“That is true—that is quite true. There is no doubt of that. But as I was saying—then he fell to talking about the books, and I was angered. I was very sore in my heart. From the moment in which the words of beggary had passed from my lips, I had repented. And he had laughed and had taken it gaily. I turned upon him and told him that I had changed my mind. I was grateful, but I would not have his money. And so I prepared to go. But he argued with me, and would not let me go—telling me of my wife and of my children, and while he argued there came a knock at the door, and something was handed in, and I knew that it was the hand of his wife.”
“It was the money, I suppose?”
“Yes, Mr. Toogood; it was the money. And I became the more uneasy, because she herself is rich. I liked it the less because it seemed to come from her hand. But I took it. What could I do when he reminded me that I could not keep my parish unless certain sums were paid? He gave me a little parcel in a cover, and I took it—and left him sorrowing. I had never before come quite to that—though, indeed, it had in fact been often so before. What was the difference whether the alms were given into my hands or into my wife’s?”
“You are too touchy about it all, Mr. Crawley.”
“Of course I am. Do you try it, and see whether you will be touchy. You have worked hard at your profession, I daresay.”
“Well, yes; pretty well. To tell the truth, I have worked hard. By George, yes! It’s not so bad now as it used to be.”
“But you have always earned your bread; bread for yourself, and bread for your wife and little ones. You can buy tickets for the play.”
“I couldn’t always buy tickets, mind you.”
“I have worked as hard, and yet I cannot get bread. I am older than you, and I cannot earn my bare bread. Look at my clothes. If you had to go and beg from Mr. Crump, would not you be touchy?”
“As it happens, Crump isn’t so well off as I am.”
“Never mind. But I took it, and went home, and for two days I did not look at it. And then there came an illness upon me, and I know not what passed. But two men who had been hard on me came to the house when I was out, and my wife was in a terrible state; and I gave her the money, and she went into Silverbridge and paid them.”
“And this cheque was with what you gave her?”
“No; I gave her money in notes—just fifty pounds. When I gave it her, I thought I gave it all; and yet afterwards I thought I remembered that in my illness I had found the cheque with the dean’s money. But it was not so.”
“You are sure of that?”
“He has said that he put five notes of £10 each into the cover, and such notes I certainly gave to my wife.”
“Where then did you get the cheque?” Mr. Crawley again paused before he answered. “Surely, if you will exert your mind, you will remember,” said the lawyer. “Where did you get the cheque?”
“I do not know.”
Mr. Toogood threw himself back in his chair, took his knee up into his lap to nurse it, and began to think of it. He sat thinking of it for some minutes without a word—perhaps for five minutes, though the time seemed to be much longer to Mr. Crawley, who was, however, determined that he would not interrupt him. And Mr. Toogood’s thoughts were at variance with Mr. Toogood’s former words. Perhaps, after all, this scheme of Mr. Crawley’s—or perhaps the mode of defence on which he had resolved without any scheme—might be the best of which the case admitted. It might be well that he should go into court without a lawyer. “He has convinced me of his innocence,” Mr. Toogood said to himself, “and why should he not convince a jury? He has convinced me, not because I am specially soft, or because I love the man—for as to that I dislike him rather than otherwise—but because there is either real truth in his words, or else so well-feigned a show of truth that no jury can tell the difference. I think it is true. By George, I think he did get the twenty pounds honestly, and that he does not this moment know where he got it. He may have put his finger into my eye; but, if so, why not also into the eyes of a jury?” Then he released his leg, and spoke something of his thoughts aloud. “It’s a sad story,” he said; “a very sad story.”
“Well, yes, it’s sad enough. If you could see my house, you’d say so.”
“I haven’t a doubt but what you’re as innocent as I am.” Mr. Toogood, as he said this, felt a little twinge of conscience. He did believe Mr. Crawley to be innocent, but he was not so sure of it as his words would seem to imply. Nevertheless he repeated the words again—”as innocent as I am.”
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Crawley. “I don’t know. I think I am; but I don’t know.”
“I believe you are. But you see the case is a very distressing one. A jury has a right to say that the man in possession of a cheque for twenty pounds should account for his possession of it. If I understand the story aright, Mr. Soames will be able to prove that he brought the cheque into your house, and, as far as he knows, never took it out again.”
