The Last Chronicle of Barset

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"Your father has odd ways sometimes, my dear. You know how fond I am
of having him here myself."

"It does not signify," said Mrs Grantly. "Do not let us say anything
more about it. Of course we cannot have everything. I am told the
child does her duty in her sphere of life, and I suppose we ought to
be contented." Then Mrs Grantly went up to her own room, and there
she cried. Nothing was said to the major on the unpleasant subject of
the Crawleys before dinner. He met his sister in the drawing-room,
and was allowed to kiss her noble cheek. "I hope Edith is well,
Henry," said the sister. "Quite well; and little Dumbello is the
same, I hope?" "Thank you, yes; quite well." Then there seemed to
be nothing more to be said between the two. The major never made
inquiries after the august family, or would allow it to appear that
he was conscious of being shone upon by the wife of a marquis. Any
adulation which Griselda received of that kind came from her father,
and therefore, unconsciously she had learned to think that her father
was better bred than the other members of her family, and more fitted
by nature to move in that sacred circle to which she herself had been
exalted. We need not dwell upon the dinner, which was but a dull
affair. Mrs Grantly strove to carry on the family party exactly as it
would have been carried on had her daughter married the son of some
neighbouring squire; but she herself was conscious of the struggle,
and the fact of there being a struggle produced failure. The rector's
servants treated the daughter of the house with special awe, and the
marchioness herself moved, and spoke, and ate, and drank with a cold
magnificence, which I think had become a second nature with her,
but which was not on that account the less oppressive. Even the
archdeacon, who enjoyed something in that which was so disagreeable
to his wife, felt a relief when he was left alone after dinner with
his son. He felt relieved as his son got up to open the door for his
mother and sister, but was aware at the same time that he had before
him a most difficult and possibly a most disastrous task. His dear
son Henry was not a man to be talked smoothly out of, or into,
any propriety. He had a will of his own, and having hitherto
been a successful man, who in youth had fallen into few youthful
troubles,--who had never justified his father in using stern parental
authority,--was not now inclined to bend his neck. "Henry," said the
archdeacon, "what are you drinking? That's '34 port, but it's not
just what it should be. Shall I send for another bottle?"

"It will do for me, sir. I shall only take a glass."

"I shall drink two or three glasses of claret. But you young fellows
have become so desperately temperate."

"We take our wine at dinner, sir."

"By-the-bye, how well Griselda is looking."

"Yes, she is. It's always easy for women to look well when they're
rich." How would Grace Crawley look, then, who was poor as poverty
itself, and who should remain poor, if his son was fool enough to
marry her? That was the train of thought which ran through the
archdeacon's mind. "I do not think much of riches," said he, "but
it is always well that a gentleman's wife or a gentleman's daughter
should have a sufficiency to maintain her position in life."

"You may say the same, sir, of everybody's wife and everybody's
daughter."

"You know what I mean, Henry."

"I am not quite sure that I do, sir."

"Perhaps I had better speak out at once. A rumour has reached your
mother and me, which we don't believe for a moment, but which,
nevertheless, makes us unhappy even as a report. They say that there
is a young woman living in Silverbridge to whom you are becoming
attached."

"Is there any reason why I should not become attached to a young
woman in Silverbridge?--though I hope any young woman to whom I may
become attached will be worthy at any rate of being called a young
lady."

"I hope so, Henry; I hope so. I do hope so."

"So much I will promise, sir; but I will promise nothing more."

The archdeacon looked across at his son's face, and his heart sank
within him. His son's voice and his son's eyes seemed to tell him two
things. They seemed to tell him, firstly, that the rumour about Grace
Crawley was true; and, secondly, that the major was resolved not to
be talked out of his folly. "But you are not engaged to any one, are
you?" said the archdeacon. The son did not at first make any answer,
and then the father repeated the question. "Considering our mutual
positions, Henry, I think you ought to tell me if you are engaged."

