“Only think,” exclaimed Mrs. Grantly, “when Eleanor wrote she had not heard of that affair of poor Mr. Crawley’s.”
“Does she say anything about him?” asked the major.
“I’ll read what she says. ‘I see in the Galignani that a clergyman in Barsetshire has been committed for theft. Pray tell me who it is. Not the bishop, I hope, for the credit of the diocese?’”
“I wish it were,” said the archdeacon
“For shame, my dear,” said his wife.
“No shame at all. If we are to have a thief among us, I’d sooner find him in a bad man than a good one. Besides, we should have a change at the palace, which would be a great thing.”
“But is it not odd that Eleanor should have heard nothing of it?” said Mrs. Grantly.
“It’s odd that you should not have mentioned it yourself.”
“I did not, certainly; nor you, papa, I suppose?”
Mr. Harding acknowledged that he had not spoken of it, and then they calculated that perhaps she might not have received any letter from her husband written since the news had reached him. “Besides, why should he have mentioned it?” said the major. “He only knows as yet of the inquiry about the cheque, and can have heard nothing of what was done by the magistrates.”
“Still it seems so odd that Eleanor should not have known of it, seeing that we have been talking of nothing else for the last week,” said Mrs. Grantly.
For two days the major said not a word of Grace Crawley to anyone. Nothing could be more courteous and complaisant than was his father’s conduct to him. Anything that he wanted for Edith was to be done. For himself there was no trouble which would not be taken. His hunting, and his shooting, and his fishing seemed to have become matters of paramount consideration to his father. And then the archdeacon became very confidential about money matters—not offering anything to his son, which, as he well knew, would have been seen through as palpable bribery and corruption—but telling him of this little scheme and of that, of one investment and of another—how he contemplated buying a small property here, and spending a few thousands on building there. “Of course it is all for you and your brother,” said the archdeacon, with that benevolent sadness which is used habitually by fathers on such occasions; “and I like you to know what it is that I am doing. I told Charles about the London property the last time I was up,” said the archdeacon, “and there shall be no difference between him and you, if all goes well.” This was very good-natured on the archdeacon’s part, and was not strictly necessary, as Charles was the eldest son; but the major understood it perfectly. “There shall be an elysium opened to you, if only you will not do that terrible thing of which you spoke when last here.” The archdeacon uttered no such words as these, and did not even allude to Grace Crawley; but the words were as good as spoken, and had they been spoken ever so plainly the major could not have understood them more clearly. He was quite awake to the loveliness of the elysium opened before him. He had had his moment of anxiety, whether his father would or would not make an elder son of his brother Charles. The whole thing was now put before him plainly. Give up Grace Crawley, and you shall share alike with your brother. Disgrace yourself by marrying her, and your brother shall have everything. There was the choice, and it was still open to him to take which side he pleased. Were he never to go near Grace Crawley again no one would blame him, unless it were Miss Prettyman or Mrs. Thorne. “Fill your glass, Henry,” said the archdeacon. “You’d better, I tell you, for there is no more of it left.” Then the major filled his glass and sipped the wine, and swore to himself that he would go down to Allington at once. What! Did his father think to bribe him by giving him ‘20 port? He would certainly go down to Allington, and he would tell his mother to-morrow morning, or certainly on the next day, what he was going to do. “Pity it should all be gone; isn’t it, sir?” said the archdeacon to his father-in-law. “It has lasted my time,” said Mr. Harding, “and I’m very much obliged to it. Dear, dear; how well I remember your father giving the order for it! There were two pipes, and somebody said it was a heady wine. ‘If the prebendaries and rectors can’t drink it,’ said your father, ‘the curates will.’”
“Curates indeed!” said the archdeacon. “It’s too good for a bishop, unless one of the right sort.”
“Your father used to say those things, but with him the poorer the guest the better the cheer. When he had a few clergymen round him, how he loved to make them happy!”
“Never talked shop to them—did he?” said the archdeacon.
