The Last Chronicle of Barset

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER LVII.

  A DOUBLE PLEDGE.

  The archdeacon, as he walked across from the Court to the parsonage,was very thoughtful and his steps were very slow. This idea of seeingMiss Crawley herself had been suggested to him suddenly, and he hadto determine how he would bear himself towards her, and what he wouldsay to her. Lady Lufton had beseeched him to be gentle with her. Wasthe mission one in which gentleness would be possible? Must it not behis object to make this young lady understand that she could not beright in desiring to come into his family and share in all his goodthings when she had got no good things of her own,--nothing but evilthings to bring with her? And how could this be properly explained tothe young lady in gentle terms? Must he not be round with her, andgive her to understand in plain words,--the plainest which he coulduse,--that she would not get his good things, though she would mostcertainly impose the burden of all her evil things on the man whomshe was proposing to herself as a husband. He remembered very well ashe went, that he had been told that Miss Crawley had herself refusedthe offer, feeling herself to be unfit for the honour tendered toher; but he suspected the sincerity of such a refusal. Calculatingin his own mind the unreasonably great advantages which would beconferred on such a young lady as Miss Crawley by a marriage withhis son, he declared to himself that any girl must be very wickedindeed who should expect, or even accept, so much more than was herdue;--but nevertheless he could not bring himself to believe thatany girl, when so tempted, would, in sincerity, decline to committhis great wickedness. If he was to do any good by seeing MissCrawley, must it not consist in a proper explanation to her of theselfishness, abomination, and altogether damnable blackness of suchwickedness as this on the part of a young woman in her circumstances?"Heaven and earth!" he must say, "here are you, without a penny inyour pocket, with hardly decent raiment on your back, with a thieffor your father, and you think that you are to come and share inall the wealth that the Grantlys have amassed, that you are to havea husband with broad acres, a big house, and game preserves, andbecome one of a family whose name has never been touched by a singleaccusation,--no, not by a suspicion? No;--injustice such as thatshall never be done betwixt you and me. You may wring my heart, andyou may ruin my son but the broad acres and the big house, and thegame preserves, and the rest of it, shall never be your reward fordoing so." How was all that to be told effectively to a young womanin gentle words? And then how was a man in the archdeacon's positionto be desirous of gentle words,--gentle words which would not beefficient,--when he knew well in his heart of hearts that he hadnothing but his threats on which to depend. He had no more power ofdisinheriting his own son for such an offence as that contemplatedthan he had of blowing out his own brains, and he knew that it wasso. He was a man incapable of such persistency of wrath against onewhom he loved. He was neither cruel enough nor strong enough to dosuch a thing. He could only threaten to do it, and make what best usehe might of threats, whilst threats might be of avail. In spite ofall that he had said to his wife, to Lady Lufton, and to himself, heknew very well that if his son did sin in this way he, the father,would forgive the sin of the son.

  In going across from the front gate of the Court to the parsonagethere was a place where three roads met, and on this spot there stooda finger-post. Round this finger-post there was now pasted a placard,which at once arrested the archdeacon's eye:--"Cosby Lodge--Saleof furniture--Growing crops to be sold on the grounds. Threehunters. A brown gelding warranted for saddle or harness!"--Thearchdeacon himself had given the brown gelding to his son, as a greattreasure.--"Three Alderney cows, two cow-calves, a low phaeton, agig, two ricks of hay." In this fashion were proclaimed in odiousdetails all those comfortable additions to a gentleman's house in thecountry, with which the archdeacon was so well acquainted. Only lastNovember he had recommended his son to buy a certain new-inventedclod-crusher, and the clod-crusher had of course been bought. Thebright blue paint upon it had not as yet given way to the stains ofthe ordinary farmyard muck and mire;--and here was the clod-crusheradvertised for sale! The archdeacon did not want his son to leaveCosby Lodge. He knew well enough that his son need not leave CosbyLodge. Why had the foolish fellow been in such a hurry with hishideous ill-conditioned advertisements? Gentle! How was he in suchcircumstances to be gentle? He raised his umbrella and poked angrilyat the disgusting notice. The iron ferule caught the paper at a chinkin the post, and tore it from the top to the bottom. But what was theuse? A horrid ugly bill lying torn in such a spot would attract onlymore attention than one fixed to a post. He could not condescend,however, to give to it further attention, but passed on up to theparsonage. Gentle, indeed!

