The Last Chronicle of Barset

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XXII.

  MAJOR GRANTLY AT HOME.

  Mrs. Thorne had spoken very plainly in the advice which she had givento Major Grantly. "If I were you, I'd be at Allington before twelveo'clock to-morrow." That had been Mrs. Thorne's advice; and thoughMajor Grantly had no idea of making the journey so rapidly as thelady had proposed, still he thought that he would make it beforelong, and follow the advice in spirit if not to the letter. Mrs.Thorne had asked him if it was fair that the girl should be punishedbecause of the father's fault; and the idea had been sweet to himthat the infliction or non-infliction of such punishment should bein his hands. "You go and ask her," Mrs. Thorne had said. Well;--hewould go and ask her. If it should turn out at last that he hadmarried the daughter of a thief, and that he was disinherited fordoing so,--an arrangement of circumstances which he had to teachhimself to regard as very probable,--he would not love Grace the lesson that account, or allow himself for one moment to repent what hehad done. As he thought of all this he became somewhat in love with asmall income, and imagined to himself what honours would be done tohim by the Mrs. Thornes of the county, when they should come to knowin what way he had sacrificed himself to his love. Yes;--they wouldgo and live at Pau. He thought Pau would do. He would have enoughof income for that;--and Edith would get lessons cheaply, and wouldlearn to talk French fluently. He certainly would do it. He wouldgo down to Allington, and ask Grace to be his wife; and bid herunderstand that if she loved him she could not be justified inrefusing him by the circumstances of her father's position.

  But he must go to Plumstead before he could go to Allington. Hewas engaged to spend his Christmas there, and must go now at once.There was not time for the journey to Allington before he was dueat Plumstead. And, moreover, though he could not bring himselfto resolve that he would tell his father what he was going todo;--"It would seem as though I were asking his leave!" he said tohimself;--he thought that he would make a clean breast of it to hismother. It made him sad to think that he should cut the rope whichfastened his own boat among the other boats in the home harbourat Plumstead, and that he should go out all alone into strangewaters,--turned adrift altogether, as it were, from the Grantlyfleet. If he could only get the promise of his mother's sympathyfor Grace it would be something. He understood,--no one better thanhe,--the tendency of all his family to an uprising in the world,which tendency was almost as strong in his mother as in his father.And he had been by no means without a similar ambition himself,though with him the ambition had been only fitful, not enduring.He had a brother, a clergyman, a busy, stirring, eloquent Londonpreacher, who got churches built, and was heard of far and wide as arising man, who had married a certain Lady Anne, the daughter of anearl, and who was already mentioned as a candidate for high places.How his sister was the wife of a marquis, and a leader in thefashionable world, the reader already knows. The archdeacon himselfwas a rich man, so powerful that he could afford to look down upon abishop; and Mrs. Grantly, though there was left about her somethingof an old softness of nature, a touch of the former life which hadbeen hers before the stream of her days had run gold, yet she, too,had taken kindly to wealth and high standing, and was by no means oneof those who construe literally that passage of scripture which tellsus of the camel and the needle's eye. Our Henry Grantly, our major,knew himself to be his mother's favourite child,--knew himself tohave become so since something of coolness had grown up between herand her august daughter. The augustness of the daughter had done muchto reproduce the old freshness of which I have spoken in the mother'sheart, and had specially endeared to her the son who, of all herchildren, was the least subject to the family failing. The clergyman,Charles Grantly,--he who had married the Lady Anne,--was his father'sdarling in these days. The old archdeacon would go up to London andbe quite happy in his son's house. He met there the men whom he lovedto meet, and heard the talk which he loved to hear. It was very fine,having the Marquis of Hartletop for his son-in-law, but he had nevercared to be much at Lady Hartletop's house. Indeed, the archdeaconcared to be in no house in which those around him were supposed tobe bigger than himself. Such was the little family fleet from out ofwhich Henry Grantly was now proposing to sail alone with his littleboat,--taking Grace Crawley with him at the helm. "My father is ajust man at the bottom," he said to himself, "and though he may notforgive me, he will not punish Edith."

  But there was still left one of the family,--not a Grantly, indeed,but one so nearly allied to them as to have his boat moored inthe same harbour,--who, as the major well knew, would thoroughlysympathize with him. This was old Mr. Harding, his mother'sfather,--the father of his mother and of his aunt Mrs. Arabin,--whosehome was now at the deanery. He was also to be at Plumstead duringthis Christmas, and he at any rate would give a ready assent to sucha marriage as that which the major was proposing for himself. Butthen poor old Mr. Harding had been thoroughly deficient in thatambition which had served to aggrandize the family into which hisdaughter had married. He was a poor old man who, in spite of goodfriends,--for the late bishop of the diocese had been his dearestfriend,--had never risen high in his profession, and had fallen evenfrom the moderate altitude which he had attained. But he was a manwhom all loved who knew him; and it was much to the credit of hisson-in-law, the archdeacon, that, with all his tendencies to loverising suns, he had ever been true to Mr. Harding.

