The Chronicles of Barsetshire

by Anthony Trollope

  “I must go home,” said Grace.

  “Of course you shall, if you think it right at last; but let us talk of it. No one in the house, you know, has the slightest suspicion that your father has done anything that is in the least dishonourable.”

  “I know that you have not.”

  “No, nor has Anne.” Miss Prettyman said this as though no one in that house beyond herself and her sister had a right to have any opinion on any subject.

  “I know that,” said Grace.

  “Well, my dear. If we think so—”

  “But the servants, Miss Prettyman?”

  “If any servant in this house says a word to offend you, I’ll—I’ll—”

  “They don’t say anything, Miss Prettyman, but they look. Indeed, I’d better go home. Indeed I had!”

  “Do not you think your mother has cares enough upon her, and burden enough, without another mouth to feed, and another head to shelter? You haven’t thought of that, Grace!”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “And as for the work, whilst you are not quite well you shall not be troubled with teaching. I have some old papers that want copying and settling, and you shall sit here and do that just for an employment. Anne knows that I’ve long wanted to have it done, and I’ll tell her that you’ve kindly promised to do it for me.”

  “No; no; no,” said Grace; “I must go home.” She was still kneeling at Miss Prettyman’s knee, and still holding Miss Prettyman’s hand. And then, at that moment, there came a tap on the door, gentle but yet not humble, a tap which acknowledged, on the part of the tapper, the supremacy in that room of the lady who was sitting there, but which still claimed admittance almost as a right. The tap was well known by both of them to be the tap of Miss Anne. Grace immediately jumped up, and Miss Prettyman settled herself in her chair with a motion which almost seemed to indicate some feeling of shame as to her late position.

  “I suppose I may come in?” said Miss Anne, opening the door and inserting her head.

  “Yes, you may come in—if you have anything to say,” said Miss Prettyman, with an air which seemed to be intended to assert her supremacy. But, in truth, she was simply collecting the wisdom and dignity which had been somewhat dissipated by her tenderness.

  “I did not know that Grace Crawley was here,” said Miss Anne.

  “Grace Crawley is here,” said Miss Prettyman.

  “What is the matter, Grace?” said Miss Anne, seeing the tears.

  “Never mind now,” said Miss Prettyman.

  “Poor dear, I’m sure I’m sorry as though she were my own sister,” said Anne. “But, Annabella, I want to speak to you especially.”

  “To me, in private?”

  “Yes, to you; in private, if Grace won’t mind?”

  Then Grace prepared to go. But as she was going, Miss Anne, upon whose brow a heavy burden of thought was lying, stopped her suddenly. “Grace, my dear,” she said, “go upstairs into your room, will you?—not across the hall to the school.”

  “And why shouldn’t she go to the school?” said Miss Prettyman.

  Miss Anne paused for a moment, and then answered—unwillingly, as though driven to make a reply which she knew to be indiscreet. “Because there is somebody in the hall.”

  “Go to your room, dear,” said Miss Prettyman. And Grace went to her room, never turning an eye down towards the hall. “Who is it?” said Miss Prettyman.

  “Major Grantly is here, asking to see you,” said Miss Anne.