  Nevertheless Archdeacon Grantly was a gentleman, and never yet haddealt more harshly with any woman than we have sometimes seen him dowith his wife,--when he would say to her an angry word or two witha good deal of marital authority. His wife, who knew well what hisangry words were worth, never even suggested to herself that she hadcause for complaint on that head. Had she known that the archdeaconwas about to undertake such a mission as this which he had now inhand, she would not have warned him to be gentle. She, indeed, wouldhave strongly advised him not to undertake the mission, cautioninghim that the young lady would probably get the better of him.

  "Grace, my dear," said Mrs. Robarts, coming up into the nursery inwhich Miss Crawley was sitting with the children, "come out here amoment, will you?" Then Grace left the children and went out into thepassage. "My dear, there is a gentleman in the drawing-room who asksto see you."

  "A gentleman, Mrs. Robarts! What gentleman?" But Grace, though sheasked the question, conceived that the gentleman must be HenryGrantly. Her mind did not suggest to her the possibility of any othergentleman coming to see her.

  "You must not be surprised, or allow yourself to be frightened."

  "Oh, Mrs. Robarts, who is it?"

  "It is Major Grantly's father."

  "The archdeacon?"

  "Yes, dear; Archdeacon Grantly. He is in the drawing-room."

  "Must I see him, Mrs. Robarts?"

  "Well, Grace,--I think you must. I hardly know how you can refuse. Heis an intimate friend of everybody here at Framley."

  "What will he say to me?"

  "Nay; that I cannot tell. I suppose you know--"

  "He has come, no doubt, to bid me have nothing to say to his son. Heneed not have troubled himself. But he may say what he likes. I amnot a coward, and I will go to him."

  "Stop a moment, Grace. Come into my room for an instant. The childrenhave pulled your hair about." But Grace, though she followed Mrs.Robarts into the bedroom, would have nothing done to her hair. Shewas too proud for that,--and we may say, also, too little confidentin any good which such resources might effect on her behalf. "Nevermind about that," she said. "What am I to say to him?" Mrs. Robartspaused before she replied, feeling that the matter was one whichrequired some deliberation. "Tell me what I must say to him?" saidGrace, repeating her question.

  "I hardly know what your own feelings are, my dear."

  "Yes, you do. You do know. If I had all the world to give, I wouldgive it all to Major Grantly."

  "Tell him that, then."

  "No, I will not tell him that. Never mind about my frock, Mrs.Robarts. I do not care for that. I will tell him that I love hisson and his granddaughter too well to injure them. I will tell himnothing else. I might as well go now." Mrs. Robarts, as she looked atGrace, was astonished at the serenity of her face. And yet when herhand was on the drawing-room door Grace hesitated, looked back, andtrembled. Mrs. Robarts blew a kiss to her from the stairs; and thenthe door was opened, and the girl found herself in the presence ofthe archdeacon. He was standing on the rug, with his back to thefire, and his heavy ecclesiastical hat was placed on the middle ofthe round table. The hat caught Grace's eye at the moment of herentrance, and she felt that all the thunders of the Church werecontained within it. And then the archdeacon himself was so big andso clerical, and so imposing! Her father's aspect was severe, but theseverity of
her father's face was essentially different from thatexpressed by the archdeacon. Whatever impression came from her fathercame from the man himself. There was no outward adornment there;there was, so to say, no wig about Mr. Crawley. Now the archdeaconwas not exactly adorned; but he was so thoroughly imbued with highclerical belongings and sacerdotal fitnesses as to appear always asa walking, sitting, or standing impersonation of parsondom. To poorGrace, as she entered the room, he appeared to be an impersonation ofparsondom in its severest aspect.

  "Miss Crawley, I believe?" said he.

  "Yes, sir," said she, curtseying ever so slightly, as she stoodbefore him at some considerable distance.

