MRS. ARABIN IS CAUGHT.
[Illustration]
One morning about the middle of April Mr. Toogood received a telegram
from Venice which caused him instantly to leave his business in
Bedford Row and take the first train for Silverbridge. "It seems
to 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 was
making arrangements for his sudden departure and uncertain period
of absence. "That's about it," said Toogood. "A deal of time, some
expense, and no returns. It's not the kind of business a man can live
upon; is it?" The partner growled, and Toogood went. But as we must
go with Mr. Toogood down to Silverbridge, and as we cannot make the
journey in this chapter, we will just indicate his departure and then
go back to John Eames, who, as will be remembered, was just starting
for Florence when we last saw him.
Our dear old friend Johnny had been rather proud of himself as he
started from London. He had gotten an absolute victory over Sir
Raffle Buffle, and that alone was gratifying to his feelings. He
liked the excitement of a journey, and especially of a journey
to Italy; and the importance of the cause of his journey was
satisfactory to him. But above all things he was delighted at having
found that Lily Dale was pleased at his going. He had seen clearly
that she was much pleased, and that she made something of a hero
of him because of his alacrity in the cause of his cousin. He had
partially understood,--had understood in a dim sort of way,--that
his want of favour in Lily's eyes had come from some deficiency of
his own in this respect. She had not found him to be a hero. She had
known him first as a boy, with boyish belongings around him, and she
had seen him from time to time as he became a man, almost with too
much intimacy for the creation of that love with which he wished to
fill her heart. His rival had come before her eyes for the first time
with all the glories of Pall Mall heroism about him, and Lily in her
weakness had been conquered by them. Since that she had learned how
weak she had been,--how silly, how childish, she would say to herself
when she allowed her memory to go back to the details of her own
story; but not the less on that account did she feel the want of
something heroic in a man before she could teach herself to look
upon him as more worthy of her regard than other men. She had still
unconsciously hoped in regard to Crosbie, but now that hope had been
dispelled as unconsciously, simply by his appearance. There had
been moments in which John Eames had almost risen to the necessary
point,--had almost made good his footing on the top of some moderate,
but still sufficient mountain. But there had still been a succession
of little tumbles,--unfortunate slips for which he himself should
not always have been held responsible; and he had never quite stood
upright on his pinnacle, visible to Lily's eyes as being really
excelsior. Of all this John Eames himself had an inkling which had
often made him very uncomfortable. What the mischief was it she
wanted of him; and what was he to do? The days for plucking glory
from the nettle danger were clean gone by. He was well dressed. He
knew a good many of the right sort of people. He was not in debt. He
had saved an old nobleman's life once upon a time, and had been a
good deal talked about on that score. He had even thrashed the man
who had ill-treated her. His constancy had been as the constancy of
a Jacob! What was it that she wanted of him? But in a certain way
he did know what was wanted; and now, as he started for Florence,
intending to stop nowhere till he reached that city, he hoped that
by this chivalrous journey he might even yet achieve the thing
necessary.
But on reaching Paris he heard tidings of Mrs. Arabin which induced
him 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 at
all. It would have been delightful to see Florence,--but was more
delightful still to see Venice. His journey was the same as far as
Turin; but from Turin he proceeded through Milan to Venice, instead
of going by Bologna to Florence. He had fortunately come armed with
an Austrian passport,--as was necessary in those bygone days of
Venetia's thraldom. He was almost proud of himself, as though he
had 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 reaching
Venice he found that Mrs. Arabin had gone back to Florence. He had
been directed to the hotel which Mrs. Arabin had used, and was there
told that she had started the day before. She had received some
letter, from her husband as the landlord thought, and had done so.