“Not after dinner, at any rate. Goodness gracious, when one thinks of it! Do you remember how we used to play cards?”
“Every night regularly—threepenny points, and sixpence on the rubber,” said the archdeacon.
“Dear, dear! How things are changed! And I remember when the clergymen did more of the dancing in Barchester than all the other young men in the city put together.”
“And a good set they were—gentlemen every one of them. It’s well that some of them don’t dance now—that is, for the girls’ sake.”
“I sometimes sit and wonder,” said Mr. Harding, “whether your father’s spirit ever comes back to the old house and sees the changes—and if so whether he approves them.”
“Approves them!” said the archdeacon.
“Well—yes. I think he would, upon the whole. I’m sure of this: he would not disapprove, because the new ways are changed from his ways. He never thought himself infallible. And do you know, my dear, I am not sure that it isn’t all for the best. I sometimes think that some of us were very idle when we were young. I was, I know.”
“I worked hard enough,” said the archdeacon.
“Ah, yes; you. But most of us took it very easily. Dear, dear! When I think of it, and see how hard they work now, and remember what pleasant times we used to have—I don’t feel sometimes quite sure.”
“I believe the work was done a great deal better than it is now,” said the archdeacon. “There wasn’t so much fuss, but there was more reality. And men were men, and clergymen were gentlemen.”
“Yes—they were gentlemen.”
“Such a creature as that old woman at the palace couldn’t have held his head up among us. That’s what has come from Reform. A reformed House of Commons makes Lord Brock Prime Minister, and then your Prime Minister makes Dr. Proudie a bishop! Well—it will last my time, I suppose.”
“It has lasted mine—like the wine,” said Mr. Harding.
“There’s one glass more, and you shall have it, sir.” Then Mr. Harding drank the last glass of the 1820 port, and they went into the drawing-room.
On the next morning after breakfast the major went out for a walk by himself. His father had suggested to him that he should go over to shoot at Framley, and had offered him the use of everything the archdeacon possessed in the way of horses, dogs, guns and carriages. But the major would have none of these things. He would go out and walk by himself. “He’s not thinking of her; is he?” said the archdeacon to his wife, in a whisper. “I don’t know. I think he is,” said Mrs. Grantly. “It will be so much the better for Charles, if he does,” said the archdeacon grimly; and the look of his face as he spoke was by no means pleasant. “You will do nothing unjust, archdeacon,” said his wife. “I will do as I like with my own,” said he. And then he also went out and took a walk by himself.
That evening after dinner, there was no 1820 port, and no recollections of old days. They were rather dull, the three of them, as they sat together—and dullness is always more endurable than sadness. Old Mr. Harding went to sleep and the archdeacon was cross. “Henry,” he said, “you haven’t a word to throw to a dog.” “I’ve got rather a headache this evening, sir,” said the major. The archdeacon drank two glasses of wine, one after another, quickly. Then he woke his father-in-law gently, and went off. “Is there anything the matter?” asked the old man. “Nothing particular. My father seems a little cross.” “Ah! I’ve been to sleep, and I oughtn’t. It’s
my fault. We’ll go in and smooth him down.” But the archdeacon wouldn’t be smoothed down on that occasion. He would let his son see the difference between a father pleased, and a father displeased—or rather between a father pleasant, and a father unpleasant. “He hasn’t said anything to you, has he?” said the archdeacon that night to his wife. “Not a word—as yet.” “If he does it without the courage to tell us, I shall think him a cur,” said the archdeacon. “But he did tell you,” said Mrs. Grantly, standing up for her favourite son; “and, for the matter of that, he has courage enough for anything. If he does it, I shall always say that he has been driven to it by your threats.”
“That’s sheer nonsense,” said the archdeacon.
“It’s not nonsense at all,” said Mrs. Grantly.
“Then I suppose I was to hold my tongue and say nothing?” said the archdeacon; and as he spoke he banged the door between his dressing-room and Mrs. Grantly’s bedroom.