  His first idea was that his son must be indeed a fool if he was goingto give up Cosby Lodge and all Barsetshire, and retire to Pau, for soslight and unattractive a creature as he now saw before him. But thisidea stayed with him only for a moment. As he continued to gaze ather during the interview he came to perceive that there was verymuch more than he had perceived at the first glance, and that hisson, after all, had had eyes to see, though perhaps not a heart tounderstand.

  "Will you not take a chair?" he said. Then Grace sat down, still ata distance from the archdeacon, and he kept his place upon the rug.He felt that there would be a difficulty in making her feel thefull force of his eloquence all across the room; and yet he didnot know how to bring himself nearer to her. She became suddenlyvery important in his eyes, and he was to some extent afraid ofher. She was so slight, so meek, so young; and yet there was abouther something so beautifully feminine,--and, withal, so like alady,--that he felt instinctively that he could not attack her withharsh words. Had her lips been full, and her colour high, and hadher eyes rolled, had she put forth against him any of that ordinaryartillery with which youthful feminine batteries are charged, hewould have been ready to rush to the combat. But this girl, aboutwhom his son had gone mad, sat there as passively as though shewere conscious of the possession of no artillery. There was not asingle gun fired from beneath her eyelids. He knew not why, but herespected his son now more than he had respected him for the last twomonths;--more, perhaps, than he had ever respected him before. He wasas eager as ever against the marriage;--but in thinking of his son inwhat he said and did after these few first moments of the interview,he ceased to think of him with contempt. The creature before him wasa woman who grew in his opinion till he began to feel that she was intruth fit to be the wife of his son--if only she were not a pauper,and the daughter of a mad curate, and, alas! too probably, of athief. Though his feeling towards the girl was changed, his duty tohimself, his family, and his son, was the same as ever, and thereforehe began his task.

  "Perhaps you had not expected to see me?" he said.

  "No, indeed, sir."

  "Nor had I intended when I came over here to call on my old friend,Lady Lufton, to come up to this house. But as I knew that you werehere, Miss Crawley, I thought that upon the whole it would be betterthat I should see you." Then he paused as though he expected thatGrace would say something; but Grace had nothing to say. "Of courseyou must understand, Miss Crawley, that I should not venture to speakto you on this subject unless I myself were very closely interestedin it." He had not yet said what was the subject, and it was notprobable that Grace should give him any assistance by affecting tounderstand this without direct explanation from him. She sat quitemotionless, and did not even aid him by showing by her altered colourthat she understood his purpose. "My son has told me," said he, "thathe has professed an attachment for you, Miss Crawley."

  Then there was another pause, and Grace felt that she was compelledto say something. "Major Grantly has been very good to me," she said,and then she hated herself for having uttered words which were sotame and unwomanly in their spirit. Of course her lover's fatherwould despise her for having so spoken. After all it did not muchsignify. If he would only despise her and go away, it would perhapsbe for the best.

  "I do not know about being good," said the archdeacon. "I think he isgood. I think he means to be good."

  "I am sure he is good," said Grace, warmly.

  "You know he has a daughter, Miss Crawley?"

  "Oh, yes; I know Edith well."

  "Of course his first duty is to her. Is it not? And he owes much tohis family. Do you not feel that?"

  "Of course I feel it, sir." The poor girl had always heard Dr.Grantly spoken of as the archdeacon, but she did not in the leastknow what she ought to call him.

  "Now, Miss Crawley, pray listen to me; I will speak to you veryopenly. I must speak to you openly, because it is my duty on my son'sbehalf--but I will endeavour to speak to you kindly also. Of yourselfI have heard nothing but what is favourable, and there is no reasonas yet why I should not respect and esteem you." Grace told herselfthat she would do nothing which ought to forfeit his respect andesteem, but that she did not care two straws whether his respect andesteem were bestowed on her or not. She was striving after somethingvery different from that. "If my son were to marry you, he wouldgreatly injure himself, and would very greatly injure his child."Again he paused. He had told her to listen, and she was resolved thatshe would listen,--unless he should say something which might make aword from her necessary at the moment. "I do not know whether theredoes at present exist any engagement between you?"

