CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE PLUMSTEAD FOXES.
The letters had been brought into the breakfast-parlour at PlumsteadRectory one morning, and the archdeacon had inspected them all, andthen thrown over to his wife her share of the spoil,--as was thecustom of the house. As to most of Mrs. Grantly's letters, he nevermade any further inquiry. To letters from her sister, the dean'swife, he was profoundly indifferent, and rarely made any inquiryas to those which were directed in writing with which he was notfamiliar. But there were others as to which, as Mrs. Grantly knew, hewould be sure to ask her questions if she did not show them. No noteever reached her from Lady Hartletop as to which he was not curious,and yet Lady Hartletop's notes very seldom contained much that wasof interest. Now, on this morning, there came a letter which, asa matter of course, Mrs. Grantly read at breakfast, and which,she knew, would not be allowed to disappear without inquiry. Nor,indeed, did she wish to keep the letter from her husband. It wastoo important to be so treated. But she would have been glad togain time to think in what spirit she would discuss the contentsof the letter,--if only such time might be allowed to her. But thearchdeacon would allow her no time. "What does Henry say, my dear?"he asked, before the breakfast things had been taken away.
"What does he say? Well; he says--. I'll give you his letter to readby-and-by."
"And why not now?"
"I thought I'd read it again myself, first."
"But if you have read it, I suppose you know what's in it?"
"Not very clearly, as yet. However, there it is." She knew very wellthat when she had once been asked for it, no peace would be allowedto her till he had seen it. And, alas! there was not much probabilityof peace in the house for some time after he should see it.
The archdeacon read the three or four first lines in silence,--andthen he burst out. "He has, has he? Then, by heavens--"
"Stop, dearest; stop," said his wife, rising from her chair andcoming over to him; "do not say words which you will surely repent."
"I will say words which shall make him repent. He shall never havefrom me a son's portion."
"Do not make threats in anger. Do not! You know that it is wrong. Ifhe has offended you, say nothing about it,--even to yourself,--as tothreatened punishments, till you can judge of the offence in coolblood."
"I am cool," said the archdeacon.
"No, my dear; no; you are angry. And you have not even read hisletter through."
"I will read his letter."
"You will see that the marriage is not imminent. It may be that evenyet it will never take place. The young lady has refused him."
"Psha!"
"You will see that she has done so. He tells us so himself. And shehas behaved very properly."
"Why has she refused him?"
"There can be no doubt about the reason. She feels that, with thischarge hanging over her father, she is not in a position to becomethe wife of any gentleman. You cannot but respect her for that."
Then the archdeacon finished his son's letter, uttering sundryinterjections and ejaculations as he did so.
"Of course; I knew it. I understood it all," he said at last. "I'venothing to do with the girl. I don't care whether she be good orbad."
"Oh, my dear!"
"I care not at all,--with reference to my own concerns. Of courseI would wish that the daughter of a neighbouring clergyman,--thatthe daughter of any neighbour,--that the daughter of any onewhatsoever,--should be good rather than bad. But as regards Henry andme, and our mutual relation, her goodness can make no difference. Lether be another Grizel, and still such a marriage must estrange himfrom me, and me from him."
"But she has refused him."
"Yes; and what does he say?--that he has told her that he will notaccept her refusal. Of course we know what it all means. The girlI am not judging. The girl I will not judge. But my own son, towhom I have ever done a father's duty with a father's affectionateindulgence,--him I will judge. I have warned him, and he declareshimself to be careless of my warning. I shall take no notice of thisletter. I shall neither write to him about it, or speak to him aboutit. But I charge you to write to him, and tell him that if he doesthis thing he shall not have a child's portion from me. It is notthat I will shorten that which would have been his; but he shallhave--nothing!" Then, having spoken these words with a solemnitywhich for the moment silenced his wife, he got up and left theroom. He left the room and closed the door, but, before he had gonehalf the length of the hall towards his own study, he returned andaddressed his wife again. "You understand my instructions, I hope?"
"What instructions?"
"That you write to Henry and tell him what I say."
"I will speak again to you about it by-and-by."
"I will speak no more about it,--not a word more. Let there be not aword more said, but oblige me by doing as I ask you."
Then he was again about to leave the room, but she stopped him. "Waita moment, my dear."
"Why should I wait?"
"That you may listen to me. Surely you will do that, when I ask you.I will write to Henry, of course, if you bid me; and I will give himyour message, whatever it may be; but not to-day, my dear."
"Why not to-day?"
"Because the sun shall go down upon your wrath before I become itsmessenger. If you choose to write to-day yourself, I cannot help it.I cannot hinder you. If I am to write to him on your behalf I willtake my instructions from you to-morrow morning. When to-morrowmorning comes you will not be angry with me because of the delay."