That was all the landlord knew. Johnny was vexed, but became a little
prouder than before as he felt it to be his duty to go on to Florence
before he went to bed. There would be another night in a railway
carriage, but he would live through it. There was just time to have
a tub and a breakfast, to swim in a gondola, to look at the outside
of the Doge's palace, and to walk up and down the piazza before he
started again. It was hard work, but I think he would have been
pleased had he heard that Mrs. Arabin had retreated from Florence to
Rome. Had such been the case, he would have folded his cloak around
him, and have gone on,--regardless of brigands,--thinking of Lily,
and wondering whether anybody else had ever done so much before
without going to bed. As it was, he found that Mrs. Arabin was at
the hotel in Florence,--still in bed, as he had arrived early in the
morning. So he had another tub, another breakfast, and sent up his
card. "Mr. John Eames,"--and across the top of it he wrote, "has come
from England about Mr. Crawley." Then he threw himself on to a sofa
in the hotel reading-room, and went fast to sleep.
John had found an opportunity of talking to a young lady in the
breakfast-room, and had told her of his deeds. "I only left London on
Tuesday 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 he
must be one of those Foreign Office messengers," said the young lady.
"Anything but that," said the gentleman. "People never talk about
their own trades. He's probably a clerk with a fortnight's leave of
absence, seeing how many towns he can do in the time. It's the usual
way of travelling now-a-days. When I was young and there were no
railways, 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. Arabin
to say that she would see him at once. "Yes, yes; I'm quite ready to
go on," said Johnny, jumping up, and thinking of the journey to Rome.
But there was no journey to Rome before him. Mrs. Arabin was almost
in the next room, and there he found her.
The reader will understand that they had never met before, and
hitherto knew nothing of each other. Mrs. Arabin had never heard the
name of John Eames till John's card was put into her hands, and would
not have known his business with her had he not written those few
words 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 find
you at Venice."
"Have you been at Venice?"
"I have just arrived from Venice. They told me at Paris I should find
you there. However, that does not matter, as I have found you here. I
wonder 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 the
easiness of the words which contained a solution for so terrible a
difficulty. The Crawley case had assumed such magnitude, and the
troubles of the Crawley family had been so terrible, that it seemed
to him to be almost sacrilegious that words so simply uttered should
suffice to cure everything. He had hardly hoped,--had at least barely
hoped,--that Mrs. Arabin might be able to suggest something which
would put them all on a track towards discovery of the truth. But he
found that she had the clue in her hand, and that the clue was one
which required no further delicacy of investigation. There would be
nothing more to unravel; no journey to Jerusalem would be necessary!
"Yes," said Mrs. Arabin, "I gave it to him. They have been writing
to my husband about it, and never wrote to me; and till I received a
letter about it from my father, and another from my sister, at Venice
the 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' something
about a clergyman, but I did not know what clergyman; and I heard
that there was something wrong about Mr. Crawley's money, but there
has always been something wrong about money with poor Mr. Crawley;
and as I knew that my husband had been written to also, I did not
interfere, further than to ask the particulars. My letters have
followed me about, and I only learned at Venice, just before I came
here, what was the nature of the case."
"And did you do anything?"
"I telegraphed at once to Mr. Toogood, who I understand is acting as
Mr. 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 the
cheque, and then I wrote to Archdeacon Grantly giving him the whole
history. I was obliged to come here before I could return home, but
I 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 been
told how Mr. Crawley in his dire distress had called upon his old
friend at the deanery asking for pecuniary assistance. This he had
done with so much reluctance that his spirit had given way while
he was waiting in the dean's library, and he had wished to depart
without accepting what the dean was quite willing to bestow upon
him. From this cause it had come to pass there had been no time for
explanatory words, even between the dean and his wife,--from whose
private funds had in truth come the money which had been given to
Mr. Crawley. For the private wealth of the family belonged to Mrs.
Arabin, and not to the dean; and was left entirely in Mrs. Arabin's
hands, to be disposed of as she might please. Previously to Mr.
Crawley's arrival at the deanery this matter had been discussed
between the dean and his wife, and it had been agreed between them
that a sum of fifty pounds should be given. It should be given by
Mrs. Arabin, but it was thought that the gift would come with more
comfort to the recipient from the hands of his old friend than from
those of his wife. There had been much discussion between them as to
the mode in which this might be done with least offence to the man's
feelings,--for they knew Mr. Crawley and his peculiarities well. At
last it was agreed that the notes should be put into an envelope,
which envelope the dean should have ready with him. But when the
moment came the dean did not have the envelope ready, and was obliged
to leave the room to seek his wife. And Mrs. Arabin explained to
John Eames that even she had not had it ready, and had been forced
to go to her own desk to fetch it. Then, at the last moment, with
the desire of increasing the good to be done to people who were so
terribly in want, she put the cheque for twenty pounds, which was in
her possession as money of her own, along with the notes, and in this
way the cheque had been given by the dean to Mr. Crawley. "I shall
never forgive myself for not telling the dean," she said. "Had I done
that all this trouble would have been saved!"