“I suppose so; all the same, if he brought it in, then did he also take it out again.”
“I am saying what he will prove—or, in other words, what he will state upon oath. You can’t contradict him. You can’t get into the box to do it—even if that would be of any avail; and I am glad that you cannot, as it would be of no avail. And you can put no one else into the box who can do so.”
“No; no.”
“That is to say, we think you cannot do so. People can do so many things that they don’t think they can do; and can’t do so many things that they think that they can do! When will the dean be home?”
“I don’t know.”
“Before the trial?”
“I don’t know. I have no idea.”
“It’s almost a toss-up whether he’d do more harm or good if he were there.”
“I wish he might be there if he has anything to say, whether it might be for harm or good.”
“And Mrs. Arabin—she is with him?”
“They tell me she is not. She is in Europe. He is in Palestine.”
“In Palestine, is he?”
“So they tell me. A dean can go where he likes. He has no cure of souls to stand in the way of his pleasures.”
“He hasn’t—hasn’t he? I wish I were a dean; that is, if I were not a lawyer. Might I write a line to the dean—and to Mrs. Dean if it seemed fit? You wouldn’t mind that? As you have come to see your cousin at last—and very glad I am that you have—you must leave him a little discretion. I won’t say anything I oughtn’t to say.” Mr. Crawley opposed this scheme for some time, but at last consented to the proposition. “And I’ll tell you what, Mr. Crawley; I am very fond of cathedrals, I am indeed; and I have long wanted to see Barchester. There’s a very fine what-you-may-call-em; isn’t there? Well; I’ll just run down at the assizes. We have nothing to do in London when the judges are in the country—of course.” Mr. Toogood looked into Mr. Crawley’s eyes as he said this, to see if his iniquity were detected, but the perpetual curate was altogether innocent in these matters. “Yes; I’ll just run down for a mouthful of fresh air. Of course I shan’t open my mouth in court. But I might say one word to the dean, if he’s there—and one word to Mr. Soames. Who is conducting the prosecution?” Mr. Crawley said that Mr. Walker was doing so. “Walker, Walker, Walker? oh—yes; Walker and Winthrop, isn’t it? A decent sort of man, I suppose?”
“I have heard nothing to his discredit, Mr. Toogood.”
“And that’s saying a great deal for a lawyer. Well, Mr. Crawley, if nothing else comes out between this and that—nothing, that is, that shall clear your memory about that unfortunate bit of paper, you must simply tell your story to the jury as you’ve told it to me. I don’t think any twelve men in England would convict you—I don’t indeed.”
“You think they would not?”
“Of course I’ve only heard one side, Mr. Crawley.”
“No—no—no, that is true.”
“But judging as well as I can judge from one side, I don’t think a jury can convict you. At any rate I’ll see you at Barchester, and I’ll write a line or two before the trial, just to find out anything that can be found out. And you’re sure you won’t come and take a bit of mutton with us in the Square? The girls would be delighted to see you, and so would Maria.” Mr. Crawley said that he was quite sure he could not do that, and then having tendered reiterated thanks to his new friend in words which were touching in spite of their old-fashioned gravity, he took his leave, and walked back again to the public-house at Paddington.
He returned home to Hogglestock on the same afternoon, reaching that place at nine in the evening. During the whole of the day after leaving Raymond’s Buildings he was thinking of the lawyer, and of the words which the lawyer had spoken. Although he had been disposed to quarrel with Mr. Toogood on many points, although he had been more than once disgusted at the attorney’s bad taste, shocked by his low morality, and almost insulted by his easy familiarity, still, when the interview was over, he liked the attorney. When first Mr. Toogood had begun to talk, he regretted very much that he had subjected himself to the necessity of discussing his private affairs with such a windbag of a man; but when he left the chamber he trusted Mr. Toogood altogether, and was very glad that he had sought his aid. He was tired and exhausted when he reached home, as he had eaten nothing but a biscuit or two since his breakfast; but his wife got him food and tea, and then asked him as to his success. “Was my cousin kind to you?”
“Very kind—more than kind—perhaps somewhat too pressing in his kindness. But I find no fault. God forbid that I should. He is, I think, a good man, and certainly has been good to me.”