  CHAPTER VII

  Miss Prettyman’s Private Room

  Major Grantly, when threatened by his father with pecuniary punishment, should he demean himself by such a marriage as that he had proposed to himself, had declared that he would offer his hand to Miss Crawley on the next morning. This, however, he had not done. He had not done it, partly because he did not quite believe his father’s threat, and partly because he felt that that threat was almost justified—for the present moment—by the circumstances in which Grace Crawley’s father had placed himself. Henry Grantly acknowledged, as he drove himself home on the morning after his dinner at the rectory, that in this matter of his marriage he did owe much to his family. Should he marry at all, he owed it to them to marry a lady. And Grace Crawley—so he told himself—was a lady. And he owed it to them to bring among them as his wife a woman who should not disgrace him or them by her education, manners, or even by her personal appearance. In all these respects Grace Crawley was, in his judgment, quite as good as they had a right to expect her to be, and in some respects a great deal superior to that type of womanhood with which they had been most generally conversant. “If everybody had her due, my sister isn’t fit to hold a candle to her,” he said to himself. It must be acknowledged, therefore, that he was really in love with Grace Crawley; and he declared to himself, over and over again, that his family had no right to demand that he should marry a woman with money. The archdeacon’s son by no means despised money. How could he, having come forth as a bird fledged from such a nest as the rectory at Plumstead Episcopi? Before he had been brought by his better nature and true judgment to see that Grace Crawley was the greater woman of the two, he had nearly submitted himself to the twenty thousand pounds of Miss Emily Dunstable—to that, and her good-humour and rosy freshness combined. But he regarded himself as the well-to-do son of a very rich father. His only child was amply provided for; and he felt that, as regarded money, he had a right to do as he pleased. He felt this with double strength after his father’s threat.

  But he had no right to make a marriage by which his family would be disgraced. Whether he was right or wrong in supposing that he would disgrace his family were he to marry the daughter of a convicted thief, it is hardly necessary to discuss here. He told himself that it would be so—telling himself also that, by the stern laws of the world, the son and the daughter must pay for the offence of the father and the mother. Even among the poor, who would willingly marry the child of a man who had been hanged? But he carried the argument beyond this, thinking much of the matter, and endeavouring to think of it not only justly, but generously. If the accusation against Crawley were false—if the man were being injured by an unjust charge—even if he, Grantly, could make himself think that the girl’s father had not stolen the money, then he would dare everything and go on. I do not know that his argument was good, or that his mind was logical in the matter. He ought to have felt that his own judgment as to the man’s guilt was less likely to be correct than that of those whose duty it was and would be to form and to express a judgment on the matter; and as to Grace herself, she was equally innocent whether her father were guilty or not guilty. If he were to be debarred from asking her for her hand by his feelings for her father and mother, he should hardly have trusted to his own skill in ascertaining the real truth as to the alleged theft. But he was not logical, and thus, meaning to be generous, he became unjust.

  He found that among those in Silverbridge whom he presumed to be best informed on such matters, there was a growing opinion that Mr. Crawley had stolen the money. He was intimate with all the Walkers, and was able to find out that Mrs. Walker knew that her husband believed in the clergyman’s guilt. He was by no means alone in his willingness to accept Mr. Walker’s opinion as the true opinion. Silverbridge, generally, was endeavouring to dress itself in Mr. Walker’s glass, and to believe as Mr. Walker believed. The ladies of Silverbridge, including the Miss Prettymans, were aware that Mr. Walker had been very kind both to Mr. and Mrs. Crawley, and argued from this that Mr. Walker must think the man to be innocent. But Henry Grantly, who did not dare to ask a direct question of the solicitor, went cunningly to work, and closeted himself with Mrs. Walker—with Mrs. Walker, who knew well of the good fortune which was hovering over Grace’s head and was so nearly settling itself upon her shoulders. She would have given a finger to be able to whitewash Mr. Crawley in the major’s estimation. Nor must it be supposed that she told the major in plain words that her husband had convinced himself of the ma
n’s guilt. In plain words no question was asked between them, and in plain words no opinion was expressed. But there was the look of sorrow in the woman’s eye, there was the absence of reference to her husband’s assurance that the man was innocent, there was the air of settled grief which told of her own conviction; and the major left her, convinced that Mrs. Walker believed Mr. Crawley to be guilty.

  Then he went to Barchester; not open-mouthed with inquiry, but rather with open ears, and it seemed to him that all men in Barchester were of one mind. There was a county-club in Barchester, and at this county-club nine men out of ten were talking about Mr. Crawley. It was by no means necessary that a man should ask questions on the subject. Opinion was expressed so freely that no such asking was required; and opinion in Barchester—at any rate in the county-club—seemed now to be all of one mind. There had been every disposition at first to believe Mr. Crawley to be innocent. He had been believed to be innocent, even after he had said wrongly that the cheque had been paid to him by Mr. Soames; but he had since stated that he had received it from Dean Arabin, and that statement was also shown to be false. A man who has a cheque changed on his own behalf is bound at least to show where he got the cheque. Mr. Crawley had not only failed to do this, but had given two false excuses. Henry Grantly, as he drove home to Silverbridge on the Sunday afternoon, summed up all the evidence in his own mind, and brought in a verdict of Guilty against the father of the girl whom he loved.