  "There is no engagement, sir."

  "I am glad of that,--very glad of it. I do not know whether you areaware that my son is dependent upon me for the greater part of hisincome. It is so, and as I am so circumstanced with my son, of courseI feel the closest possible concern in his future prospects." Thearchdeacon did not know how to explain clearly why the fact of hismaking a son an annual allowance should give him a warmer interestin his son's affairs than he might have had had the major beenaltogether independent of him; but he trusted that Grace wouldunderstand this by her own natural lights. "Now, Miss Crawley, ofcourse I cannot wish to say a word that shall hurt your feelings. Butthere are reasons--"

  "I know," said she, interrupting him. "Papa is accused of stealingmoney. He did not steal it, but people think he did. And then we areso very poor."

  "You do understand me then,--and I feel grateful; I do indeed."

  "I don't think our being poor ought to signify a bit," said Grace."Papa is a gentleman and a clergyman, and mamma is a lady."

  "But, my dear--"

  "I know I ought not to be your son's wife as long as people thinkthat papa stole the money. If he had stolen it, I ought never to beMajor Grantly's wife,--or anybody's wife. I know that very well. Andas for Edith,--I would sooner die than do anything that would be badto her."

  The archdeacon had now left the rug, and advanced till he wasalmost close to the chair on which Grace was sitting. "My dear," hesaid, "what you say does you very much honour,--very much honourindeed." Now that he was close to her, he could look into hereyes, and he could see the exact form of her features, and couldunderstand,--could not help understanding,--the character of hercountenance. It was a noble face, having in it nothing that was poor,nothing that was mean, nothing that was shapeless. It was a face thatpromised infinite beauty, with a promise that was on the very vergeof fulfilment. There was a play about her mouth as she spoke, and acurl in her nostril as the eager words came from her, which almostmade the selfish father give way. Why had they not told him thatshe was such a one as this? Why had not Henry himself spoken of thespeciality of her beauty? No man in England knew better than thearchdeacon the difference between beauty of one kind and beautyof another kind in a woman's face,--the one beauty, which comesfrom health and youth and animal spirits, and which belongs to themiller's daughter, and the other beauty, which shows itself in finelines and a noble spirit,--the beauty which comes from breeding."What you say does you very much honour indeed," said the archdeacon.

  "I should not mind at all about being poor," said Grace.

  "No; no; no," said the archdeacon.

  "Poor as we are,--and no clergyman, I think, ever was so poor,--Ishould have done as your son asked me at onc
e, if it had been onlythat,--because I love him."

  "If you love him you will not wish to injure him."

  "I will not injure him. Sir, there is my promise." And now as shespoke she rose from her chair, and standing close to the archdeacon,laid her hand very lightly on the sleeve of his coat. "There is mypromise. As long as people say that papa stole the money, I willnever marry your son. There."

  The archdeacon was still looking down at her, and feeling the slighttouch of her fingers, raised his arm a little as though to welcomethe pressure. He looked into her eyes, which were turned eagerlytowards his, and when doing so was quite sure that the promise wouldbe kept. It would have been sacrilege,--he felt that it would havebeen sacrilege,--to doubt such a promise. He almost relented. Hissoft heart, which was never very well under his own control, gaveway so far that he was nearly moved to tell her that, on his son'sbehalf, he acquitted her of the promise. What could any man's son dobetter than have such a woman for his wife? It would have been of noavail had he made her such offer. The pledge she had given had notbeen wrung from her by his influence, nor could his influence haveavailed aught with her towards the alteration of her purpose. It wasnot the archdeacon who had taught her that it would not be her dutyto take disgrace into the house of the man she loved. As he lookeddown upon her face two tears formed themselves in his eyes, andgradually trickled down his old nose. "My dear," he said, "if thiscloud passes away from you, you shall come to us and be my daughter."And thus he also pledged himself. There was a dash of generosityabout the man, in spite of his selfishness, which always made himdesirous of giving largely to those who gave largely to him. He wouldfain that his gifts should be the bigger, if it were possible. Helonged at this moment to tell her that the dirty cheque should go fornothing. He would have done it, I think, but that it was impossiblefor him so to speak in her presence of that which moved her sogreatly.

