But wretched as he was during that evening he did employ himself with some energy. After much thought he resolved that he would again write to Mr. Crawley, and summon him to appear at the palace. In doing this he would at any rate be doing something. There would be action. And though Mr. Crawley would, as he thought, decline to obey the order, something would be gained even by that disobedience. So he wrote his summons—sitting very comfortless and all alone on that Sunday evening—dating his letter, however, for the following day—
Palace, December 20, 186—
REVEREND SIR,
I have just heard from Mr. Thumble that you have declined to accede to the advice which I thought it my duty to tender to you as the bishop who has been set over you by the Church, and that you yesterday insisted on what you believed to be your right, to administer the services in the parish church of Hogglestock. This has occasioned me the deepest regret. It is, I think, unavailing that I should further write to you my mind upon the subject, as I possess such strong evidence that my written word will not be respected by you. I have, therefore, no alternative now but to invite you to come to me here; and this I do, hoping that I may induce you to listen to that authority which I cannot but suppose you acknowledge to be vested in the office which I hold.
I shall be glad to see you on to-morrow, Tuesday, as near the hour of two as you can make it convenient to yourself to be here, and I will take care to order that refreshment will be provided for yourself and your horse.
I am, Reverend Sir,
&c &c &c,
THOS. BARNUM.
“My dear,” he said, when he did again encounter his wife that night, “I have written to Mr. Crawley, and I thought I might as well bring up the copy of my letter.”
“I wash my hands of the whole affair,” said Mrs. Proudie—”of the whole affair!”
“But you will look at the letter?”
“Certainly not. Why should I look at the letter? My word goes for nothing. I have done what I could, but in vain. Now let us see how you will manage it yourself.”
The bishop did not pass a comfortable night; but in the morning his wife did read his letter, and after that things went a little smoother with him. She was pleased to say that, considering all things; seeing, as she could not help seeing, that the matter had been dreadfully mismanaged, and that great weakness had been displayed—seeing that these faults had already been committed, perhaps no better step could now be taken than that proposed in the letter.
“I suppose he will not come,” said the bishop.
“I think he will,” said Mrs. Proudie, “and I trust that we may be able to convince him that obedience will be his best course. He will be more humble-minded here than at Hogglestock.” In saying this the lady showed some knowledge of the general nature of clergymen and of the world at large. She understood how much louder a cock can crow in its own farmyard than elsewhere, and knew that episcopal authority, backed by all the solemn awe of palatial grandeur, goes much further than it will do when sent under the folds of an ordinary envelope. But though she understood ordinary human nature, it may be that she did not understand Mr. Crawley’s nature.
But she was at any rate right in her idea as to Mr. Crawley’s immediate reply. The palace groom who rode over to Hogglestock returned with an immediate answer.
MY LORD—said Mr. Crawley,
I will obey your lordship’s summons, and, unless impediments should arise, I will wait upon your lordship at the hour you name to-morrow. I will not trespass on your hospitality. For myself, I rarely break bread in any house but my own; and as to the horse, I have none.
I have the honour to be,
My lord, &c &c,
JOSIAH CRAWLEY.
“Of course I shall go,” he had said to his wife as soon as he had had time to read the letter, and make known to her the contents. “I shall go if it be possible for me to get there. I think that I am bound to comply with the bishop’s wishes in so much as that.”
“But how will you get there, Josiah?”
“I will walk—with the Lord’s aid.”