"But where did you get the cheque?" Eames asked with natural
curiosity.
"Exactly," said Mrs. Arabin. "I have got to show now that I did not
steal it,--have I not? Mr. Soames will indict me now. And, indeed, I
have 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 mind
was clearer on such matters than Mr. Crawley's, and she was able to
explain that she had taken the cheque as part of the rent due to
her from the landlord of "The Dragon of Wantly," which inn was her
property, having been the property of her first husband. For some
years past there had been a difficulty about the rent, things not
having gone at "The Dragon of Wantly" as smoothly as they had used to
go. At one time the money had been paid half-yearly by the landlord's
cheque on the bank at Barchester. For the last year-and-a-half this
had not been done, and the money had come into Mrs. Arabin's hands
at irregular periods and in irregular sums. There was at this moment
rent due for twelve months, and Mrs. Arabin expressed her doubt
whether she would get it on her return to Barchester. On the occasion
to which she was now alluding, the money had been paid into her own
hands, in the deanery breakfast-parlour, by a man she knew very
well,--not the landlord himself, but one bearing the landlord's name,
whom she believed to be the landlord's brother, or at least his
cousin. The man in question was named Daniel Stringer, and he had
been employed in "The Dragon of Wantly," as a sort of clerk or
managing man, as long as she had known it. The rent had been paid
to her by Daniel Stringer quite as often as by Daniel's brother or
cousin, John Stringer, who was, in truth, the landlord of the hotel.
When questioned by John respecting the persons employed at the
inn, she said that she did believe that there had been rumours of
something wrong. The house had been in the hands of the Stringers for
many years,--before the property had been purchased by her husband's
father,--and therefore there had been an unwillingness to move them;
but gradually, so she said, there had come upon her and her husband a
feeling that the house must be put into other hands. "But did you say
nothing about the cheque?" John asked. "Yes, I said a good deal about
it. I asked why a cheque of Mr. Soames's was brought to me, instead
of being taken to the bank for money; and Stringer explained to me
that they were not very fond of going to the bank, as they owed
money there, but that I could pay it into my account. Only I kept my
account 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. Crawley
instead,--like a fool, as I know now that I was. And so I have
brought 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 is
hard upon you, though," she said; "you will see nothing of Florence.
Three hours in Venice, and six in Florence, and no hours at all
anywhere else, will be a hard fate to you on your first trip to
Italy." But Johnny said "Excelsior" to himself once more, and thought
of Lily Dale, who was still in London, hoping that she might hear of
his exertions; and he felt, perhaps, also, that it would be pleasant
to 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 news
of Mr. Crawley's innocence and injuries. "I don't care a bit about
that," he said. "Of course, I should like to see Florence, and, of
course, I should like to go to bed; but I will live in hopes that I
may do both some day." And so there grew to be a friendship between
him and Mrs. Arabin even before they had started.
He was driven once through Florence; he saw the Venus de' Medici, and
he saw the Seggiola; he looked up from the side of the Duomo to the
top of the Campanile, and he walked round the back of the cathedral
itself; he tried to inspect the doors of the Baptistery, and declared
that the "David" was very fine. Then he went back to the hotel, dined
with Mrs. Arabin, and started for England.
The dean was to have joined his wife at Venice, and then they were
to have returned together, coming round by Florence. Mrs. Arabin had
not, therefore, taken her things away from Florence when she left
it, and had been obliged to return to pick them up on her journey
homewards. He,--the dean,--had been delayed in his Eastern travels.
Neither Syria nor Constantinople had got themselves done as quickly
as he had expected, and he had, consequently, twice written to his
wife, begging her to pardon the transgression of his absence for even
yet a few days longer. "Everything, therefore," as Mrs. Arabin said,
"has conspired to perpetuate this mystery, which a word from me would
have 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 the
truth. If you could see inside his mind at this moment, I'm sure
you'd find that he thinks he stole the cheque."