"I am not engaged. Had I become so, I should have taken the first
opportunity of telling you or my mother."

"Thank God. Now, my dear boy, I can speak out more plainly. The young
woman whose name I have heard is daughter to that Mr Crawley who is
perpetual curate at Hogglestock. I knew that there could be nothing
in it."

"But there is something in it, sir."

"What is there in it? Do not keep me in suspense, Henry. What is it
you mean?"

"It is rather hard to be cross-questioned in this way on such a
subject. When you express yourself as thankful that there is nothing
in the rumour, I am forced to stop you, as otherwise it is possible
that hereafter you may say that I have deceived you."

"But you don't mean to marry her?"

"I certainly do not pledge myself not to do so."

"Do you mean to tell me, Henry, that you are in love with Miss
Crawley?" Then there was another pause, during which the archdeacon
sat looking for an answer; but the major never said a word. "Am I to
suppose that you intend to lower yourself by marrying a young woman
who cannot possibly have enjoyed any of the advantages of a lady's
education? I say nothing of the imprudence of the thing; nothing of
her own want of fortune; nothing of your having to maintain a whole
family steeped in poverty; nothing of the debts and character of the
father, upon whom, as I understand, at this moment there rests a very
grave suspicion of--of--of--what I'm afraid I must call downright
theft."

"Downright theft, certainly, if he were guilty."

"I say nothing of all that; but looking at the young woman herself--"

"She is simply the best educated girl whom it has ever been my lot to
meet."

"Henry, I have a right to expect that you will be honest with me."

"I am honest with you."

"Do you mean to ask this girl to marry you?"

"I do not think that you have any right to ask me that question,
sir."

"I have a right at any rate to tell you this, that if you so far
disgrace yourself and me, I shall consider myself bound to withdraw
from you all the sanction which would be conveyed by my--my--my
continued assistance."

"Do you intend me to understand that you will stop my income?"

"Certainly I should."

"Then, sir, I think you would behave to me most cruelly. You advised
me to give up my profession."

"Not in order that you might marry Grace Crawley."

"I claim the privilege of a man of my age to do as I please in
such a matter as marriage. Miss Crawley is a lady. Her father is a
clergyman, as is mine. Her father's oldest friend is my uncle. There
is nothing on earth against her except her poverty. I do not think I
ever heard of such cruelty on a father's part."

"Very well, Henry."

"I have endeavoured to do my duty by you, sir, always; and by my
mother. You can treat me in this way, if you please, but it will not
have any effect on my conduct. You can stop my allowance to-morrow,
if you like it. I had not as yet made up my mind to make an offer to
Miss Crawley, but I shall now do so to-morrow morning."

This was very bad indeed, and the archdeacon was extremely unhappy.
He was by no means at heart a cruel man. He loved his children
dearly. If this disagreeable marriage were to take place, he would
doubtless do exactly as his wife had predicted. He would not stop his
son's income for a single quarter; and, though he went on telling
himself that he would stop it, he knew in his own heart that any
such severity was beyond his power. He was a generous man in money
matters,--having a dislike for poverty which was not generous,--and
for his own sake could not have endured to see a son of his in want.
But he was terribly anxious to exercise the power which the use of
the threat might give him. "Henry," he said, "you are treating me
badly, very badly. My anxiety has always been for the welfare of
my children. Do you think that Miss Crawley would be a fitting
sister-in-law for that dear girl upstairs?"

"Certainly I do, or for any other dear girl in the world; excepting
that Griselda, who is not clever, would hardly be able to appreciate
Miss Crawley, who is clever."

"Griselda not clever! Good heavens!" Then there was another pause,
and as the major said nothing, the father continued his entreaties.
"Pray, pray think of what my wishes are, and your mother's. You are
not committed as yet. Pray think of us while there is time. I would
rather double your income if I saw you marry any one that we could
name here."