On the first day of the new year Major Grantly spoke his mind to his mother. The archdeacon had gone into Barchester, having in vain attempted to induce his son to go with him. Mr. Harding was in the library reading a little and sleeping a little, and dreaming of old days and old friends, and perhaps, sometimes, of the old wine. Mrs. Grantly was alone in a small sitting-room which she frequented upstairs, when suddenly her son entered the room. “Mother,” he said, “I think it better to tell you that I am going to Allington.”
“To Allington, Henry?” She knew very well who was at Allington, and what must be the business which would take him there.
“Yes, mother. Miss Crawley is there, and there are circumstances which make it incumbent on me to see her without delay.”
“What circumstances, Henry?”
“As I intend to ask her to be my wife, I think it best to do so now. I owe it to her and to myself that she should not think that I am deterred by her father’s position.”
“But would it not be reasonable that you should be deterred by her father’s position?”
“No, I think not. I think it would be dishonest as well as ungenerous. I cannot bring myself to brook such delay. Of course I am alive to the misfortune which has fallen upon her—upon her and me, too, should she ever become my wife. But it is one of those burdens which a man should have shoulders broad enough to bear.”
“Quite so, if she were your wife, or even if you were engaged to her. Then honour would require it of you, as well as affection. As it is, your honour does not require it, and I think you should hesitate, for all our sakes, and especially for Edith’s.”
“It will do Edith no harm; and, mother, if you alone were concerned, I think you would feel that it would not hurt you.”
“I was not thinking of myself, Henry.”
“As for my father, the very threats which he has used make me conscious that I have only to measure the price. He has told me that he will stop my allowance.”
“But that may not be the worst. Think how you are situated. You are the younger son of a man who will be held to be justified in making an elder son, if he thinks fit to do so.”
“I can only hope that he will be fair to Edith. If you will tell him that from me, it is all that I will ask you to do.”
“But you will see him yourself?”
“No, mother; not till I have been to Allington. Then I will see him again or not, just as he pleases. I shall stop at Guestwick, and will write to you a line from thence. If my father decides on doing anything, let me know at once, as it will be necessary that I should get rid of the lease of my house.”
“Oh, Henry!”
“I have thought a great deal about it, mother, and I believe I am right. Whether I am right or wrong, I shall do it. I will not ask you now for any promise or pledge; but should Miss Crawley become my wife, I hope that you at least will not refuse to see her as your daughter.” Having so spoken, he kissed his mother, and was about to leave the room; but she held him by his arm, and he saw that her eyes were full of tears. “Dearest mother, if I grieve you I am sorry indeed.”
“Not me, not me, not me,” she said.
“For my father, I cannot help it. Had he not threatened me I should have told him also. As he has done so, you must tell him. But give him my kindest love.”
“Oh, Henry; you will be ruined. You will, indeed. Can you not wait? Remember how headstrong your father is, and yet how good—and how he loves you! Think of all that he has done for you. When did he refuse you anything?”
“He has been good to me, but in this I cannot obey him. He should not ask me.”
“You are wrong. You are indeed. He has a right to expect that you will not bring disgrace upon the family.”
“Nor will I—except such disgrace as may attend upon poverty. Good-bye, mother. I wish you could have said one kind word to me.”
“Have I not said a kind word?”
“Not as yet, mother.”
“I would not for worlds speak unkindly to you. If it were not for your father I would bid you bring whom you pleased home to me as your wife; and I would be as a mother to her. And if this girl should become your wife—”
“It shall not be my fault if she does not.”
“I will try to love her—some day.”
Then the major went, leaving Edith at the rectory, as requested by his mother. His own dog-cart and servant were at Plumstead, and he drove himself home to Cosby Lodge.
When the archdeacon returned the news was told to him at once. “Henry has gone to Allington to propose to Miss Crawley,” said Mrs. Grantly.
“Gone—without speaking to me!”
“He left his love, and said that it was useless his remaining, as he knew he should only offend you.”
“He has made his bed, and he must lie upon it,” said the archdeacon. And then there was not another word said about Grace Crawley on that occasion.
