"Well;--the fact is, I have an idea that something may be saved for the poor woman. I think that they are wronging her. Of course all I can do is to put the matter into a lawyer's hands, and pay the lawyer's bill. So I went to your cousin, and he has taken the case up. I hope he won't ruin me."

"Then I suppose you are quarrelling with Mrs. Van?"

"That doesn't matter. She has quarrelled with me."

"And what about Jael, Conway? They tell me that Jael is going to become Mrs. Musselboro."

"Who has told you that?"

"A bird."

"Yes; I know who the bird is. I don't think that Jael will become Mrs. Musselboro. I don't think that Jael would become Mrs.

Musselboro, if Jael were the only woman, and Musselboro the only man in London. To tell you a little bit of secret, Johnny, I think that Jael will become the wife of one Conway Dalrymple. That is my opinion; and as far as I can judge, it is the opinion of Jael also."

"But not the opinion of Mrs. Van. The bird told me another thing, Conway."

"What was the other thing?"

"The bird hinted that all this would end in your marrying the widow of that poor wretch who destroyed himself."

"Johnny, my boy," said the artist, after a moment's silence, "if I give you a bit of advice, will you profit by it?"

"I'll try, if it's not disagreeable."

"Whether you profit by it, or whether you do not, keep it to yourself. I know the bird better than you do, and I strongly caution you to beware of the bird. The bird is a bird of prey, and altogether an unclean bird. The bird wants a mate and doesn't much care how she finds one. And the bird wants money, and doesn't much care how she gets it. The bird is a decidedly bad bird, and not at all fit to take the place of domestic hen in a decent farmyard. In plain English, Johnny, you'll find some day, if you go over too often to Porchester Terrace, either that you are going to marry the bird, or else that you are employing your cousin Toogood for your defence in an action for breach of promise, brought against you by that venerable old bird, the bird's mamma."

"If it's to be either, it will be the latter," said Johnny as he took up his hat to go away.

CHAPTER LXXVI.

I THINK HE IS LIGHT OF HEART.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Mrs. Arabin remained one day in town. Mr. Toogood, in spite of his a.s.severation that he would not budge from Barchester till he had seen Mr. Crawley through all his troubles, did run up to London as soon as the news reached him that John Eames had returned. He came up and took Mrs. Arabin's deposition, which he sent down to Mr. Walker. It might still be necessary, Mrs. Arabin was told, that she should go into court, and there state on oath that she had given the cheque to Mr. Crawley; but Mr. Walker was of opinion that the circ.u.mstances would enable the judge to call upon the grand jury not to find a true bill against Mr. Crawley, and that the whole affair, as far as Mr.

Crawley was concerned, would thus be brought to an end. Toogood was still very anxious to place Dan Stringer in the dock, but Mr. Walker declared that they would fail if they made the attempt. Dan had been examined before the magistrates at Barchester, and had persisted in his statement that he had heard nothing about Mr. Crawley and the cheque. This he said in the teeth of the words which had fallen from him unawares in the presence of Mr. Toogood. But they could not punish him for a lie,--not even for such a lie as that! He was not upon oath, and they could not make him responsible to the law because he had held his tongue upon a matter as to which it was manifest to them all that he had known the whole history during the entire period of Mr. Crawley's persecution. They could only call upon him to account for his possession of the cheque, and this he did by saying it had been paid to him by Jem Scuttle, who received all moneys appertaining to the hotel stables, and accounted for them once a week. Jem Scuttle had simply told him that he had taken the cheque from Mr. Soames, and Jem had since gone to New Zealand. It was quite true that Jem's departure had followed suspiciously close upon the payment of the rent to Mrs. Arabin, and that Jem had been in close amity with Dan Stringer up to the moment of his departure.

That Dan Stringer had not become honestly possessed of the cheque, everybody knew; but, nevertheless, the magistrates were of opinion, Mr. Walker coinciding with them, that there was no evidence against him sufficient to secure a conviction. The story, however, of Mr.

Crawley's injuries was so well known in Barchester, and the feeling against the man who had permitted him to be thus injured was so strong, that Dan Stringer did not altogether escape without punishment. Some rough spirits in Barchester called one night at "The Dragon of Wantly," and begged that Mr. Dan Stringer would be kind enough to come out and take a walk with them that evening; and when it was intimated to them that Dan Stringer had not just then any desire for such exercise, they requested to be allowed to go into the back parlour and make an evening with Dan Stringer in that recess.

There was a terrible row at "The Dragon of Wantly" that night, and Dan with difficulty was rescued by the police. On the following morning he was smuggled out of Barchester by an early train, and has never more been seen in that city. Rumours of him, however, were soon heard, from which it appeared that he had made himself acquainted with the casual ward of more than one workhouse in London. His cousin John left the inn almost immediately,--as, indeed, he must have done had there been no question of Mr. Soames's cheque,--and then there was nothing more heard of the Stringers in Barchester.

Mrs. Arabin remained in town one day, and would have remained longer, waiting for her husband, had not a letter from her sister impressed upon her that it might be as well that she should be with their father as soon as possible. "I don't mean to make you think that there is any immediate danger," Mrs. Grantly said, "and, indeed, we cannot say that he is ill; but it seems that the extremity of old age has come upon him almost suddenly, and that he is as weak as a child.

