The Last Chronicle of Barset. Anthony Trollope

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СКАЧАТЬ and see Mr. Walker, the attorney there. Mr. Walker always advised everybody in those parts about everything, and would be sure to know what would be the proper thing to be done in this case. So Mr. Robarts got into his gig, and drove himself into Silverbridge, passing very close to Mr. Crawley’s house on his road. He drove at once to Mr. Walker’s office, and on arriving there found that the attorney was not at that moment within. But Mr. Winthrop was within. Would Mr. Robarts see Mr. Winthrop? Now, seeing Mr. Winthrop was a very different thing from seeing Mr. Walker, although the two gentlemen were partners. But still Mr. Robarts said that he would see Mr. Winthrop. Perhaps Mr. Walker might return while he was there.

      “Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Robarts?” asked Mr. Winthrop. Mr. Robarts said that he had wished to see Mr. Walker about that poor fellow Crawley. “Ah, yes; very sad case! So much sadder being a clergyman, Mr. Robarts. We are really quite sorry for him;—we are indeed. We wouldn’t have touched the case ourselves if we could have helped ourselves. We wouldn’t indeed. But we are obliged to take all that business here. At any rate he’ll get nothing but fair usage from us.”

      “I am sure of that. You don’t know whether he has employed any lawyer as yet to defend him?”

      “I can’t say. We don’t know, you know. I should say he had,—probably some Barchester attorney. Borleys and Bonstock in Barchester are very good people,—very good people indeed;—for that sort of business I mean, Mr. Robarts. I don’t suppose they have much county property in their hands.”

      Mr. Robarts knew that Mr. Winthrop was a fool, and that he could get no useful advice from him. So he suggested that he would take his gig down to the inn, and call back again before long. “You’ll find that Walker knows no more than I do about it,” said Mr. Winthrop, “but of course he’ll be glad to see you if he happens to come in.” So Mr. Robarts went to the inn, put up his horse, and then, as he sauntered back up the street, met Mr. Walker coming out of the private door of his house.

      “I’ve been at home all the morning,” he said, “but I’ve had a stiff job of work on hand, and told them to say in the office that I was not in. Seen Winthrop, have you? I don’t suppose he did know that I was here. The clerks often know more than the partners. About Mr. Crawley is it? Come into my dining-room, Mr. Robarts, where we shall be alone. Yes;—it is a bad case; a very bad case. The pity is that anybody should ever have said anything about it. Lord bless me, if I’d been Soames I’d have let him have the twenty pounds. Lord Lufton would never have allowed Soames to lose it.”

      “But Soames wanted to find out the truth.”

      “Yes;—that was just it. Soames couldn’t bear to think that he should be left in the dark, and then, when the poor man said that Soames had paid the cheque to him in the way of business,—it was not odd that Soames’ back should have been up, was it? But, Mr. Robarts, I should have thought a deal about it before I should have brought such a man as Mr. Crawley before a bench of magistrates on that charge.”

      “But between you and me, Mr. Walker, did he steal the money?”

      “Well, Mr. Robarts, you know how I’m placed.”

      “Mr. Crawley is my friend, and of course I want to assist him. I was under a great obligation to Mr. Crawley once, and I wish to befriend him, whether he took the money or not. But I could act so much better if I felt sure one way or the other.”

      “If you ask me, I think he did take it.”

      “What!—stole it?”

      “I think he knew it was not his own when he took it. You see I don’t think he meant to use it when he took it. He perhaps had some queer idea that Soames had been hard on him, or his lordship, and that the money was fairly his due. Then he kept the cheque by him till he was absolutely badgered out of his life by the butcher up the street there. That was about the long and the short of it, Mr. Robarts.”

      “I suppose so. And now what had he better do?”

      “Well; if you ask me,— He is in very bad health, isn’t he?”

      “No; I should say not. He walked to Barchester and back the other day.”

      “Did he? But he’s very queer, isn’t he?”

      “Very odd-mannered indeed.”

      “And does and says all manner of odd things?”

      “I think you’d find the bishop would say so after that interview.”

      “Well; if it would do any good, you might have the bishop examined.”

      “Examined for what, Mr. Walker?”

      “If you could show, you know, that Crawley has got a bee in his bonnet; that the mens sana is not there, in short;—I think you might manage to have the trial postponed.”

      “But then somebody must take charge of his living.”

      “You parsons could manage that among you;—you and the dean and the archdeacon. The archdeacon has always got half-a-dozen curates about somewhere. And then,—after the assizes, Mr. Crawley might come to his senses; and I think,—mind it’s only an idea,—but I think the committal might be quashed. It would have been temporary insanity, and, though mind I don’t give my word for it, I think he might go on and keep his living. I think so, Mr. Robarts.”

      “That has never occurred to me.”

      “No;—I daresay not. You see the difficulty is this. He’s so stiff-necked,—will do nothing himself. Well, that will do for one proof of temporary insanity. The real truth is, Mr. Robarts, he is as mad as a hatter.”

      “Upon my word I’ve often thought so.”

      “And you wouldn’t mind saying so in evidence,—would you? Well, you see, there is no helping such a man in any other way. He won’t even employ a lawyer to defend him.”

      “That was what I had come to you about.”

      “I’m told he won’t. Now a man must be mad who won’t employ a lawyer when he wants one. You see, the point we should gain would be this,—if we tried to get him through as being a little touched in the upper story,—whatever we could do for him, we could do against his own will. The more he opposed us the stronger our case would be. He would swear he was not mad at all, and we should say that that was the greatest sign of his madness. But when I say we, of course I mean you. I must not appear in it.”

      “I wish you could, Mr. Walker.”

      “Of course I can’t; but that won’t make any difference.”

      “I suppose he must have a lawyer?”

      “Yes, he must have a lawyer;—or rather his friends must.”

      “And who should employ him, ostensibly?”

      “Ah;—there’s the difficulty. His wife wouldn’t do it, I suppose? She couldn’t do him a better turn.”

      “He would never forgive her. And she would never consent to act against him.”

      “Could you interfere?”

      “If necessary, I will;—but I hardly know him well enough.”

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