CHAPTER XXIII
Miss Lily Dale’s Resolution
The ladies at the Small House at Allington breakfasted always at nine—a liberal nine; and the postman whose duty it was to deliver letters in that village at half-past eight, being also liberal in his ideas as to time, always arrived punctually in the middle of breakfast, so that Mrs. Dale expected her letters, and Lily hers, just before their second cup of tea, as though the letters formed a part of the morning meal. Jane, the maidservant, always brought them in, and handed them to Mrs. Dale—for Lily had in these days come to preside at the breakfast table; and then there would be an examination of the outsides before the envelopes were violated, and as each knew pretty well all the circumstances of the correspondence of the other, there would be some guessing as to what this or that epistle might contain; and after that a reading out loud of passages, and not unfrequently of the entire letter. But now, at the time of which I am speaking, Grace Crawley was at the Small House, and therefore the common practice was somewhat in abeyance.
On one of the first days of the new year Jane brought in the letters as usual, and handed them to Mrs. Dale. Lily was at the time occupied with the teapot, but still she saw the letters, and had not her hands so full as to be debarred from the expression of her usual anxiety. “Mamma, I’m sure I see two there for me,” she said. “Only one for you, Lily,” said Mrs. Dale. Lily instantly knew from the tone of the voice that some letter had come, which by the very aspect of the handwriting had disturbed her mother. “There is one for you, my dear,” said Mrs. Dale, throwing a letter across the table to Grace. “And one for you, Lily, from Bell. The others are for me.” “And whom are you yours from, mamma?” asked Lily. “One is from Mrs. Jones; the other, I think, is a letter on business.” Then Lily said nothing further, but she observed that her mother only opened one of her letters at the breakfast-table. Lily was very patient—not by nature, I think, but by exercise and practice. She had, once in her life, been too much in a hurry; and having then burned herself grievously, she now feared the fire. She did not therefore follow her mother after breakfast, but sat with Grace over the fire, hemming dilig
ently at certain articles of clothing which were intended for use in the Hogglestock parsonage. The two girls were making a set of new shirts for Mr. Crawley. “But I know he will ask where they come from,” said Grace; “and then mamma will be scolded.” “But I hope he’ll wear them,” said Lily. “Sooner of later he will,” said Grace; “because mamma manages generally to have her way at last.” Then they went on for an hour or so, talking about the home affairs at Hogglestock. But during the whole time Lily’s mind was intent upon her mother’s letter.
Nothing was said about it at lunch, and nothing when they walked out after lunch, for Lily was very patient. But during the walk Mrs. Dale became aware that her daughter was uneasy. These two watched each other unconsciously with a closeness which hardly allowed a glance of the eye, certainly not a tone of the voice, to pass unobserved. To Mrs. Dale it was everything in the world that her daughter should be, if not happy at heart, at least tranquil; and to Lily, who knew that her mother was always thinking of her, and of her alone, her mother was the only human divinity now worthy of adoration. But nothing was said about the letter during the walk.
When they came home it was nearly dusk, and it was their habit to sit up for a while without candles, talking, till the evening had in truth set in and the unmistakable and enforced idleness of remaining without candles was apparent. During this time, Lily, demanding patience of herself all the while, was thinking what she would do, or rather what she would say, about the letter. That nothing would be done or said in the presence of Grace Crawley was a matter of course, nor would she do or say anything to get rid of Grace. She would be very patient; but she would, at last, ask her mother about the letter.
And then, as luck would have it, Grace Crawley got up and left the room. Lily still waited for a few minutes, and, in order that her patience might be thoroughly exercised, she said a word or two about her sister Bell; how the eldest child’s whooping-cough was nearly well, and how the baby was doing wonderful things with its first tooth. But as Mrs. Dale had already seen Bell’s letter, all this was not intensely interesting. At last Lily came to the point and asked her question. “Mamma, from whom was that other letter which you got this morning?”
The Chronicles of Barsetshire Page 302
