Our dear old friend Johnny had been rather proud of himself as he started from London. He had gotten an absolute victory over Sir Raffle2 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 alacrity4 in the cause of his cousin. He had partially5 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 belongings6 around him, and she had seen him from time to time as he became a man, almost with too much intimacy7 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 Pall8 Mall heroism9 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 worthy10 of her regard than other men. She had still unconsciously hoped in regard to Crosbie, but now that hope had been dispelled11 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 pinnacle12, 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 mischief13 was it she wanted of him; and what was he to do? The days for plucking glory from the nettle14 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 chivalrous15 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 delightful16 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 thraldom17. 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 gondola18, 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 vexed20, 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 piazza21 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, literally22 almost knocked backwards23 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 delicacy24 of investigation25. There would be nothing more to unravel26; 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 magistrates27?"
"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 interfere28, 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 acting29 as Mr. Crawley's solicitor30. 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 dire19 distress31 had called upon his old friend at the deanery asking for pecuniary32 assistance. This he had done with so much reluctance33 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 bestow34 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 entirely35 in Mrs. Arabin's hands, to be disposed of as she might please. Previously36 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 recipient37 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 peculiarities38 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 indict39 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 smoothly40 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 alluding41, 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 rumours42 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 unwillingness43 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 exertions44; 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 innocence45 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 transgression46 of his absence for even yet a few days longer. "Everything, therefore," as Mrs. Arabin said, "has conspired47 to perpetuate48 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 bishop49 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 specially3 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 p?an of low-church trumpets50 with which that poor woman made her entry into the city. She might have been more lenient51, 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 decency52, good-will and comfort. Our comfort she utterly53 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 caressing55 modes of behaviour in which the caress54 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 discreet56 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 linen57 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 marvels58 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 bishops59 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.
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1
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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raffle
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| n.废物，垃圾，抽奖售卖；v.以抽彩出售 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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nettle
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| n.荨麻；v.烦忧，激恼 | |
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chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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thraldom
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| n.奴隶的身份，奴役，束缚 | |
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gondola
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| n.威尼斯的平底轻舟；飞船的吊船 | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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unravel
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| v.弄清楚（秘密）；拆开，解开，松开 | |
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magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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indict
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| v.起诉，控告，指控 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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41
alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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42
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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43
unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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44
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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45
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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46
transgression
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| n.违背；犯规；罪过 | |
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47
conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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48
perpetuate
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| v.使永存，使永记不忘 | |
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49
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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50
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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51
lenient
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| adj.宽大的，仁慈的 | |
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52
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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53
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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54
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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55
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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57
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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58
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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