"I have enough as it is, if I may only be allowed to know that it
will not be capriciously withdrawn." The archdeacon filled his glass
unconsciously, and sipped his wine, while he thought what further
he might say. Perhaps it might be better that he should say nothing
further at the present moment. The major, however, was indiscreet,
and pushed the question. "May I understand, sir, that your threat is
withdrawn, and that my income is secure?"

"What, if you marry this girl?"

"Yes sir; will my income be continued to me if I marry Miss Crawley?"

"No, it will not." Then the father got up hastily, pushed the
decanter back angrily from his hand, and without saying another word
walked away into the drawing-room. That evening at the rectory was
very gloomy. The archdeacon now and again said a word or two to his
daughter, and his daughter answered him in monosyllables. The major
sat apart moodily, and spoke to no one. Mrs Grantly, understanding
well what had passed, knew that nothing could be done at the present
moment to restore family comfort; so she sat by the fire and knitted.
Exactly at ten they all went to bed.

"Dear Henry," said the mother to her son the next morning; "think
much of yourself, and of your child, and of us, before you take any
great step in life."

"I will, mother," said he. Then he went out and put on his wrapper,
and got into his dog-cart, and drove himself off to Silverbridge. He
had not spoken to his father since they were in the dining-room on
the previous evening. When he started, the marchioness had not yet
come downstairs; but at eleven she breakfasted, and at twelve she
also was taken away. Poor Mrs Grantly had not had much comfort from
her children's visits.




CHAPTER IV

The Clergyman's House at Hogglestock


Mrs Crawley had walked from Hogglestock to Silverbridge on the
occasion of her visit to Mr Walker, the attorney, and had been kindly
sent back by that gentleman in his wife's little open carriage. The
tidings she brought home with her to her husband were very grievous.
The magistrates would sit on the next Thursday,--it was then
Friday,--and Mr Crawley had better appear before them to answer the
charge made by Mr Soames. He would be served with a summons, which he
could obey of his own accord. There had been many points very closely
discussed between Walker and Mrs Crawley, as to which there had been
great difficulty in the choice of words which should be tender enough
in regard to the feelings of the poor lady, and yet strong enough to
convey to her the very facts as they stood. Would Mr Crawley come, or
must a policeman be sent to fetch him? The magistrates had already
issued a warrant for his apprehension. Such in truth was the fact,
but they had agreed with Mr Walker, that as there was no reasonable
ground for anticipating any attempt at escape on the part of the
reverend gentleman, the lawyer might use what gentle means he could
for ensuring the clergyman's attendance. Could Mrs Crawley undertake
to say that he would appear? Mrs Crawley did undertake either that
her husband should appear on the Thursday, or else that she would
send over in the early part of the week and declare her inability to
ensure his appearance. In that case it was understood the policeman
must come. Then Mr Walker had suggested that Mr Crawley had better
employ a lawyer. Upon this Mrs Crawley had looked beseechingly up
into Mr Walker's face, and had asked him to undertake the duty. He
was of course obliged to explain that he was already employed on the
other side. Mr Soames had secured his services, and though he was
willing to do all in his power to mitigate the sufferings of the
family, he could not abandon the duty he had undertaken. He named
another attorney, however, and then sent the poor woman home in his
wife's carriage. "I fear that unfortunate man is guilty. I fear
he is," Mr Walker had said to his wife within ten minutes of the
departure of the visitor.

Mrs Crawley would not allow herself to be driven up to the garden
gate before her own house, but had left the carriage some three
hundred yards off down the road, and from thence she walked home.
It was now quite dark. It was nearly six in the evening on a wet
December night, and although cloaks and shawls had been supplied to
her, she was wet and cold when she reached her home. But at such a
moment, anxious as she was to prevent the additional evil which would
come to them all from illness to herself, she could not pass through
to her room till she had spoken to her husband. He was sitting in
the one sitting-room on the left side of the passage as the house
was entered, and with him was their daughter Jane, a girl now nearly
sixteen years of age. There was no light in the room, and hardly more
than a spark of fire showed in the grate. The father was sitting on
one side of the hearth, in an old arm-chair, and there he had sat for
the last hour without speaking. His daughter had been in and out of
the room, and had endeavoured to gain his attention now and again by
a word, but he had never answered her, and had not even noticed her
presence. At the moment when Mrs Crawley's step was heard upon the
gravel which led to the door, Jane was kneeling before the fire with
a hand upon her father's arm. She had tried to get her hand into his,
but he had either been unaware of the attempt, or had rejected it.