  On the following morning he walked into Silverbridge and called at Miss Prettyman’s house. As he went along his heart was warmer towards Grace than it had ever been before. He had told himself that he was now bound to abstain, for his father’s sake, from doing that which he had told his father that he would certainly do. But he knew also, that he had said that which, though it did not bind him to Miss Crawley, gave her a right to expect that he would so bind himself. And Miss Prettyman could not but be aware of what his intention had been, and could not but expect that he should now be explicit. Had he been a wise man altogether, he would probably have abstained from saying anything at the present moment—a wise man, that is, in the ways and feelings of the world in such matters. But, as there are men who will allow themselves all imaginable latitude in their treatment of women, believing that the world will condone any amount of fault of that nature, so are there other men, and a class of men which on the whole is the more numerous of the two, who are tremblingly alive to the danger of censure on this head—and to the danger of censure not only from others, but from themselves also. Major Grantly had done that which made him think it imperative upon him to do something further, and to do that something at once.

  Therefore he started off on the Monday morning after breakfast and walked to Silverbridge, and as he walked he built various castles in the air. Why should he not marry Grace—if she would have him—and take her away beyond the reach of her father’s calamity? Why should he not throw over his own people altogether, money, position, society, and all, and give himself up to love? Were he to do so, men might say that he was foolish, but no one could hint that he was dishonourable. His spirit was high enough to teach him to think that such conduct on his part would have in it something of magnificence; but, yet, such was not his purpose. In going to Miss Prettyman it was his intention to apologise for not doing this magnificent thing. His mind was quite made up. Nevertheless he built castles in the air.

  It so happened that he encountered the younger Miss Prettyman in the hall. It would not at all have suited him to reveal to her the purport of his visit, or ask her either to assist his suit or to receive his apologies. Miss Anne Prettyman was too common a personage in the Silverbridge world to be fit for such employment. Miss Anne Prettyman was, indeed, herself submissive to him, and treated him with the courtesy which is due to a superior being. He therefore simply asked her whether he could be allowed to see her sister.

  “Surely, Major Grantly—that is, I think so. It is a little early, but I think she can receive you.”

  “It is early, I know; but as I want to say a word or two on business—”

  “Oh, on business. I am sure she will see you on business; she will only be too proud. If you will be kind enough to step in here for two minutes.” Then Miss Anne, having deposited the major in the little parlour, ran upstairs with her message to her sister. “Of course it’s about Grace Crawley” she said to herself as she went. “It can’t be about anything else. I wonder what it is he’s going to say. If he’s going to pop, and the father in all this trouble, he’s the finest fellow that ever trod.” Such were her thoughts as she tapped at the door and announced in the presence of Grace that there was somebody in the hall.

  “It’s Major Grantly,” whispered Anne, as soon as Grace had shut the door behind her.

  “So I supposed by your telling her not to go into the hall. What has he come to say?”

  “How on earth can I tell you that, Annabella? But I suppose he can have only one thing to say after all that has come and gone. He can only have come with one object.”

  “He wouldn’t have come to me for that. He would have asked to see herself.”

  “But she never goes out now, and he can’t see her.”

  “Or he would have gone to them over at Hogglestock,” said Miss Prettyman. “But of course he must come up now he is here. Would you mind telling him? or shall I ring the bell?”

  “I’ll tell him. We need not make more fuss than necessary, with the servants, you know. I suppose I’d better not come back with him?”

  There was a tone of supplication in the younger sister’s voice as she made the last suggestion, which ought to have melted the heart of the elder; but it was unavailing. “As he has asked to see me, I think you had better not,” said Annabella. Miss Anne Prettyman bore her cross meekly, offered no argument on the subject, and returning to the little parlour where she had left the major, brought him upstairs and ushered him into her sister’s room without even entering it again, herself.