The archdeacon was by no means satisfied; but he knew his wife toowell, and himself too well, and the world too well, to insist on theimmediate gratification of his passion. Over his bosom's mistresshe did exercise a certain marital control,--which was, for instance,quite sufficiently fixed to enable him to look down with thoroughcontempt on such a one as Bishop Proudie; but he was not a despot whocould exact a passive obedience to every fantasy. His wife would nothave written the letter for him on that day, and he knew very wellthat she would not do so. He knew also that she was right;--and yethe regretted his want of power. His anger at the present moment wasvery hot,--so hot that he wished to wreak it. He knew that it wouldcool before the morrow;--and, no doubt, knew also theoretically, thatit would be most fitting that it should cool. But not the less wasit a matter of regret to him that so much good hot anger shouldbe wasted, and that he could not have his will of his disobedientson while it lasted. He might, no doubt, have written himself,but to have done so would not have suited him. Even in his angerhe could not have written to his son without using the ordinaryterms of affection, and in his anger he could not bring himself touse those terms. "You will find that I shall be of the same mindto-morrow,--exactly," he said to his wife. "I have resolved about itlong since; and it is not likely that I shall change in a day." Thenhe went out, about his parish, intending to continue to think of hisson's iniquity, so that he might keep his anger hot,--red hot. Thenhe remembered that the evening would come, and that he would say hisprayers; and he shook his head in regret,--in a regret of which hewas only half conscious, though it was very keen, and which he didnot attempt to analyze,--as he reflected that his rage would hardlybe able to survive that ordeal. How common with us it is to repinethat the devil is not stronger over us than he is.
The archdeacon, who was a very wealthy man, had purchased a propertyin Plumstead, contiguous to the glebe-land, and had thus come toexercise in the parish the double duty of rector and squire. Andof this estate in Barsetshire, which extended beyond the confinesof Plumstead into the neighbouring parish of Eiderdown, and whichcomprised also an outlying farm in the parish of Stogpingum,--StokePinguium would have been the proper name had not barbarous Saxontongues clipped it of its proper proportions,--he had always intendedthat his son Henry should enjoy the inheritance. There was otherproperty, both in land and in money, for his elder son, and otheragain for the maintenance of his wife,--for the archdeacon's fatherhad been for many years Bishop of Barchester, and such
a bishopricas that of Barchester had been in those days was worth money. Ofhis intention in this respect he had never spoken in plain languageto either of his sons; but the major had for the last year or twoenjoyed the shooting of the Barsetshire covers, giving what ordershe pleased about the game; and the father had encouraged him totake something like the management of the property into his hands.There might be some fifteen hundred acres of it altogether, and thearchdeacon had rejoiced over it with his wife scores of times, sayingthat there was many a squire in the county whose elder son wouldnever find himself half so well placed as would his own younger son.Now there was a string of narrow woods called Plumstead Coppiceswhich ran from a point near the church right across the parish,dividing the archdeacon's land from the Ullathorne estate, and thesecoppices, or belts of woodland, belonged to the archdeacon. On themorning of which we are speaking, the archdeacon, mounted on his cob,still thinking of his son's iniquity and of his own fixed resolve topunish him as he had said that he would punish him, opened with hiswhip a woodland gate, from which a green muddy lane led through thetrees up to the house of his gamekeeper. The man's wife was ill, andin his ordinary way of business the archdeacon was about to call andask after her health. At the door of the cottage he found the man,who was woodman as well as gamekeeper, and was responsible for fencesand faggots, as well as for foxes and pheasants' eggs.
"How's Martha, Flurry?" said the archdeacon.
"Thanking your reverence, she be a deal improved since the mistresswas here,--last Tuesday it was, I think."
"I'm glad of that. It was only rheumatism, I suppose?"
"Just a tich of fever with it, your reverence, the doctor said."
"Tell her I was asking after it. I won't mind getting down to-day, asI am rather busy. She has had what she wanted from the house?"
"The mistress has been very good in that way. She always is, Godbless her!"
"Good-day to you, Flurry. I'll ask Mr. Sims to come and read to hera bit this afternoon, or to-morrow morning." The archdeacon kept twocurates, and Mr. Sims was one of them.
"She'll take it very kindly, your reverence. But while you are here,sir, there's just a word I'd like to say. I didn't happen to catchMr. Henry when he was here the other day."
"Never mind Mr. Henry; what is it you have to say?"
"Never mind Mr. Henry."]
"I do think, I do indeed, sir, that Mr. Thorne's man ain't dealingfairly along of the foxes. I wouldn't say a word about it, only thatMr. Henry is so particular."
"What about the foxes? What is he doing with the foxes?"
"Well, sir, he's a trapping on 'em. He is, indeed, your reverence. Iwouldn't speak if I warn't well nigh mortial sure."
Now the archdeacon had never been a hunting man, though in his earlydays many a clergyman had been in the habit of hunting withoutlosing his clerical character by doing so; but he had lived allhis life among gentlemen in a hunting county, and had his own verystrong ideas about the trapping of foxes. Foxes first, and pheasantsafterwards, had always been the rule with him as to any land of whichhe himself had had the management. And no man understood better thanhe did how to deal with keepers as to this matter of fox-preserving,or knew better that keepers will in truth obey not the words of theiremployers, but their sympathies. "Wish them to have foxes, and paythem, and they will have them," Mr. Sowerby of Chaldicotes used tosay, and he in his day was reckoned to be the best preserver of foxesin Barsetshire. "Tell them to have them, and don't wish it, and paythem well, and you won't have a fox to interfere with your game.I don't care what a man says to me, I can read it all like a bookwhen I see his covers drawn." That was what poor Mr. Sowerby ofChaldicotes used to say, and the archdeacon had heard him say it ascore of times, and had learned the lesson. But now his heart was notwith the foxes,--and especially not with the foxes on behalf of hisson Henry. "I can't have any meddling with Mr. Thorne," he said; "Ican't, and I won't."