"Here is mamma, at last," said Jane, rising to her feet as her mother
entered the house.

"Are you all in the dark," said Mrs Crawley, striving to speak in a
voice that should not be sorrowful.

"Yes, mamma; we are in the dark. Papa is here. Oh, mamma, how wet you
are!"

"Yes, dear. It is raining. Get a light out of the kitchen, Jane, and
I will go upstairs in two minutes." Then, when Jane was gone, the
wife made her way in the dark over to her husband's side, and spoke a
word to him. "Josiah," she said, "will you not speak to me?"

"What should I speak about? Where have you been?"

"I have been to Silverbridge. I have been to Mr Walker. He, at any
rate, is very kind."

"I don't want his kindness. I want no man's kindness. Mr Walker is
the attorney, I believe. Kind indeed!"

"I mean considerate. Josiah, let us do the best we can in this
trouble. We have had others as heavy before."

"But none to crush me as this will crush me. Well; what am I to do?
Am I to go to prison--to-night?" At this moment his daughter returned
with a candle, and the mother could not make her answer at once. It
was a wretched, poverty-stricken room. By degrees the carpet had
disappeared, which had been laid down some nine or ten years since,
when they had first come to Hogglestock, and which even then had not
been new. Now nothing but a poor fragment of it remained in front of
the fireplace. In the middle of the room there was a table which had
once been large; but one flap of it was gone altogether, and the
other flap sloped grievously towards the floor, the weakness of old
age having fallen into its legs. There were two or three smaller
tables about, but they stood propped against walls, thence obtaining
a security which their own strength would not give them. At the
further end of the room there was an ancient piece of furniture,
which was always called "papa's secretary", at which Mr Crawley
customarily sat and wrote his sermons, and did all work that was done
by him within the house. The man who had made it, some time in the
last century, had intended it to be a locked guardian for domestic
documents, and the receptacle for all that was most private in the
house of some pater-familias. But beneath the hands of Mr Crawley it
always stood open; and with the exception of the small space at which
he wrote, was covered with dog's-eared books, from nearly all of
which the covers had disappeared. There were there two odd volumes of
Euripides, a Greek Testament, an Odyssey, a duodecimo Pindar, and a
miniature Anacreon. There was half a Horace,--the two first books of
the Odes at the beginning and the De Arte Poetica at the end having
disappeared. There was a little bit of a volume of Cicero, and
there were Caesar's Commentaries, in two volumes, so stoutly
bound that they had defied the combined ill-usage of time and the
Crawley family. All these were piled upon the secretary, with many
others,--odd volumes of sermons and the like; but the Greek and Latin
lay at the top, and showed signs of most frequent use. There was one
arm-chair in the room,--a Windsor chair, as such used to be called,
made soft by an old cushion in the back, in which Mr Crawley sat when
both he and his wife were in the room, and Mrs Crawley when he was
absent. And there was an old horsehair sofa,--now almost denuded of
its horsehair,--but that, like the tables, required the assistance of
a friendly wall. Then there was half a dozen of other chairs,--all of
different sorts,--and they completed the furniture of the room. It
was not such a room as one would wish to see inhabited by a beneficed
clergyman of the Church of England; but they who know what money will
do and what it will not, will understand how easily a man with a
family, and with a hundred and thirty pounds a year, may be brought
to the need of inhabiting such a chamber. When it is remembered that
three pounds of meat a day, at ninepence a pound, will cost over
forty pounds a year, there need be no difficulty in understanding
that it may be so. Bread for such a family must cost at least
twenty-five pounds. Clothes for five persons, of whom one must at any
rate wear the raiment of a gentleman, can hardly be found for less
than ten pounds a year a head. Then there remains fifteen pounds for
tea, sugar, beer, wages, education, amusements, and the like. In such
circumstances a gentleman can hardly pay much for the renewal of his
furniture!