“And what is to be done?”
“He will write to the dean.”
“I am glad of that.”
“And he will be at Barchester.”
“Thank God for that.”
“But not as my lawyer.”
“Nevertheless, I thank God that some one will be there who will know how to give you assistance and advice.”
CHAPTER XXXIII
The Plumstead Foxes
The letters had been brought into the breakfast-parlour at Plumstead Rectory one morning, and the archdeacon had inspected them all, and then thrown over to his wife her share of the spoil—as was the custom of the house. As to most of Mrs. Grantly’s letters, he never made any further inquiry. To letters from her sister, the dean’s wife, he was profoundly indifferent, and rarely made any inquiry as to those which were directed in writing with which he was not familiar. But there were others as to which, as Mrs. Grantly knew, he would be sure to ask her questions if she did not show them. No note ever reached her from Lady Harteltop as to which he was not curious, and yet Lady Hartletop’s notes very seldom contained much that was of interest. Now, on this morning, there came a letter which, as a matter of course, Mrs. Grantly read at breakfast, and which, she knew, would not be allowed to disappear without inquiry. Nor, indeed, did she wish to keep the letter from her husband. It was too important to be so treated. But she would have been glad to gain time to think in what spirit she would discuss the contents of the letter—if only such time might be allowed to her. But the archdeacon would allow her no time. “What does Henry say, my dear?” he asked, before the breakfast things had been taken away.
“What does he say? Well, he says—I’ll give you his letter to read by-and-by.”
“And why not now?”
“I thought I’d read it again myself, first.”
“But if you have read it, I suppose you know what’s in it?”
“Not very clearly, as yet. However, there it is.” She knew very well that when she had once been asked for it, no peace would be allowed to her till he had seen it. And, alas! there was not much probability of peace in the house for some time after he should see it.
The archdeacon read the three or four first lines in silence—and then he burst out. “He has, has he? Then, by heavens—”
“Stop, dearest; stop,” said his wife, rising from her chair and coming over to him; “do not say words which you will surely repent.”
“I will say words which shall make him repent. He shall never have from me a son’s portion.”
“Do not make threats in anger. Do not! You know that it is wrong. If he has offended you, say nothing about it—even to yourself—as to threatened punishments, till you can judge of the offence in cool blood.”
“I am cool,” said the archdeacon.
“No, my dear; no; you are angry. And you have not even read his letter through.”
“I will read his letter.”
“You will see that the marriage is not imminent. It may be that even yet it will never take place. The young lady has refused him.”
“Psha!”
“You will see that she has done so. He tells us so himself. And she has behaved very properly.”
“Why has she refused him?”
“There can be no doubt about the reason. She feels that, with this charge hanging over her father, she is not in a position to become the wife of any gentleman. You cannot but respect her for that.”
Then the archdeacon finished his son’s letter, uttering sundry interjections and ejaculations as he did so.
“Of course; I knew it. I understood it all,” he said at last. “I’ve nothing to do with the girl. I don’t care whether she be good or bad.”
“Oh, my dear!”
“I care not at all—with reference to my own concerns. Of course I would wish that the daughter of a neighbouring clergyman—that the daughter of any neighbour—that the daughter of anyone whatsoever—should be good rather than bad. But as regards Henry and me, and our mutual relation, her goodness can make no difference. Let her be another Grizel, and still such a marriage must estrange him from me, and me from him.”
“But she has refused him.”
“Yes; and what does he say?—that he has told her that he will not accept her refusal. Of course we know what it all means. The girl I am not judging. The girl I will not judge. But my own son, to whom I have ever done a father’s duty with a father’s affectionate indulgence—him I will judge. I have warned him, and he declares himself to be careless of my warning. I shall take no notice of this letter. I shall neither write to him about it, or speak to him about it. But I charge you to write to him, and tell him that if he does this thing he shall not have a child’s portion from me. It is not that I will shorten that which would have been his; but he shall have—nothing!” Then, having spoken these words with a solemnity which for the moment silenced his wife, he got up and left the room. He left the room and closed the door, but, before he had gone half the length of the hall towards his own study, he returned and addressed his wife again. “You understand my instructions, I hope?”
