The Last Chronicle of Barset

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"It is a mystery, dear, as yet, which, with God's aid, will be
unravelled. Of one thing we at least may be sure; that your papa has
not wilfully done anything wrong."

"Of course we are sure of that, mamma."

Mrs Crawley had many troubles during the next four or five days, of
which the worst, perhaps, had reference to the services of the Sunday
which intervened between the day of her visit to Silverbridge, and
the sitting of the magistrates. On the Saturday it was necessary
that he should prepare his sermons, of which he preached two on
every Sunday, though his congregation consisted only of farmers,
brickmakers, and agricultural labourers, who would willingly have
dispensed with the second. Mrs Crawley proposed to send over to Mr
Robarts, a neighbouring clergyman, for the loan of a curate. Mr
Robarts was a warm friend to the Crawleys, and in such an emergency
would probably have come himself; but Mr Crawley would not hear of
it. The discussion took place early on the Saturday morning, before
it was as yet daylight, for the poor woman was thinking day and
night of her husband's troubles, and it had this good effect, that
immediately after breakfast he seated himself at his desk, and worked
at his task as though he had forgotten all else in the world.

And on the Sunday morning he went into his school before the hour of
the church service, as had been his wont, and taught there as though
everything with him was as usual. Some of the children were absent,
having heard of their teacher's tribulation, and having been told
probably that he would remit his work; and for these absent ones he
sent in great anger. The poor bairns came creeping in, for he was a
man who by his manners had been able to secure their obedience in
spite of his poverty. And he preached to the people of his parish on
that Sunday, as he had always preached; eagerly, clearly, and with
an eloquence fitted for the hearts of such an audience. No one would
have guessed from his tones and gestures and appearance on that
occasion, that there was aught wrong with him,--unless there had been
some observer keen enough to perceive that the greater care which he
used, and the special eagerness of his words, denoted a special frame
of mind.

After that, after those church services were over, he sank again and
never roused himself till the dreaded day had come.




CHAPTER V

What the World Thought About It


Opinion in Silverbridge, at Barchester, and throughout the county,
was very much divided as to the guilt or innocence of Mr Crawley. Up
to the time of Mrs Crawley's visit to Silverbridge, the affair had
not been much discussed. To give Mr Soames his due, he had been by no
means anxious to press the matter against the clergyman; but he had
been forced to go on with it. While the first cheque was missing,
Lord Lufton had sent him a second cheque for the money, and the loss
had thus fallen upon his lordship. The cheque had of course been
traced, and inquiry had of course been made as to Mr Crawley's
possession of it. When that gentleman declared that he had received
it from Mr Soames, Mr Soames had been forced to contradict and to
resent such an assertion. When Mr Crawley had afterwards said that
the money had come to him from the dean, and when the dean had shown
that this also was untrue, Mr Soames, confident as he was that he had
dropped the pocket-book at Mr Crawley's house, could not but continue
the investigation. He had done so with as much silence as the nature
of the work admitted. But by the day of the magistrates' meeting at
Silverbridge, the subject had become common through the county, and
men's minds were very much divided.

All Hogglestock believed their parson to be innocent; but then all
Hogglestock believed him to be mad. At Silverbridge the tradesmen
with whom he had dealt, and to whom he had owed, and still owed,
money, all declared him to be innocent. They knew something of the
man personally, and could not believe him to be a thief. All the
ladies in Silverbridge, too, were sure of his innocence. It was to
them impossible that such a man should have stolen twenty pounds.
"My dear," said the eldest Miss Prettyman to poor Grace Crawley, "in
England, where the laws are good, no gentleman is ever made out to
be guilty when he is innocent; and your papa, of course, is innocent.
Therefore you should not trouble yourself." "It will break papa's
heart," Grace had said, and she did trouble herself. But the
gentlemen in Silverbridge were made of sterner stuff, and believed
the man to be guilty, clergyman and gentleman though he was. Mr
Walker, who among the lights in Silverbridge was the leading light,
would not speak a word upon the subject to anybody; and then
everybody, who was anybody, knew that Mr Walker was convinced of the
man's guilt. Had Mr Walker believed him to be innocent, his tongue
would have been ready enough. John Walker, who was in the habit of
laughing at his father's good nature, had no doubt upon the subject.
Mr Winthrop, Mr Walker's partner, shook his head. People did not
think much of Mr Winthrop, excepting certain unmarried ladies; for
Mr Winthrop was a bachelor, and had plenty of money. People did not
think much of Mr Winthrop; but still on this subject he might know
something, and when he shook his head he manifestly intended to
indicate guilt. And Dr Tempest, the rector of Silverbridge, did not
hesitate to declare his belief in the guilt of the incumbent of
Hogglestock. No man reverences a clergyman, as a clergyman, so
slightly as a brother clergyman. To Dr Tempest it appeared to be
neither very strange nor very terrible that Mr Crawley should have
stolen twenty pounds. "What is a man to do," he said, "when he
sees his children starving? He should not have married on such a
preferment as that." Mr Crawley had married, however, long before he
got the living of Hogglestock.