Now Hogglestock was fifteen miles from Barchester, and Mr. Crawley was, as his wife well knew, by no means fitted in his present state for great physical exertion. But from the tone in which he had replied to her, she well knew that it would not avail for her to remonstrate at the moment. He had walked more than thirty miles in a day since they had been living at Hogglestock, and she did not doubt but that it might be possible for him to do it again. Any scheme, which she might be able to devise for saving him from so terrible a journey in the middle of winter, must be pondered over silently, and brought to bear, if not slyly, at least deftly, and without discussion. She made no reply therefore when he declared that on the following day he would walk to Barchester and back—with the Lord’s aid; nor did she see, or ask to see the note which he sent to the bishop. When the messenger was gone, Mr. Crawley was all alert, looking forward with evident glee to his encounter with the bishop—snorting like a racehorse at the expected triumph of the coming struggle. And he read much Greek with Jane on that afternoon, pouring into her young ears, almost with joyous rapture, his appreciation of the glory and the pathos and the humanity, as also of the awful tragedy of the story of Œdipus. His very soul was on fire at the idea of clutching the weak bishop in his hand, and crushing him with his strong grasp.
In the afternoon Mrs. Crawley slipped out to a neighbouring farmer’s wife, and returned in an hour’s time with a little story which she did not tell with any appearance of eager satisfaction. She had learned well what were the little tricks necessary to the carrying of such a matter as that which she had now in hand. Mr. Mangle, the farmer, as it happened, was going to-morrow morning in his tax-cart as far as Framley Mill, and would be delighted if Mr. Crawley would take a seat. He must remain at Framley the best part of the afternoon, and hoped that Mr. Crawley would take a seat back again. Now Framley Mill was only half a mile off the direct road to Barchester, and was almost half-way from Hogglestock parsonage to the city. This would, at any rate, bring the walk within a practicable distance. Mr. Crawley was instantly placed upon his guard, like an animal that sees the bait and suspects the trap. Had he been told that farmer Mangle was going all the way to Barchester, nothing would have induced him to get into the cart. He would have felt sure that farmer Mangle had been persuaded to pity him in his poverty and his strait, and he would sooner have started to walk to London than have put a foot upon the step of the cart. But this lift half way did look to him as though it were really fortuitous. His wife could hardly have been cunning enough to persuade the farmer to go to Framley, conscious that the trap would have been suspected had the bait been made more full. But I fear—I fear the dear good woman had been thus cunning—had understood how far the trap might be baited, and had thus succeeded in catching her prey.
On the following morning he consented to get into farmer Mangle’s cart, and was driven as far as Framley Mill. “I wouldn’t think nowt, your reverence, of running you over into Barchester—that I wouldn’t. The powny is so mortial good,” said farmer Mangle in his foolish good-nature.
“And how about your business here?” said Mr. Crawley. The farmer scratched his head, remembering all Mrs. Crawley’s injunctions, and awkwardly acknowledged that to be sure his own business with the miller was very pressing. Then Mr. Crawley descended, terribly suspicious, and went on his journey.
“Anyways, your reverence will call for me coming back?” said farmer Mangle. But Mr. Crawley would make no promise. He bade the farmer not wait for him. If they chanced to meet together on the road he might get up again. If the man really had business at Framley, how could he have offered to go on to Barchester? Were they deceiving him? The wife of his bosom had deceived him in such matters before now. But his trouble in this respect was soon dissipated by the pride of his anticipated triumph over the bishop. He took great glory from the thought that he would go before the bishop with dirty boots—with boots necessarily dirty�
��with rusty pantaloons, that he would be hot and mud-stained with his walk, hungry, and an object to be wondered at by all who should see him, because of the misfortunes which had been unworthily heaped upon his head; whereas the bishop would be sleek and clean and well-fed—pretty with all the prettinesses that are becoming to a bishop’s outward man. And he, Mr. Crawley, would be humble, whereas the bishop would be very proud. And the bishop would be in his own arm-chair—the cock in his own farmyard, while he, Mr. Crawley, would be seated afar off, in the cold extremity of the room, with nothing of outward circumstances to assist him—a man called thither to undergo censure. And yet he would take the bishop in his grasp and crush him—crush him—crush him! As he thought of this he walked quickly through the mud, and put out his long arm and his great hand, far before him out into the air, and, there and then, he crushed the bishop in his imagination. Yes, indeed! He thought it very doubtful whether the bishop would ever send for him a second time. As all this passed through his mind, he forgot his wife’s cunning, and farmer Mangle’s sin, and for the moment he was happy.