“What instructions?”
“That you write to Henry and tell him what I say.”
“I will speak again to you about it by-and-by.”
“I will speak no more about it—not a word more. Let there be not a word more said, but oblige me by doing as I ask you.”
Then he was again about to leave the room, but she stopped him. “Wait a moment, my dear.”
“Why should I wait?”
“That you may listen to me. Surely you will do that, when I ask you. I will write to Henry, of course, if you bid me; and I will give him your message, whatever it may be; but not to-day, my dear.”
“Why not to-day?”
“Because the sun shall go down upon your wrath before I become its messenger. If you choose to write to-day yourself, I cannot help it. I cannot hinder you. If I am to write to him on your behalf I will take my instructions from you to-morrow morning. When to-morrow morning comes you will not be angry with me because of the delay.”
The archdeacon was by no means satisfied; but he knew his wife too well, and himself too well, and the world too well, to insist on the immediate gratification of his passion. Over his bosom’s mistress he did exercise a certain marital control—which was, for instance, quite sufficiently fixed to enable him to look down with thorough contempt on such a one as Bishop Proudie; but he was not a despot who could exact a passive obedience to every fantasy. His wife would not have written the letter for him on that day, and he knew very well that she would not do so. He knew also that she was right—and yet he regretted his want of power. His anger at the present moment was very hot—so hot that he wished to wreak it. He knew that it would cool before the morrow—and, no doubt, knew also theoretically, that it would be most fitting that it should be cool. But not the less was it a matter of regret to him that so much good hot anger should be wasted, and that he could not have his will of his disobedient son while it lasted. He might, no doubt, have written himself, but to have done so would not have suited him. Even in his anger he could not have written to his son without using the ordinary terms of affection, and in his anger he could not bring himself to use those terms. “You will find that I shall be of the same mind to-morrow—exactly,” he said to his wife. “I have resolved about it long since; and it is not likely that I shall change in a day.” Then he went out, about his parish, intending to continue to think of his son’s iniquity, so that he might keep his anger hot—red hot. Then he remembered that the evening would come, and that he would say his prayers; and he shook his head in regret—in a regret of which he was only half conscious, though it was very keen, and which he did not attempt to analyse—as he reflected that his rage would hardly be able to survive that ordeal. How common with us it is to repine that the devil is not stronger over us than he is.
The archdeacon, who was a very wealthy man, had purchased a property at Plumstead, contiguous to the glebe-land, and had thus come to exercise in the parish the double duty of rector and squire. And of this estate in Barsetshire, which extended beyond the confines of Plumstead into the neighbouring parish of Eiderdown, and which comprised also an outlying farm in the parish of Stogpingum—Stoke Pinguium would have been the proper name had not barbarous Saxon tongues clipped it of its proper proportions—he had always intended that his son Henry should enjoy the inheritance. There was other property, both in land and in money, for his elder son, and other again for the maintenance of his wife, for the archdeacon’s father had been for many years Bishop of Barchester, and such a bishopric as that of Barchester had been in those days worth money. Of his intention in this respect he had never spoken in plain language to either of his sons; but the major had for the last year or two enjoyed the shooting of the Barsetshire covers, giving what orders he pleased about the game; and the father had encouraged him to take something like the management of the property into his hands. There might be some fifteen hundred acres of it altogether, and the archdeacon had rejoiced over it with his wife scores of times, saying that there was many a squire in the county whose elder son would never find himself so well placed as would his own younger son. Now there was a string of narrow woods called Plumstead Coppices which ran from a point near the church right across the parish, dividing the archdeacon’s land from the Ullathorne estate, and these coppices, or belts of woodland, belonged to the archdeacon. On the morning of which we are speaking, the archdeacon, mounted on his cob, still thinking of his son’s iniquity and of his own fixed resolve to punish him as he had said that he would punish him, opened with his whip a woodland gate, from which a green muddy lane led through the trees up to the house of his gamekeeper. The man’s wife was ill, and in his ordinary way of business the archdeacon was about to call and ask after her health. At the door of the cottage he found the man, who was woodman as well as gamekeeper, and was responsible for fences and fagots, as well as for foxes and pheasants’ eggs.
