“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 indict 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 smoothly 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 alluding, 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 rumours 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 unwillingness 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 exertions; 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 innocence 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 transgression of his absence for even yet a few days longer. “Everything, therefore,” as Mrs. Arabin said, “has conspired to perpetuate 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