"But I don't suppose it can be Mr. Thorne's order, your reverence;and Mr. Henry is so particular."
"Of course it isn't Mr. Thorne's order. Mr. Thorne has been a huntingman all his life."
"But he have guv' up now, your reverence. He ain't a hunted these twoyears."
"I'm sure he wouldn't have the foxes trapped."
"Not if he knowed it, he wouldn't, your reverence. A gentleman ofthe likes of him, who's been a hunting over fifty year, wouldn't dothe likes of that; but the foxes is trapped, and Mr. Henry 'll be aputting it on me if I don't speak out. They is Plumstead foxes, too;and a vixen was trapped just across the field yonder, in GoshallSprings, no later than yesterday morning." Flurry was now thoroughlyin earnest; and, indeed, the trapping of a vixen in February is aserious thing.
"Goshall Springs don't belong to me," said the archdeacon.
"No, your reverence; they're on the Ullathorne property. But a wordfrom your reverence would do it. Mr. Henry thinks more of the foxesthan anything. The last word he told me was that it would break hisheart if he saw the coppices drawn blank."
"Then he must break his heart." The words were pronounced, but thearchdeacon had so much command over himself as to speak them in sucha voice that the man should not hear them. But it was incumbenton him to say something that the man should hear. "I will have nomeddling in the matter, Flurry. Whether there are foxes or whetherthere are not, is matter of no great moment. I will not have a wordsaid to annoy Mr. Thorne." Then he rode away, back through the woodand out on to the road, and the horse walked with him leisurely on,whither the archdeacon hardly knew,--for he was thinking, thinking,thinking. "Well;--if that ain't the darn'dest thing that ever was,"said Flurry; "but I'll tell the squire about Thorne's man,--darned ifI don't." Now "the squire" was young Squire Gresham, the master ofthe East Barsetshire hounds.
But the archdeacon went on thinking, thinking, thinking. He couldhave heard nothing of his son to stir him more in his favour thanthis strong evidence of his partiality for foxes. I do not mean itto be understood that the archdeacon regarded foxes as better thanactive charity, or a contented mind, or a meek spirit, or thanself-denying temperance. No doubt all these virtues did hold in hismind their proper places, altogether beyond contamination of foxes.But he had prided himself on thinking that his son should be acountry gentleman, and, probably nothing doubting as to the major'sactive charity and other virtues, was delighted to receive evidenceof those tastes which he had ever wished to encourage in his son'scharacter. Or rather, such evidence would have delighted him at anyother time than the present. Now it only added more gall to his cup."Why should he teach himself to care for such things, when he has notthe spirit to enjoy them," said the archdeacon to himself. "He is afool,--a fool. A man that has been married once, to go crazy after alittle girl, that has hardly a dress to her back, and who never wasin a drawing-room in her life! Charles is the eldest, and he shall bethe eldest. It will be better to keep it together. It is the way inwhich the country has become what it is." He was out nearly all day,and did not see his wife till dinner-time. Her father, Mr. Harding,was still with them, but had breakfasted in his own room. Not a word,therefore, was said about Henry Grantly between the father and motheron that evening.
Mrs. Grantly was determined that, unless provoked, she would saynothing to him till the following morning. He should sleep upon hiswrath before she spoke to him again. And he was equally unwilling torecur to the subject. Had she permitted it, the next morning wouldhave passed away, and no word would have been spoken. But thiswould not have suited her. She had his orders to write, and she hadundertaken to obey these orders,--with the delay of one day. Wereshe not to write at all,--or in writing to send no message from thefather, there would be cause for further anger. And yet this, Ithink, was what the archdeacon wished.
"Archdeacon," she said, "I shall write to Henry to-day."
"Very well."
"And what am I to say from you?"
"I told you yesterday what are my intentions."
"I am not asking about that now. We hope there will be years andyear
s to come, in which you may change them, and shape them as youwill. What shall I tell him now from you?"
"I have nothing to say to him,--nothing; not a word. He knows whathe has to expect from me, for I have told him. He is acting with hiseyes open, and so am I. If he marries Miss Crawley, he must live onhis own means. I told him that myself so plainly, that he can wantno further intimation." Then Mrs. Grantly knew that she was absolvedfrom the burden of yesterday's message, and she plumed herself on theprudence of her conduct. On the same morning the archdeacon wrote thefollowing note:--
DEAR THORNE,--
My man tells me that foxes have been trapped on Darvell's farm, just outside the coppices. I know nothing of it myself, but I am sure you'll look to it.
Yours always,
T. GRANTLY.
The Last Chronicle of Barset Page 35
