were Dr. Tempest and Dr. Thorne, and a
little lower down was Mr. Zachary Winthrop, who held the situation of
clerk to the magistrates. Many people in Silverbridge said that this
was all wrong, as Mr. Winthrop was partner with Mr. Walker, who was
always employed before the magistrates if there was any employment
going for an attorney. For this, however, Mr. Walker cared very
little. He had so much of his own way in Silverbridge, that he was
supposed to care nothing for anybody.
There were many other gentlemen in the room, and some who knew Mr.
Crawley with more or less intimacy. He, however, took notice of no
one, and when one friend, who had really known him well, came up
behind and spoke to him gently leaning over his chair, the poor man
hardly recognized his friend.
"I'm sure your husband won't forget me," said Mr. Robarts, the
clergyman of Framley, as he gave his hand to that lady across the
back of Mr. Crawley's chair.
"No, Mr. Robarts, he does not forget you. But you must excuse him if
at this moment he is not quite himself. It is a trying situation for
a clergyman."
"I can understand all that; but I'll tell you why I have come. I
suppose this inquiry will finish the whole affair, and clear up
whatever may be the difficulty. But should it not do so, it may be
just possible, Mrs. Crawley, that something may be said about bail. I
don't understand much about it, and I daresay you do not either; but
if there should be anything of that sort, let Mr. Crawley name me.
A brother clergyman will be best, and I'll have some other gentleman
with me." Then he left her, not waiting for any answer.
At the same time there was a conversation going on between Mr. Walker
and another attorney standing behind him, Mr. Mason. "I'll go to
him," said Walker, "and try to arrange it." So Mr. Walker seated
himself in the empty chair beside Mr. Crawley, and endeavoured to
explain to the wretched man, that he would do well to allow Mr. Mason
to assist him. Mr. Crawley seemed to listen to all that was said, and
then turned upon the speaker sharply: "I will have no one to assist
me," he said so loudly that every one in the room heard the words.
"I am innocent. Why should I want assistance? Nor have I money to
pay for it." Mr. Mason made a quick movement forward, intending to
explain that that consideration need offer no impediment, but was
stopped by further speech from Mr. Crawley. "I will have no one to
help me," said he, standing upright, and for the first time removing
his hat from his head. "Go on, and do what it is you have to do."
After that he did not sit down till the proceedings were nearly over,
though he was invited more than once by Lord Lufton to do so.
We need not go through all the evidence that was brought to bear upon
the question. It was proved that money for the cheque was paid to Mr.
Crawley's messenger, and that this money was given to Mr. Crawley.
When there occurred some little delay in the chain of evidence
necessary to show that Mr. Crawley had signed and sent the cheque and
got the money, he became impatient. "Why do you trouble the man?" he
said. "I had the cheque, and I sent him; I got the money. Has any
one denied it, that you should strive to drive a poor man like that
beyond his wits?" Then Mr. Soames and the manager of the bank showed
what inquiry had been made as soon as the cheque came back from the
London bank; how at first they had both thought that Mr. Crawley
could of course explain the matter, and how he had explained it by
a statement which was manifestly untrue. Then there was evidence to
prove that the cheque could not have been paid to him by Mr. Soames,
and as this was given, Mr. Crawley shook his head and again became
impatient. "I erred in that," he exclaimed. "Of course I erred. In my
haste I thought it was so, and in my haste I said so. I am not good
at reckoning money and remembering sums; but I saw that I had been
wrong when my error was shown to me, and I acknowledged at once that
I had been wrong."
Up to this point he had behaved not only with so much spirit, but
with so much reason, that his wife began to hope that the importance
of the occasion had brought back the clearness of his mind, and that
he would, even now, be able to place himself right as the inquiry
went on. Then it was explained that Mr. Crawley had stated that the
cheque had been given to him by Dean Arabin, as soon as it was shown
that it could not have been given to him by Mr. Soames. In reference
to this, Mr. Walker was obliged to explain that application had been
made to the dean, who was abroad, and that the dean had stated that
he had given fifty pounds to his friend. Mr. Walker explained also
that the very notes of which this fifty pounds had consisted had been
traced back to Mr. Crawley, and that they had had no connection with
the cheque or with the money which had been given for the cheque at
the bank.
Mr. Soames stated that he had lost the cheque with a pocket-book;
that he had certainly lost it on the day on which he had called on
Mr. Crawley at Hogglestock; and that he missed his pocket-book on his
journey back from Hogglestock to Barchester. At the moment of missing
it he remembered that he had taken the book out from his pocket in
Mr. Crawley's room, and, at that moment, he had not doubted but
that he had left it in Mr. Crawley's house. He had written and
sent to Mr. Crawley to inquire, but had been assured that nothing
had been found. There had been no other property of value in the
pocket-book,--nothing but a few visiting cards and a memorandum, and
he had therefore stopped the cheque at the London bank, and thought
no more about it.