“How’s Martha, Flurry?” said the archdeacon.
“Thanking your reverence, she be a deal improved since the mistress was here—last Tuesday it was, I think.”
“I’m glad of that. It was only rheumatism, I suppose?”
“Just a tich of fever with it, your reverence, the doctor said,”
“Tell her I was asking after it. I won’t mind getting down to-day, as I am rather busy. She has had what she wanted from the house?”
“The mistress has been very good in that way. She always is, God bless her!”
“Good-day to you, Flurry. I’ll ask Mr. Sims to come and read to her a bit this afternoon, or to-morrow morning.” The archdeacon kept two curates, and Mr. Sims was one of them.
“She’ll take it very kindly, your reverence. But while you are here, sir, there’s just a word I’d like to say. I didn’t happen to catch Mr. Henry when he was here the other day.”
“Never mind Mr. Henry; what is it you have to say?”
“I do think, I do indeed, sir, that Mr. Thorne’s man ain’t dealing fairly along of the foxes. I wouldn’t say a word about it, only that Mr. Henry is so particular.”
“What about the foxes? What is he doing with the foxes?”
“Well, sir, he’s a trapping on ‘em. He is, indeed, your reverence. I wouldn’t speak if I warn’t well nigh mortal sure.”
Now the archdeacon had never been a hunting man, though in his early days many a clergyman had been in the habit of hunting without losing his clerical character by doing so; but he had lived all his life among gentlemen in a hunting county, and had his own very strong ideas about the trapping of foxes. Foxes first, and pheasants afterwards, had always been the rule with him as to any land of which he himself had had the management. And no man understood better than he did how to deal with keepers as to this matter of fox-preserving, or knew better that keepers will in truth obey not the words of their employers, but their sympathies. “Wish them to have foxes, and pay them, and they will have them,” Mr. Sowerby of Chaldicotes used to say, and he in his day was reckoned to be the best preserver of foxes in Barsetshire. “Tell them to have them, and don’t wish it, and pay them well, and you won’t have a fox to interfere with your game. I don’t care what a man says to me, I can read it all like a book when I see his covers drawn.” That was what poor Mr. Sowerby of Chaldicotes used to say, and the archdeacon had heard him say it a score of times, and had learned the lesson. But now his heart was not with the foxes—and especially not with the foxes on behalf of his son Henry. “I can’t have any meddling with Mr. Thorne,” he said; “I can’t; and I won’t.”
“But I don’t suppose it can be Mr. Thorne’s order, your reverence; and Mr. Henry is so particular.”
“Of course it isn’t Mr. Thorne’s order. Mr. Thorne has been a hunting man all his life.”
“But he have guv’ up now, your reverence. He ain’t a hunted these two years.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t have the foxes trapped.”
“Not if he knowed it, he wouldn’t, your reverence. A gentleman of the likes of him, who’s been a hunting over fifty year, wouldn’t do the likes of that; but the foxes is trapped, and Mr. Henry’ll be a putting it on me if I don’t speak out. They is Plumstead foxes, too; and a vixen was trapped just across the field yonder, in Goshall Springs, no later than yesterday morning.” Flurry was now thoroughly in earnest; and, indeed, the trapping of a vixen in February is a serious thing.
“Goshall Springs don’t belong to me,” said the archdeacon.
“No, your reverence; they’re on the Ullathorne property. But a word from your reverence would do it. Mr. Henry thinks more of the foxes than anything. The last word he told me was that it would break his heart if he saw the coppices drawn blank.”
“Then he must break his heart.” The words were pronounced, but the archdeacon had so much command over himself as to speak them in such a voice that the man should not hear them. But it was incumbent on him to say something that the man should hear. “I will have no meddling in the matter, Flurry. Whether there are foxes or whether there are not, is a matter of no great moment. I will not have a word said to annoy Mr. Thorne.” Then he rode away, back through the wood and out on to the road, and the horse walked with him leisurely on, whither the archdeacon hardly knew—for he was thinking, thinking, thinking. “Well—if that ain’t the darn’dest thing that ever was,” said Flurry; “but I’ll tell the squire about Thorne’s man—darned if I don’t.” now, “the squire” was young Squire Gresham, the master of the East Barsetshire hounds.