Mrs Crawley could not answer her husband's question before her
daughter, and was therefore obliged to make another excuse for again
sending her out of the room. "Jane, dear," she said, "bring my things
down to the kitchen and I will change them by the fire. I will be
there in two minutes, when I have had a word with your papa." The
girl went immediately and then Mrs Crawley answered her husband's
question. "No, my dear; there is no question of your going to
prison."

"But there will be."

"I have undertaken that you shall attend before the magistrates at
Silverbridge on Thursday next, at twelve o'clock. You will do that?"

"Do it! You mean, I suppose, to say that I must go there. Is anybody
to come and fetch me?"

"Nobody will come. Only you must promise that you will be there. I
have promised for you. You will go; will you not?" She stood leaning
over him, half embracing him, waiting for an answer; but for a
while he gave none. "You will tell me that you will do what I have
undertaken for you, Josiah?"

"I think I would rather that they fetched me. I think that I will not
go myself."

"And have policemen come for you into the parish! Mr Walker has
promised that he will send over his phaeton. He sent me home in it
to-day."

"I want nobody's phaeton. If I go I will walk. If it were ten times
the distance, and though I had not a shoe left to my feet I would
walk. If I go there at all, of my own accord, I will walk there."

"But you will go?"

"What do I care for the parish? What matters who sees me now? I
cannot be degraded worse than I am. Everybody knows it."

"There is no disgrace without guilt," said his wife.

"Everybody thinks me guilty. I see it in their eyes. The children
know of it, and I hear whispers in the school. 'Mr Crawley has taken
some money.' I heard the girl say it myself."

"What matters what the girl says?"

"And yet you would have me go in a fine carriage to Silverbridge, as
though to a wedding. If I am wanted let them take me as they would
another. I shall be here for them,--unless I am dead."

At this moment Jane appeared, pressing her mother to take off her wet
clothes, and Mrs Crawley went with her daughter to the kitchen. The
one red-armed young girl who was their only servant was sent away,
and then the mother and the child discussed how best they might
prevail with the head of the family. "But, mamma, it must come right;
must it not?"

"I trust it will; I think it will. But I cannot see my way as yet."

"Papa cannot have done anything wrong."

"No, my dear; he has done nothing wrong. He has made great
mistakes, and it is hard to make people understand that he has not
intentionally spoken untruths. He is ever thinking of other things,
about the school, and his sermons, and he does not remember."

"And about how poor we are, mamma."

"He has much to occupy his mind, and he forgets things which dwell in
the memory with other people. He said that he had got his money from
Mr Soames, and of course he thought that it was so."

"And where did he get it, mamma?"

"Ah,--I wish I knew. I should have said that I had seen every
shilling that came into the house; but I know nothing of this
cheque,--whence it came."

"But will not papa tell you?"

"He would tell me if he knew. He thinks it came from the dean."

"And are you sure it did not?"

"Yes; quite sure; as sure as I can be of anything. The dean told me
he would give him fifty pounds, and the fifty pounds came. I had them
in my own hands. And he has written to say that it was so."

"But couldn't this be part of the fifty pounds?"

"No, dear, no."

"Then where did papa get it? Perhaps he picked it up and has
forgotten?"