Mr. Crawley was then asked to explain in what way he came possessed
of the cheque. The question was first put by Lord Lufton; but it soon
fell into Mr. Walker's hands, who certainly asked it with all the
kindness with which such an inquiry could be made. Could Mr. Crawley
at all remember by what means that bit of paper had come into his
possession, or how long he had had it? He answered the last question
first. "It had been with him for months." And why had he kept it? He
looked round the room sternly, almost savagely, before he answered,
fixing his eyes for a moment upon almost every face around him as he
did so. Then he spoke. "I was driven by shame to keep it,--and then
by shame to use it." That this statement was true, no one in the room
doubted.
And then the other question was pressed upon him; and he lifted up
his hands, and raised his voice, and swore by the Saviour in whom he
trusted, that he knew not from whence the money had come to him. Why
then had he said that it had come from the dean? He had thought so.
The dean had given him money, covered up, in an enclosure, "so that
the touch of the coin might not add to my disgrace in taking his
alms," said the wretched man, thus speaking openly and freely in his
agony of the shame which he had striven so persistently to hide. He
had not seen the dean's monies as they had been given, and he had
thought that the cheque had been with them. Beyond that he could tell
them nothing.
Then there was a conference between the magistrates and Mr. Walker,
in which Mr. Walker submitted that the magistrates had no alternative
but to commit the gentleman. To this Lord Lufton demurred, and with
him Dr. Thorne.
"I believe, as I am sitting here," said Lord Lufton, "that he has
told the truth, and that he does not know any more than I do from
whence the cheque came."
"I am quite sure he does not," said Dr. Thorne.
Lord George remarked that it was the "queerest go he had ever come
across." Dr. Tempest merely shook his head. Mr. Fothergill pointed
out that even supposing the gentleman's statement to be true, it by
no means went towards establishing the gentleman's innocence. The
cheque had been traced to the gentleman's hands, and the gentleman
was bound to show how it had come into his possession. Even supposing
that the gentleman had found the cheque in his house, which was
likely enough, he was not thereby justified in changing it, and
applying the proceeds to his own purposes. Mr. Walker told them that
Mr. Fothergill was right, and that the only excuse to be made for Mr.
Crawley was that he was out of his senses.
"I don't see it," said Lord Lufton. "I might have a lot of paper
money by me, and not know from Adam where I got it."
"But you would have to show where you got it, my lord, when inquiry
was made," said Mr. Fothergill.
Lord Lufton, who was not particularly fond of Mr. Fothergill, and
was very unwilling to be instructed by him in any of the duties of a
magistrate, turned his back at once upon the duke's agent; but within
three minutes afterwards he had submitted to the same instructions
from Mr. Walker.
Mr. Crawley had again seated himself, and during this period of the
affair was leaning over the table with his face buried on his arms.
Mrs. Crawley sat by his side, utterly impotent as to any assistance,
just touching him with her hand, and waiting behind her veil till
she should be made to understand what was the decision of the
magistrates. This was at last communicated to her,--and to him,--in
a whisper by Mr. Walker. Mr. Crawley must understand that he was
committed to take his trial at Barchester, at the next assizes, which
would be held in April, but that bail would be taken;--his own bail
in five hundred pounds, and that of two others in two hundred and
fifty pounds each. And Mr. Walker explained further that he and the
bailmen were ready, and that the bail-bond was prepared. The bailmen
were to be the Rev. Mr. Robarts, and Major Grantly. In five minutes
the bond was signed and Mr. Crawley was at liberty to go away, a free
man,--till the Barchester Assizes should come round in April.
Of all that was going on at this time Mr. Crawley knew little or
nothing, and Mrs. Crawley did not know much. She did say a word of
thanks to Mr. Robarts, and begged that the same might be said to--the
other gentleman. If she had heard the major's name she did not
remember it. Then they were led out back into the bed-room, where
Mrs. Walker was found, anxious to do something, if she only knew
what, to comfort the wretched husband and the wretched wife. But what
comfort or consolation could there be within their reach? There was
tea made ready for them, and sandwiches cut from the Inn larder. And
there was sherry in the Inn decanter. But no such comfort as that was
possible for either of them.
They were taken home again in the fly, returning without the escort
of Mr. Thompson, and as they went some few words were spoken by Mrs.
Crawley. "Josiah," she said, "there will be a way out of this, even
yet, if you will only hold up your head and trust."
"There is a way out of it," he said. "There is a way. There is but
one way." When he had so spoken she said no more, but resolved that
her eye should never be off him, no,--not for a moment. Then, when
she had gotten him once more into that front parlour, she threw her
arms round him and kissed him.