  Major Grantly took his daughter with him, and on his arrival atPlumstead she of course was the first object of attention. Mrs.Grantly declared that she had grown immensely. The archdeaconcomplimented her red cheeks, and said that Cosby Lodge was ashealthy a place as any in the county, while Mr. Harding, Edith'sgreat-grandfather, drew slowly from his pocket sundry treasureswith which he had come prepared for the delight of the little girl.Charles Grantly and Lady Anne had no children, and the heir of allthe Hartletops was too august to have been trusted to the embraces ofher mother's grandfather. Edith, therefore, was all that he had inthat generation, and of Edith he was prepared to be as indulgent ashe had been, in their time, of his grandchildren the Grantlys, andstill was of his grandchildren the Arabins, and had been before thatof his own daughters. "She's more like Eleanor than any one else,"said the old man in a plaintive tone. Now Eleanor was Mrs. Arabin,the dean's wife, and was at this time,--if I were to say over fortyI do not think I should be uncharitable. No one else saw the speciallikeness, but no one else remembered, as Mr. Harding did, whatEleanor had been when she was three years old.

  "She's more like Eleanor than any one else."]

  "Aunt Nelly is in France," said the child.

  "Yes, my darling, aunt Nelly is in France, and I wish she were athome. Aunt Nelly has been away a long time."

  "I suppose she'll stay till the dean picks her up on his way home?"said Mrs. Grantly.

  "So she says in her letters. I heard from her yesterday, and Ibrought the letter, as I thought you'd like to see it." Mrs. Grantlytook the letter and read it, while her father still played with thechild. The archdeacon and the major were standing together on the rugdiscussing the shooting at Chaldicotes, as to which the archdeaconhad a strong opinion. "I'm quite sure that a man with a place likethat does more good by preserving than by leaving it alone. Thebetter head of game he has the richer the county will be generally.It is just the same with pheasants as it is with sheep and bullocks.A pheasant doesn't cost more than he's worth any more than abarn-door fowl. Besides, a man who preserves is always respected bythe poachers, and the man who doesn't is not."

  "There's something in that, sir, certainly," said the major.

  "More than you think for, perhaps. Look at poor Sowerby, who went onthere for years without a shilling. How he was respected, because helived as the people around him expected a gentleman to live. Thornewill have a bad time of it, if he tries to change things."

  "Only think," exclaimed Mrs. Grantly, "when Eleanor wrote she had notheard 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 Galignani that a clergyman inBarsetshire has been committed for theft. Pray tell me who it is. Notthe 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 findhim in a bad man than a good one. Besides we should have a change atthe 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 theycalculated that perhaps she might not have received any letter fromher husband written since the news had reached him. "Besides, whyshould he have mentioned it?" said the major. "He only knows as yetof the inquiry about the cheque, and can have heard nothing of whatwas 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 any one.Nothing could be more courteous and complaisant than was his father'sconduct to him. Anything that he wanted for Edith was to be done. Forhimself there was no trouble which would not be taken. His hunting,and his shooting, and his fishing seemed to have become matters ofparamount consideration to his father. And then the archdeacon becamevery confidential about money matters,--not offering anything to hisson, which, as he well knew, would have been seen through as palpablebribery and corruption,--but telling him of this little scheme and ofthat, of one investment and of another;--how he contemplated buying asmall 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 onsuch 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 betweenhim and you, if all goes well." This was very good-natured on thearchdeacon's part, and was not strictly necessary, as Charles was theeldest son but the major understood it perfectly. "There shall be anelysium opened to you, if only you will not do that terrible thing ofwhich you spoke when last here." The archdeacon uttered no such wordsas these, and did not even allude to Grace Crawley; but the wordswere as good as spoken, and had they been spoken ever so plainly themajor could not have understood them more clearly. He was quite awaketo the loveliness of the elysium opened before him. He had had hismoment of anxiety, whether his father would or would not make anelder son of his brother Charles. The whole thing was now put beforehim plainly. Give up Grace Crawley, and you shall share alike withyour brother. Disgrace yourself by marrying her, and your brothershall have everything. There was the choice, and it was still opento him to take which side he pleased. Were he never to go near GraceCrawley again no one would blame him, unless it were Miss Prettymanor Mrs. Thorne. "Fill your glass, Henry," said the archdeacon. "You'dbetter, I tell you, for there is no more of it left." Then the majorfilled his glass and sipped the wine, and swore to himself thathe would go down to Allington at once. What! Did his father thinkto bribe him by giving him '20 port? He would certainly go downto Allington, and he would tell his mother to-morrow morning,or certainly on the next day, what he was going to do. "Pity itshould be all gone; isn't it, sir?" said the archdeacon to hisfather-in-law. "It has lasted my time," said Mr. Harding, "and I'mvery much obliged to it. Dear, dear; how well I remember your fathergiving the order for it! There were two pipes, and somebody said itwas 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 theguest 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 ofit! Do you remember how we used to play cards?"

  "Every night regularly;--threepenny points, and sixpence on therubber," said the archdeacon.

  "Dear, dear! How things are changed! And I remember when theclergymen did more of the dancing in Barchester than all the otheryoung men in the city put together."