As he turned a corner round by Lord Lufton’s park paling, who should he meet but his old friend Mr. Robarts, the parson of Framley—the parson who had committed the sin of being bail for him—the sin, that is, according to Mrs. Proudie’s view of the matter. He was walking with his hand still stretched out—still crushing the bishop, when Mr. Robarts was close upon him.
“What, Crawley! upon my word I am very glad to see you; you are coming up to me, of course?”
“Thank you, Mr. Robarts; no, not to-day. The bishop has summoned me to his presence, and I am on my road to Barchester.”
“But how are you going?”
“I shall walk.”
“Walk to Barchester. Impossible!”
“I hope not quite impossible, Mr. Robarts. I trust I shall get as far before two o’clock; but to do so I must be on my road.” Then he showed signs of a desire to go upon his way without further parley.
“But, Crawley, do let me send you over. There is the horse and gig doing nothing.”
“Thank you, Mr. Robarts; no. I should prefer to walk to-day.”
“And you have walked from Hogglestock?”
“No—not so. A neighbour coming hither, who happened to have business at your mill—he brought me so far in his cart. The walk home will be nothing—nothing. I shall enjoy it. Good morning, Mr. Robarts.”
But Mr. Robarts thought of the dirty road, and of the bishop’s presence, and of his own ideas of what would be becoming for a clergyman—and persevered. “You will find the lanes so very muddy; and our bishop, you know, is apt to notice such things. Do be persuaded.”
“Notice what things?” demanded Mr. Crawley, in an indignant tone.
“He, or perhaps she rather, will say how dirty your shoes were when you came to the palace.”
“If he, or she, can find nothing unclean about me but my shoes, let them say their worst. I shall be very indifferent. I have long ceased, Mr. Robarts, to care much what any man or woman may say about my shoes. Good morning.” Then he stalked on, clutching and crushing in his hand the bishop, and the bishop’s wife, and the whole diocese—and all the Church of England. Dirty shoes, indeed! Whose was the fault that there were in the church so many feet soiled by unmerited poverty, and so many hands soiled by undeserved wealth? If the bishop did not like his shoes, let the bishop dare to tell him so! So he walked on through the thick of the mud, by no means picking his way.
He walked fast, and he found himself in the close half-an-hour before the time named by the bishop. But on no account would he have rung the palace bell one minute before two o’clock. So he walked up and down under the towers of the cathedral, and cooled himself, and looked up at the pleasant plate-glass in the windows of the house of his friend the dean, and told himself how, in their college days, he and the dean had been quite equal—quite equal, except that by the voices of all qualified judges in the university, he, Mr. Crawley, had been acknowledged to be the riper scholar. And now the Mr. Arabin of those days was Dean of Barchester—travelling abroad luxuriously at this moment for his delight, while he, Crawley, was perpetual curate at Hogglestock, and had now walked into Barchester at the command of the bishop, because he was suspected of having stolen twenty pounds! When he had fully imbued his mind with the injustice of all this, his time was up, and he walked boldly to the bishop’s gate, and boldly rang the bishop’s bell.
CHAPTER XVIII
The Bishop of Barchester is Crushed
Who inquires why it is that a little greased flour rubbed in among the hair on a footman’s head—just one dab here and another there—gives such a tone of high life to the family? And seeing that the thing is so easily done, why do not more people attempt it? The tax on hair-powder is but thirteen shillings a year. It may, indeed, be that the slightest dab in the world justifies the wearer in demanding hot meat three times a day, and wine at any rate on Sundays. I think, however, that a bishop’s wife may enjoy the privilege without such heavy attendant expense; otherwise the man who opened the bishop’s door to Mr. Crawley would hardly have been so ornamented.