  Major Grantly was as intimately acquainted with Miss Anne Prettyman as a man under thirty may well be with a lady nearer fifty than forty, who is not specially connected with him by any family tie; but of Miss Prettyman he knew personally very much less. Miss Prettyman, as has before been said, did not go out, and was therefore not common to the eyes of the Silverbridgians. She did occasionally see her friends in her own house, and Grace Crawley’s lover, as the major had come to be called, had been there on more than one occasion; but of real personal intimacy between them there had hitherto existed none. He might have spoken, perhaps, a dozen words to her in his life. He had now more than a dozen to speak to her, but he hardly knew how to commence them.

  She had got up and curtseyed, and had then taken his hand and asked him to sit down. “My sister tells me that you want to see me,” she said in her softest, mildest voice.

  “I do, Miss Prettyman. I want to speak to you about a matter that troubles me very much—very much indeed.”

  “Anything that I can do, Major Grantly—”

  “Thank you, yes. I know that you are very good, or I should not have ventured to come to you. Indeed I shouldn’t trouble you now, of course, if it was only about myself. I know very well what a great friend you are to Miss Crawley.”

  “Yes, I am. We love Grace dearly here.”

  “So do I,” said the major bluntly; “I love her dearly, too.” Then he paused, as though he thought that Miss Prettyman ought to take up the speech. But Miss Prettyman seemed to think quite differently, and he was obliged to go on. “I don’t know whether you have ever heard about it, or noticed it, or—or—or—” He felt that he was very awkward, and he blushed. Major as he was, he blushed as he sat before the old woman, trying to tell his story, but not knowing how to tell it. “The truth is, Miss Prettyman, I have done all but ask her to be my wife, and now has come this terrible affair about her father.”

  “It is a terrible affair, Major Grantly; very terrible.”

  “By Jove, you may say that!” />
  “Of course Mr. Crawley is as innocent in the matter as you or I are.”

  “You think so, Miss Prettyman?”

  “Think so! I feel sure of it. What; a clergyman of the Church of England, a pious, hard-working country clergyman, whom we have known among us by his good works for years, suddenly turn thief, and pilfer a few pounds! It is not possible, Major Grantly. And the father of such a daughter, too! It is not possible. It may do for men of business to think so, lawyers and such like, who are obliged to think in accordance with the evidence, as they call it; but to my mind the idea is monstrous. I don’t know how he got it, and I don’t care; but I’m quite sure he did not steal it. Whoever heard of anybody becoming so base as that all at once?”

  The major was startled by her eloquence, and by the indignant tone of voice in which it was expressed. It seemed to tell him that she would give him no sympathy in that which he had come to say to her, and to upbraid him already in that he was not prepared to do the magnificent thing of which he had thought when he had been building his castles in the air. Why should he not do the magnificent thing? Miss Prettyman’s eloquence was so strong that it half convinced him that the Barchester Club and Mr. Walker had come to a wrong conclusion after all.

  “And how does Miss Crawley bear it?” he asked, desirous of postponing for a while any declaration of his own purpose.

  “She is very unhappy, of course. Not that she thinks evil of her father.”

  “Of course she does not think him guilty.”

  “Nobody thinks him so in this house, Major Grantly,” said the little woman, very imperiously. “But Grace is, naturally enough, very sad—very sad indeed. I do not think I can ask you to see her to-day.”

  “I was not thinking of it,” said the major.

  “Poor, dear child! it is a great trial for her. Do you wish me to give her any message, Major Grantly?”

  The moment had now come in which he must say that which he had come to say. The little woman waited for an answer, and as he was there, within her power as it were, he must speak. I fear that what he said will not be approved by any strong-minded reader. I fear that our lover will henceforth be considered by such a one as being a weak, wishy-washy man, who had hardly any mind of his own to speak of—that he was a man of no account, as the poor people say. “Miss Prettyman, what message ought I to send to her?” he said.