  He had contrived that her hand should fall from his arm into hisgrasp, and now for a moment he held it. "You are a good girl," hesaid--"a dear, dear, good girl. When this cloud has passed away, youshall come to us and be our daughter."

  "But it will never pass away," said Grace.

  "But it will never pass away," said Grace.]

  "Let us hope that it may. Let us hope that it may." Then he stoopedover her and kissed her, and leaving the room, got out into the halland thence into the garden, and so away, without saying a word ofadieu to Mrs. Robarts.

  As he walked across to the Court, whither he was obliged to go,because of his chaise, he was lost in surprise at what had occurred.He had gone to the parsonage, hating the girl, and despising his son.Now, as he retraced his steps, his feelings were altogether changed.He admired the girl,--and as for his son, even his anger was for themoment altogether gone. He would write to his son at once and implorehim to stop the sale. He would tell his son all that had occurred, orrather would make Mrs. Grantly do so. In respect to his son he wasquite safe. He thought at that moment that he was safe. There wouldbe no use in hurling further threats at him. If Crawley were foundguilty of stealing the money, there was the girl's promise. If hewere acquitted, there was his own pledge. He remembered perfectlywell that the girl had said more than this,--that she had notconfined her assurance to the verdict of a jury, that she hadprotested that she would not accept Major Grantly's hand as longas people thought that her father had stolen the cheque; but thearchdeacon felt that it would be ignoble to hold her closely to herwords. The event, according to his ideas of the compact, was todepend upon the verdict of the jury. If the jury should find Mr.Crawley not guilty, all objection on his part to the marriage was tobe withdrawn. And he would keep his word! In such case it should bewithdrawn.

  When he came to the rags of the auctioneer's bill, which he hadbefore torn down with his umbrella, he stopped a moment to considerhow he would act at once. In the first place he would tell his sonthat his threats were withdrawn, and would ask him to remain at CosbyLodge. He would write the letter as he passed through Barchester,on his way home, so that his son might receive it on the followingmorning; and he would refer the major to his mother for a fullexplanation of the circumstances. Those odious bills must be removedfrom every barn-door and wall in the county. At the present momenthis anger against his son was chiefly directed against his ill-judgedhaste in having put up those ill-omened posters. Then he paused toconsider what must be his wish as to the verdict of the jury. He hadpledged himself to abide by the verdict, and he could not but have awish on the subject. Could he desire in his heart that Mr. Crawleyshould be found guilty? He stood still for a moment thinking of this,and then he walked on, shaking his head. If it might be possible hewould have no wish on the subject whatsoever.

  "Well!" said Lady Lufton, stopping him in the passage,--"have youseen her?"

  "Yes; I have seen her."

  "Well?"

  "She is a good girl,--a very good girl. I am in a great hurry, andhardly know how to tell you more now."

  "You say that she is a good girl?"

  "I say that she is a very good girl. An angel could not have behavedbetter. I will tell you all some day, Lady Lufton, but I can hardlytell you now."

  When the archdeacon was gone old Lady Lufton confided to young LadyLufton her very strong opinion that many months would not be gone bybefore Grace Crawley would be the mistress of Cosby Lodge. "It willbe great promotion," said the old lady, with a little toss of herhead.

  When Grace was interrogated afterwards by Mrs. Robarts as to whathad passed between her and the archdeacon she had very little tosay as to the interview. "No, he did not scold me," she replied toan inquiry from her friend. "But he spoke about your engagement?"said Mrs. Robarts. "There is no engagement," said Grace. "But Isuppose you acknowledged, my dear, that a future engagement isquite possible?" "I told him, Mrs. Robarts," Grace answered, afterhesitating for a moment, "that I would never marry his son as longas papa was suspected by any one in the world of being a thief. AndI will keep my word." But she said nothing to Mrs. Robarts of thepledge which the archdeacon had made to her.