"He cannot think that, Mr. Eames. Besides, at this moment I hope he
has heard the truth."
"That may be, but he did think so. I do believe that he had not the
slightest notion where he got it; and, which is more, not a single
person in the whole county had a notion. People thought that he had
picked it up, and used it in his despair. And the bishop has been so
hard 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 paragraph
to Mrs. Arabin; "Mrs. Proudie is dead!" "Mrs. Proudie dead!" she
exclaimed. "Poor woman! Then there will be peace at Barchester!"
"I never knew her very intimately," she afterwards said to her
companion, "and I do not know that I have a right to say that she
ever did me an injury. But I remember well her first coming into
Barchester. My sister's father-in-law, the late bishop, was just
dead. He was a mild, kind, dear old man, whom my father loved beyond
all the world, except his own children. You may suppose we were all
a 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 a
young mourning widow,--"but I think I can never forget the sort of
harsh-toned pæan of low-church trumpets with which that poor woman
made her entry into the city. She might have been more lenient, as
we had never sinned by being very high. She might, at any rate, have
been more gentle with us at first. I think we had never attempted
much beyond decency, good-will and comfort. Our comfort she utterly
destroyed. Good-will was not to her taste. And as for decency, when I
remember some things, I must say that when the comfort and good-will
went, the decency went along with them. And now she is dead! I wonder
how 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 a
subject."
Mrs. Arabin and Johnny became fast friends as they journeyed home.
There was a sweetness in his character which endeared him readily
to women; though, as we have seen, there was a want of something to
make one woman cling to him. He could be soft and pleasant-mannered.
He was fond of making himself useful, and was a perfect master of
all those little caressing modes of behaviour in which the caress
is quite impalpable, and of which most women know the value and
appreciate the comfort. By the time that they had reached Paris John
had told Mrs. Arabin the whole story of Lily Dale and Crosbie, and
Mrs. Arabin had promised to assist him, if any assistance might be in
her power.
"Of course I have heard of Miss Dale," she said, "because we know the
De Courcys." Then she turned away her face, almost blushing, as she
remembered the first time that she had seen that Lady Alexandrina
De Courcy whom Mr. Crosbie had married. It had been at Mr. Thorne's
house at Ullathorne, and on that day she had done a thing which she
had never since remembered without blushing. But it was an old story
now, and a story of which her companion knew nothing,--of which he
never could know anything. That day at Ullathorne Mrs. Arabin, the
wife of the Dean of Barchester, than whom there was no more discreet
clerical matron in the diocese, had--boxed a clergyman's ears!
"Yes," said John, speaking of Crosbie, "he was a wise fellow; he knew
what he was about; he married an earl's daughter."
"And now I remember hearing that somebody gave him a terrible
beating. 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 to
do in these days is to seem not to care what he eats and drinks, and
to have his linen very well got up. Then he'll be a hero." But that
was 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 the
way of travelling as her companion had achieved--and then arrived
in London in the evening. She was taken to a certain quiet clerical
hotel at the top of Suffolk Street, much patronized by bishops and
deans of the better sort, expecting to find a message there from
her husband. And there was the message--just arrived. The dean had
reached Florence three days after her departure; and as he would do
the journey home in twenty-four hours less than she had taken, he
would be there, at the hotel, on the day after to-morrow. "I suppose
I 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 Raffle
Buffle, 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 seen
that Mrs. Arabin and John Eames had become very intimate on their way
home.
It was then arranged that he should call on Mr. Toogood that same
night or early the next morning, and that he should come to the hotel
at twelve o'clock on the next day. Going along one of the passages
he passed two gentlemen in shovel-hats, with very black new coats,
and knee-breeches; and Johnny could not but hear a few words which
one clerical gentleman said to the other. "She was a woman of great
energy, of wonderful spirit, but a firebrand, my lord,--a complete
firebrand!" Then Johnny knew that the Dean of A. was talking to the
Bishop of B. about the late Mrs. Proudie.