The Last Chronicle of Barset (118 page)

‘The dean did not know it, man,' said Toogood, almost in a passion.

‘Bear with me yet awhile. So far have I been from misdoubting the dean – whom I have long known to be in all things a true and honest gentleman – that I postponed the elaborated result of my own memory to his word. And I felt myself the more constrained to do
this, because, in a moment of forgetfulness, in the wantonness of inconsiderate haste, with wicked thoughtlessness, I had allowed myself to make a false statement – unwittingly false, indeed, nathless very false, unpardonably false. I had declared, without thinking, that the money had come to me from the hands of Mr Soames, thereby seeming to cast a reflection upon that gentleman. When I had been guilty of so great a blunder, of so gross a violation of that ordinary care which should govern all words between man and man, especially when any question of money may be in doubt – how could I expect that anyone should accept my statement when contravened by that made by the dean? How, in such embarrassment, could I believe my own memory? Gentlemen, I did not believe my own memory. Though all the little circumstances of that envelope, with its rich but perilous freightage, came back upon me from time to time with an exactness that has appeared to me to be almost marvellous, yet I have told myself that it was not so! Gentlemen, if you please, we will go into the house; my wife is there, and should no longer be left in suspense.' They passed on in silence for a few steps, till Crawley spoke again. ‘Perhaps you will allow me the privilege to be alone with her for one minute – but for a minute. Her thanks shall not be delayed, where thanks are so richly due.'

‘Of course,' said Toogood, wiping his eyes with a large red bandana handkerchief. ‘By all means. We'll take a little walk. Come along, major.' The major had turned his face away, and he also was weeping. ‘By George! I never heard such a thing in all my life,' said Toogood. ‘I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it. I wouldn't indeed. If I were to tell that up in London, nobody would believe me.'

‘I call that man a hero,' said Grantly.

‘I don't know about being a hero. I never quite knew what makes a hero, if it isn't having three or four girls dying in love for you at once. But to find a man who was going to let everything in the world go against him, because he believed another fellow better than himself ! There's many a chap thinks another man is wool-gathering; but this man has thought he was wool-gathering himself ! It's not natural; and the world wouldn't go on if there were many like that. He's beckoning, and we had better go in.'

Mr Toogood went first, and the major followed him. When they entered the front door they saw the skirt of a woman's dress flitting away through the door at the end of the passage, and on entering the room to the left they found Mr Crawley alone. ‘She has fled, as though from an enemy,' he said, with a little attempt at a laugh; ‘but I will pursue her, and bring her back.'

‘No, Crawley, no,' said the lawyer. ‘She's a little upset, and all that kind of thing. We know what women are. Let her alone.'

‘Nay, Mr Toogood; but then she would be angered with herself afterwards, and would lack the comfort of having spoken a word of gratitude. Pardon me, Major Grantly; but I would not have you leave us till she has seen you. It is as her cousin says. She is somewhat over-excited. But still it will be best that she should see you. Gentlemen, you will excuse me.'

Then he went out to fetch his wife, and while he was away not a word was spoken. The major looked out of one window and Mr Toogood out of the other, and they waited patiently till they heard the coming steps of the husband and wife. When the door was opened, Mr Crawley appeared, leading his wife by the hand. ‘My dear,' he said, ‘you know Major Grantly. This is your cousin, Mr Toogood. It is well that you know him too, and remember his great kindness to us.' But Mrs Crawley could not speak. She could only sink on the sofa, and hide her face, while she strove in vain to repress her sobs. She had been very strong through all her husband's troubles – very strong in bearing for him what he could not bear for himself, and in fighting on his behalf battles in which he was altogether unable to couch a lance; but the endurance of so many troubles and the great overwhelming sorrow at last had so nearly overpowered her, that she could not sustain the shock of this turn in their fortunes. ‘She was never like this, sirs, when ill news came to us,' said Mr Crawley, standing somewhat apart from her.

The major sat himself by her side, and put his hand upon hers, and whispered some word to her about her daughter. Upon this she threw her arms around him, and kissed his face, and then his hands, and then looked up into his face through her tears. She murmured some few words, or attempted to do so. I doubt whether the major
understood their meaning, but he knew very well what was in her heart.