The man asked for a card. “My name is Mr. Crawley,” said our friend. “The bishop has desired me to come to him at this hour. Will you be pleased to tell him that I am here.” The man again asked for a card. “I am not bound to carry with me my name printed on a ticket,” said Mr. Crawley. “If you cannot remember it, give me pen and paper, and I will write it.” The servant, somewhat awed by the stranger’s manner, brought the pen and paper, and Mr. Crawley wrote his name:—
THE REV. JOSIAH CRAWLEY, M.A.,
Perpetual Curate of Hogglestock
He was then ushered into a waiting-room, but, to his disappointment, was not kept there waiting long. Within three minutes he was ushered into the bishop’s study, and into the presence of the two great luminaries of the diocese. He was at first somewhat disconcerted by finding Mrs. Proudie in the room. In the imaginary conversation with the bishop which he had been preparing on the road, he had conceived that the bishop would be attended by a chaplain, and he had suited his words to the joint discomfiture of the bishop and of the lower clergyman—but now the line of his battle must be altered. This was no doubt an injury, but he trusted to his courage and readiness to enable him to surmount it. He had left his hat behind him in the waiting room, but he kept his old short cloak still upon his shoulders; and when he entered the bishop’s room his hands and arms were hid beneath it. There was something lowly in this constrained gait. It showed at least that he had no idea of being asked to shake hands with the august persons he might meet. And his head was somewhat bowed, though his great, bald, broad forehead showed itself so prominent, that neither the bishop nor Mrs. Proudie could drop it from their sight during the whole interview. He was a man who when seen could hardly be forgotten. The deep angry remonstrant eyes, the shaggy eyebrows, telling tales of frequent anger—of anger frequent but generally silent—the repressed indignation of the habitual frown, the long nose and large powerful mouth, the deep furrows on the cheek, and the general look of thought and suffering, all combined to make the appearance of the man remarkable, and to describe to the beholders at once his true character. No one ever on seeing Mr. Crawley took him to be a happy man, or a weak man, or an ignorant man, or a wise man.
“You are very punctual, Mr. Crawley,” said the bishop. Mr. Crawley simply bowed his head, still keeping his hands beneath his cloak. “Will you not take a chair nearer to the fire?” Mr. Crawley had not seated himself, but had placed himself in front of a chair at the extreme end of the room—resolved that he would not use it unless he were duly asked.
“Thank you, my lord,” he said. “I am warm with walking, and, if you please, will avoid the fire.”
“You have not walked, Mr. Crawley?”
“Yes, my lord; I have been walking.”
“Not from Hogglestock!”
Now this was a matter which Mr. Crawley certainly did not me
an to discuss with the bishop. It might be well for the bishop to demand his presence in the palace, but it could be no part of the bishop’s duty to inquire how he got there. “That, my lord, is a matter of no moment,” said he. “I am glad at any rate that I have been enabled to obey your lordship’s order in coming hither on this morning.”
Hitherto Mrs. Proudie had not said a word. She stood back in the room, near the fire—more backward a good deal than she was accustomed to do when clergymen made their ordinary visits. On such occasions she would come forward and shake hands with them graciously—graciously, even if proudly; but she had felt that she must do nothing of that kind now; there must be no shaking hands with a man who had stolen a cheque for twenty pounds! It might probably be necessary to keep Mr. Crawley at a distance, and therefore she had remained in the background. But Mr. Crawley seemed to be disposed to keep himself in the background, and therefore she could speak. “I hope your wife and children are well, Mr. Crawley,” she said.
“Thank you, madam, my children are well, and Mrs. Crawley suffers no special ailment at present.”
“That is much to be thankful for, Mr. Crawley.” Whether he were or were not thankful for such mercies as these was no business of the bishop or of the bishop’s wife. That was between him and his God. So he would not even bow to this civility, but sat with his head erect, and with a great frown on his heavy brow.
The Chronicles of Barsetshire Page 297