His only delight is with the children, especially with Posy, whose gravity in her management of him is wonderful. He has not left his room now for more than a week, and he eats very little. It may be that he will live yet for years; but I should be deceiving you if I did not let you know that both the archdeacon and I think that the time of his departure from us is near at hand." After reading this letter, Mrs. Arabin could not wait in town for her husband, even though he was expected in two days, and though she had been told that her presence at Barchester was not immediately required on behalf of Mr. Crawley.

But during that one day she kept her promise to John Eames by going to Lily Dale. Mrs. Arabin had become very fond of Johnny, and felt that he deserved the prize which he had been so long trying to win.

The reader, perhaps, may not agree with Mrs. Arabin. The reader, who may have caught a closer insight into Johnny's character than Mrs.

Arabin had obtained, may, perhaps, think that a young man who could amuse himself with Miss Demolines was unworthy of Lily Dale. If so, I may declare for myself that I and the reader are not in accord about John Eames. It is hard to measure worth and worthlessness in such matters, as there is no standard for such measurement. My old friend John was certainly no hero,--was very unheroic in many phases of his life; but then, if all the girls are to wait for heroes, I fear that the difficulties in the way of matrimonial arrangements, great as they are at present, will be very seriously enhanced. Johnny was not ecstatic, nor heroic, nor transcendental, nor very beautiful in his manliness; he was not a man to break his heart for love, or to have his story written in an epic; but he was an affectionate, kindly, honest young man; and I think most girls might have done worse than take him. Whether he was wise to ask a.s.sistance in his love-making so often as he had done, that may be another question.

Mrs. Arabin was intimately acquainted with Mrs. Thorne, and therefore there was nothing odd in her going to Mrs. Thorne's house. Mrs.

Thorne was very glad to see her, and told her all the Ba.r.s.etshire news,--much more than Mrs. Arabin would have learned in a week at the deanery; for Mrs. Thorne had a marvellous gift of picking up news.

She had already heard the whole story of Mr. Soames's cheque, and expressed her conviction that the least that could be done in amends to Mr. Crawley was to make him a bishop. "And you see the palace is vacant," said Mrs. Thorne.

"The palace vacant!" said Mrs. Arabin.

"It is just as good. Now that Mrs. Proudie has gone I don't suppose the poor bishop will count for much. I can a.s.sure you, Mrs. Arabin, I felt that poor woman's death so much! She used to regard me as one of the staunchest of the Proudieites! She once whispered to me such a delightfully wicked story about the dean and the archdeacon. When I told her that they were my particular friends, she put on a look of horror. But I don't think she believed me." Then Emily Dunstable entered the room, and with her came Lily Dale. Mrs. Arabin had never before seen Lily, and of course they were introduced. "I am sorry to say Miss Dale is going home to Allington to-morrow," said Emily. "But she is coming to Chaldicotes in May," said Mrs. Thorne. "Of course, Mrs. Arabin, you know what gala doings we are going to have in May?"

Then there were various civil little speeches made on each side, and Mrs. Arabin expressed a wish that she might meet Miss Dale again in Ba.r.s.etshire. But all this did not bring her at all nearer to her object.

"I particularly wish to say a word to Miss Dale,--here to-day, if she will allow me," said Mrs. Arabin.

"I'm sure she will,--twenty words; won't you, Lily?" said Mrs.

Thorne, preparing to leave the room. Then Mrs. Arabin apologized, and Mrs. Thorne, bustling up, said that it did not signify, and Lily, remaining quite still on the sofa, wondered what it was all about,--and in two minutes Lily and Mrs. Arabin were alone together.

Lily had just time to surmise that Mrs. Arabin's visit must have some reference to Mr. Crosbie,--remembering that Crosbie had married his wife out of Ba.r.s.etshire, and forgetting altogether that Mrs. Arabin had been just brought home from Italy by John Eames.

"I am afraid, Miss Dale, you will think me very impertinent," said Mrs. Arabin.

"I am sure I shall not think that," said Lily.

"I believe you knew, before Mr. Eames started, that he was going to Italy to find me and my husband?" said Mrs. Arabin. Then Lily put Mr.

Crosbie altogether out of her head, and became aware that he was not to be the subject of the coming conversation. She was almost sorry that it was so. There was no doubt in her mind as to what she would have said to any one who might have taken up Crosbie's cause. On that matter she could now have given a very decisive answer in a few words. But on that other matter she was much more in doubt. She remembered, however, every word of the note she had received from M.

D. She remembered also the words of John's note to that young woman.

And her heart was still hard against him. "Yes," she said; "Mr. Eames came here one night and told us why he was going. I was very glad that he was going, because I thought it was right."

"You know, of course, how successful he has been? It was I who gave the cheque to Mr. Crawley."

"So Mrs. Thorne has heard. Dr. Thorne has written to tell her the whole story."

"And now I've come to look for Mr. Eames's reward."

"His reward, Mrs. Arabin?"

"Yes; or rather to plead for him. You will not, I hope, be angry with him because he has told me much of his history while we were travelling home alone together."

"Oh, no," said Lily, smiling. "How could he have chosen a better friend in whom to trust?"

"He could certainly have chosen none who would take his part more sincerely. He is so good and so amiable! He is so pleasant in his ways, and so fitted to make a woman happy! And then, Miss Dale, he is also so devoted!"

"He is an old friend of ours, Mrs. Arabin."

"So he has told me."

"And we all of us love him dearly. Mamma is very much attached to him."

"Unless he flatters himself, there is no one belonging to you who would not wish that he should be nearer and dearer still."

"It may be so. I do not say that it is not so. Mamma and my uncle are both fond of him."