‘And now I think we might as well be moving,' said Mr Toogood. ‘I'll see about having the indictment quashed. I'll arrange all that with Walker. It may be necessary that you should go into Barchester the first day the judges sit; and if so, I'll come and fetch you. You may be sure I won't leave the place till it's all square.'

As they were going, Grantly – speaking now altogether with indifference as to Toogood's presence – asked Mr Crawley's leave to be the bearer of these tidings to his daughter.

‘She can hear it in no tones that can be more grateful to her,' said Mr Crawley.

‘I shall ask her for nothing for myself now,' said Grantly. ‘It would be ungenerous. But hereafter – in a few days – when she shall be more at ease, may I then use your permission –?'

‘Major Grantly,' said Mr Crawley solemnly, ‘I respect you so highly, and esteem you so thoroughly, that I give willingly that which you ask. If my daughter can bring herself to regard you, as a woman should regard her husband, with the love that can worship and cling and be constant, she will, I think, have a fair promise of worldly happiness. And for you, sir, in giving you my girl – if so be it that she is given to you – I shall bestow upon you a great treasure.' Had Grace been a king's daughter, with a queen's dowry, the permission to address her could not have been imparted to her lover with a more thorough appreciation of the value of the privilege conferred.

‘He is a rum 'un,' said Mr Toogood, as they got into the carriage together; ‘but they say he's a very good 'un to go.'

After their departure Jane was sent for, that she might hear the family news; and when she expressed some feeling not altogether in favour of Mr Toogood, Mr Crawley thus strove to correct her views. ‘He is a man, my dear, who conceals a warm heart, and an active spirit, and healthy sympathies, under an affected jocularity of manner, and almost with a touch of vulgarity. But when the jewel itself is good, any fault in the casket may be forgiven.'

‘Then, papa, the next time I see him I'll like him – if I can,' said Jane.

The village of Framley lies slightly off the road from Hogglestock to Barchester – so much so as to add perhaps a mile to the journey if the traveller goes by the parsonage gate. On their route to Hogglestock our two travellers had passed Framley without visiting the village, but on the return journey the major asked Mr Toogood's permission to make the deviation. ‘I'm not in a hurry,' said Toogood. ‘I never was more comfortable in my life. I'll just light a cigar while you go in and see your friends.' Toogood lit his cigar, and the major, getting down from the carriage, entered the parsonage. It was his fortune to find Grace alone. Robarts was in Barchester, and Mrs Robarts was across the road, at Framley Court. ‘Miss Crawley was certainly in,' the servant told him, and he soon found himself in Miss Crawley's presence.

‘I have only called to tell you the news about your father,' said he.

‘What news?'

‘We have just come from Hogglestock – your cousin, Mr Toogood, that is, and myself. They have found out all about the cheque. My aunt, Mrs Arabin, the dean's wife, you know – she gave it to your father.'

‘Oh, Major Grantly!'

‘It seems so easily settled, does it not?'

‘And is it settled?'

‘Yes; everything. Everything about that.' Now he had hold of her hand as if he were going. ‘Good-bye. I told your father that I would just call and tell you.'

‘It seems almost more than I can believe.'

‘You may believe it; indeed you may.' He still held her hand. ‘You will write to your mother I daresay tonight. Tell her I was here. Good-bye now.'

‘Good-bye,' she said. Her hand was still in his, as she looked up into his face.

‘Dear, dear, dearest Grace! My darling Grace!' Then he took her into his arms and kissed her, and went his way without another word, feeling that he had kept his word to her father like a gentleman. Grace, when she was left alone, thought that she was the happiest girl in Christendom. If she could only get to her mother, and tell
everything, and be told everything! She had no idea of any promise that her lover might have made to her father, nor did she make inquiry of her own thoughts as to his reasons for staying with her so short a time; but looking back at it all she thought his conduct had been perfect.

In the meantime the major, with Mr Toogood, was driven home to dinner at Barchester.