  "And a good set they were;--gentlemen every one of them. It's wellthat some of them don't dance now;--that is, for the girls' sake."

  "I sometimes sit and wonder," said Mr. Harding, "whether yourfather's spirit ever comes back to the old house and sees thechanges,--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: hewould not disapprove, because the new ways are changed from his ways.He never thought himself infallible. And do you know, my dear, I amnot sure that it isn't all for the best. I sometimes think that someof 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! WhenI think of it, and see how hard they work now, and remember whatpleasant 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 morereality. 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 heldhis head up among us. That's what has come from Reform. A reformedHouse of Commons makes Lord Brock Prime Minister, and then your PrimeMinister makes Dr. Proudie a bishop! Well;--it will last my time, Isuppose."

  "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 thedrawing-room.

  On the next morning after breakfast the major went out for a walkby himself. His father had suggested to him that he should go overto shoot at Framley, and had offered him the use of everythingthe archdeaconry possessed in the way of horses, dogs, guns andcarriages. But the major would have none of these things. He would goout and walk by himself. "He's not thinking of her; is he?" said thearchdeacon 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, ifhe does," said the archdeacon grimly; and the look of his face ashe spoke was by no means pleasant. "You will do nothing unjust,archdeacon," said his wife. "I will do as I like with my own," saidhe. And then he also went out and took a walk by himself.

  That evening after dinner, there was no 1820 port, and norecollections of old days. They were rather dull, the three of them,as they sat together,--and dulness is always more unendurable thansadness. 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 gotrather a headache this evening, sir," said the major. The archdeacondrank two glasses of wine, one after another, quickly. Then he wokehis father-in-law gently, and went off. "Is there anything thematter?" asked the old man. "Nothing particular. My father seems tobe a little cross." "Ah! I've been to sleep and I oughtn't. It's myfault. We'll go in and smooth him down." But the archdeacon wouldn'tbe smoothed down on that occasion. He would let his son see thedifference between a father pleased, and a father displeased,--orrather between a father pleasant, and a father unpleasant. "He hasn'tsaid anything to you, has he?" said the archdeacon that night to hiswife. "Not a word;--as yet." "If he does it without the courage totell us, I shall think him a cur," said the archdeacon. "But he didtell you," said Mrs. Grantly, standing up for her favourite son"and, for the matter of that, he has courage enough for anything. Ifhe does it, I shall
always say that he has been driven to it by yourthreats."

  "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?" saidthe archdeacon and as he spoke he banged the door between hisdressing-room and Mrs. Grantly's bedroom.

  On the first day of the new year Major Grantly spoke his mind tohis mother. The archdeacon had gone into Barchester, having in vainattempted to induce his son to go with him. Mr. Harding was in thelibrary reading a little and sleeping a little, and dreaming ofold days and old friends, and perhaps, sometimes, of the old wine.Mrs. Grantly was alone in a small sitting-room which she frequentedupstairs, 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, andwhat must be the business which would take him there.

  "Yes, mother. Miss Crawley is there, and there are circumstanceswhich 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 amdeterred by her father's position."

  "But would it not be reasonable that you should be deterred by herfather's position?"

  "No, I think not. I think it would be dishonest as well asungenerous. I cannot bring myself to brook such delay. Of course I amalive 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 burdenswhich 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, forall 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 meconscious that I have only to measure the price. He has told me thathe will stop my allowance."

  "But that may not be the worst. Think how you are situated. You arethe younger son of a man who will be held to be justified in makingan elder son, if he thinks fit to do so."

  "I can only hope that he will be fair to Edith. If you will tell himthat 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 himagain or not, just as he pleases. I shall stop at Guestwick, andwill write to you a line from thence. If my father decides on doinganything, let me know at once, as it will be necessary that I shouldget rid of the lease of my house."

  "Oh, Henry!"

  "I have thought a great deal about it, mother, and I believe I amright. Whether I am right or wrong, I shall do it. I will not askyou now for any promise or pledge; but should Miss Crawley become mywife, I hope that you at least will not refuse to see her as yourdaughter." Having so spoken, he kissed his mother, and was about toleave the room; but she held him by his arm, and he saw that hereyes were full of tears. "Dearest mother, if I grieve you I am sorryindeed."

  "Not me, not me, not me," she said.

  "For my father, I cannot help it. Had he not threatened me I shouldhave told him also. As he has done so, you must tell him. But givehim 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 heloves you! Think of all that he has done for you. When did he refuseyou anything?"

  "He has been good to me, but in this I cannot obey him. He should notask me."

  "You are wrong. You are indeed. He has a right to expect that youwill not bring disgrace upon the family."

  "Nor will I;--except such disgrace as may attend upon poverty.Good-by, 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 foryour father I would bid you bring whom you pleased home to me as yourwife; and I would be as a mother to her. And if this girl shouldbecome 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 byhis mother. His own dog-cart and his servant were at Plumstead, andhe drove himself home to Cosby Lodge.

  When the archdeacon returned the news was told to him at once. "Henryhas 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 heknew 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 thatoccasion.