To this Mrs Crawley made no reply. The idea that the cheque had been
found by her husband,--had been picked up as Jane had said,--had
occurred also to Jane's mother. Mr Soames was confident that he had
dropped the pocket-book at the parsonage. Mrs Crawley had always
disliked Mr Soames, thinking him to be hard, cruel, and vulgar. She
would not have hesitated to believe him guilty of a falsehood, or
even of direct dishonesty, if by so believing she could in her own
mind have found the means of reconciling her husband's possession of
the cheque with absolute truth on his part. But she could not do so.
Even though Soames had, with devilish premeditated malice, slipped
the cheque into her husband's pocket, his having done so would not
account for her husband's having used the cheque when he found it
there. She was driven to make excuses for him which, valid as they
might be with herself, could not be valid with others. He had said
that Mr Soames had paid the cheque to him. That was clearly a
mistake. He had said that the cheque had been given to him by the
dean. That was clearly another mistake. She knew, or thought she
knew, that he, being such as he was, might make such blunders as
these, and yet be true. She believed that such statements might be
blunders and not falsehoods,--so convinced was she that her husband's
mind would not act at all times as do the minds of other men. But
having such a conviction she was driven to believe also that almost
anything might be possible. Soames may have been right, or he might
have dropped, not the book, but the cheque. She had no difficulty in
presuming Soames to be wrong in any detail, if by so supposing she
could make the exculpation of her husband easier to herself. If
villainy on the part of Soames was needful to her theory, Soames
would become to her a villain at once,--of the blackest dye. Might it
not be possible that the cheque having thus fallen into her husband's
hands, he had come, after a while, to think that it had been sent to
him by his friend, the dean? And if it were so, would it be possible
to make others so believe? That there was some mistake which would be
easily explained were her husband's mind lucid at all points, but
which she could not explain because of the darkness of his mind, she
was thoroughly convinced. But were she herself to put forward such
a defence on her husband's part, she would in doing so be driven to
say that he was a lunatic,--that he was incapable of managing the
affairs of himself or his family. It seemed to her that she would be
compelled to have him proved to be either a thief or a madman. And
yet she knew that he was neither. That he was not a thief was as
clear to her as the sun at noonday. Could she have lain on this man's
bosom for twenty years, and not yet have learned the secrets of the
heart beneath? The whole mind of the man was, as she told herself,
within her grasp. He might have taken the twenty pounds; he might
have taken it and spent it, though it was not his own; but yet he
was no thief. Nor was he a madman. No man more sane in preaching
the gospel of his Lord, in making intelligible to the ignorant the
promises of his Saviour, ever got into a parish pulpit, or taught in
a parish school. The intellect of the man was as clear as running
water in all things not appertaining to his daily life and its
difficulties. He could be logical with a vengeance,--so logical as to
cause infinite trouble to his wife, who, with all her good sense, was
not logical. And he had Greek at his fingers' ends,--as his daughter
knew very well. And even to this day he would sometimes recite to
them English poetry, lines after lines, stanzas upon stanzas, in a
sweet low melancholy voice, on long winter evenings when occasionally
the burden of his troubles would be lighter to him than was usual.
Books in Latin and in French he read with as much ease as in English,
and took delight in such as came to him, when he would condescend
to accept such loans from the deanery. And there was at times a
lightness of heart about the man. In the course of the last winter he
had translated into Greek irregular verse the very noble ballad of
Lord Bateman, maintaining the rhythm and the rhyme, and had repeated
it with uncouth glee till his daughter knew it all by heart. And when
there had come to him a five-pound note from some admiring magazine
editor as the price of the same,--still through the dean's hands,--he
had brightened up his heart and had thought for an hour or two that
even yet the world would smile upon him. His wife knew well that he
was not mad; but yet she knew that there were dark moments with him,
in which his mind was so much astray that he could not justly be
called to account as to what he might remember and what he might
forget. How would it be possible to explain all this to a judge and
jury, so that they might neither say that he was dishonest, nor yet
that he was mad? "Perhaps he picked it up, and had forgotten," her
daughter said to her. Perhaps it was so, but she might not as yet
admit as much even to her child.