John Eames, as soon as he had left Mrs Arabin at the hotel and had taken his travelling-bag to his own lodgings, started off for his uncle Toogood's house. There he found Mrs Toogood, not in the most serene state of mind as to her husband's absence. Mr Toogood had now been at Barchester for the best part of a week – spending a good deal of money at the inn. Mrs Toogood was quite sure that he must be doing that. Indeed, how could he help himself? Johnny remarked that he did not see how in such circumstances his uncle was to help himself. And then Mr Toogood had only written one short scrap of a letter – just three words, and they were written in triumph. ‘Crawley is all right, and I think I've got the real Simon Pure
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by the heels.' ‘It's all very well, John,' Mrs Toogood said; ‘and of course it would be a terrible thing to the family if anybody connected with it were made out to be a thief.' ‘It would be quite dreadful,' said Johnny. ‘Not that I ever looked upon the Crawleys as connexions of ours. But, however, let that pass. I'm sure I'm very glad that your uncle should have been able to be of service to them. But there's reason in the roasting of eggs, and I can tell you that money is not so plenty in this house that your uncle can afford to throw it into the Barchester gutters. Think what twelve children are, John. It might be all very well if Toogood were a bachelor, and if some lord had left him a
fortune.' John Eames did not stay very long in Tavistock Square. His cousins Polly and Lucy were gone to the play with Mr Summerkin, and his aunt was not in one of her best humours. He took his uncle's part as well as he could, and then left Mrs Toogood. The little allusion to Lord De Guest's generosity had not been pleasant to him. It seemed to rob him of all his own merit. He had been rather proud of his journey to Italy, having contrived to spend nearly forty pounds in ten days. He had done everything in the most expensive way, feeling that every napoleon wasted had been laid out on behalf of Mr Crawley. But, as Mrs Toogood had just told him, all this was nothing to what Toogood was doing. Toogood with twelve children was living at his own charges at Barchester and was neglecting his business besides. ‘There's Mr Crump,' said Mrs Toogood. ‘Of course he doesn't like it, and what can I say to him when he comes to me?' This was not quite fair on the part of Mrs Toogood, as Mr Crump had not troubled her even once as yet since her husband's departure.

What was Johnny to do, when he left Tavistock Square? His club was open to him. Should he go to his club, play a game of billiards, and have some supper? When he asked himself the question he knew that he would not go to his club, and yet he pretended to doubt about it, as he made his way to a cabstand in Tottenham Court Road. It would be slow, he told himself, to go to his club. He would have gone to see Lily Dale, only that his intimacy with Mrs Thorne was not sufficient to justify his calling at her house between nine and ten o'clock at night. But, as he must go somewhere – and as his intimacy with Lady Demolines was, he thought, sufficient to justify almost anything – he would go to Bayswater. I regret to say that he had written a mysterious note from Paris to Madalina Demolines, saying that he should be in London on this very night, and that it was just on the cards that he might make his way up to Porchester Terrace before he went to bed. The note was mysterious, because it had neither beginning nor ending. It did not contain even initials. It was written like a telegraph message, and was about as long. It was the kind of thing Miss Demolines liked, Johnny thought; and there could be no reason why he should not gratify her. It was her favourite game. Some people like whist, some like croquet, and some like intrigue.
Madalina would probably have called it romance – because by nature she was romantic. John, who was made of sterner stuff, laughed at this. He knew that there was no romance in it. He knew that he was only amusing himself, and gratifying her at the same time, by a little innocent pretence. He told himself that it was his nature to prefer the society of women to that of men. He would have liked the society of Lily Dale, no doubt, much better than that of Miss Demolines; but as the society of Lily Dale was not to be had at that moment, the society of Miss Demolines was the best substitute within his reach. So he got into a cab and had himself driven to Porchester Terrace. ‘Is Lady Demolines at home?' he said to the servant. He always asked for Lady Demolines. But the page who was accustomed to open the door for him was less false, being young, and would now tell him, without any further fiction, that Miss Madalina was in the drawing-room. Such was the answer he got from the page on this evening. What Madalina did with her mother on these occasions he had never yet discovered. There used to be some little excuses given about Lady Demolines' state of health, but latterly Madalina had discontinued her references to her mother's headaches. She was standing in the centre of the drawing-room when he entered it, with both her hands raised, and an almost terrible expression of mystery in her face. Her hair, however, had been very carefully arranged so as to fall with copious carelessness down her shoulders, and altogether she was looking her best. ‘Oh, John,' she said. She called him John by accident in the tumult of the moment. ‘Have you heard what has happened? But of course you have heard it.'