There were two Lady Luftons,--mother-in-law and daughter-in-law,--who
at this time were living together at Framley Hall, Lord Lufton's seat
in the county of Barset, and they were both thoroughly convinced
of Mr Crawley's innocence. The elder lady had lived much among
clergymen, and could hardly, I think, by any means have been brought
to believe in the guilt of any man who had taken upon himself the
orders of the Church of England. She had also known Mr Crawley
personally for some years, and was one of those who could not admit
to herself that any one was vile who had been near to herself. She
believed intensely in the wickedness of the outside world, of the
world which was far away from herself, and of which she never saw
anything; but they who were near to her, and who had even become dear
to her, or who even had been respected by her, were made, as it were,
saints in her imagination. They were brought into the inner circle,
and could hardly be expelled. She was an old woman who thought all
evil of those she did not know, and all good of those whom she did
know; and as she did know Mr Crawley, she was quite sure that he had
not stolen Mr Soames's twenty pounds. She did know Mr Soames also;
and thus there was a mystery for the unravelling of which she was
very anxious. And the young Lady Lufton was equally sure, and perhaps
with better reason for such certainty. She had, in truth, known more
of Mr Crawley personally, than had any one in the county, unless it
was the dean. The younger Lady Lufton, the present Lord Lufton's
wife, had sojourned at one time in Mr Crawley's house, amidst the
Crawley poverty, living as they lived, and nursing Mrs Crawley
through an illness which had wellnigh been fatal to her; and the
younger Lady Lufton believed in Mr Crawley,--as Mr Crawley also
believed in her.

"It is quite impossible, my dear," the old woman said to her
daughter-in-law.

"Quite impossible, my lady." The dowager was always called "my
lady", both by her own daughter and by her son's wife, except in the
presence of their children, when she was addressed as "grandmamma".
"Think how well I knew him. It's no use talking of evidence. No
evidence would make me believe it."

"Nor me; and I think it a great shame that such a report should be
spread about."

"I suppose Mr Soames could not help himself?" said the younger lady,
who was not herself very fond of Mr Soames.

"Ludovic says that he has only done what he was obliged to do." The
Ludovic spoken of was Lord Lufton.

This took place in the morning, but in the evening the affair was
again discussed at Framley Court. Indeed, for some days, there was
hardly any other subject held to be worthy of discussion in the
county. Mr Robarts, the clergyman of the parish and the brother of
the younger Lady Lufton, was dining at the hall with his wife, and
the three ladies had together expressed their perfect conviction of
the falseness of the accusation. But when Lord Lufton and Mr Robarts
were together after the ladies had left them, there was much less of
this certainty expressed. "By Jove," said Lord Lufton, "I don't know
what to think of it. I wish with all my heart that Soames had said
nothing about it, and that the cheque had passed without remark."

"That was impossible. When the banker sent to Soames, he was obliged
to take the matter up."

"Of course he was. But I'm sorry that it was so. For the life of me I
can't conceive how the cheque got into Crawley's hands."

"I imagine that it had been lying in the house, and that Crawley had
come to think that it was his own."

"But, my dear Mark," said Lord Lufton, "excuse me if I say that
that's nonsense. What do we do when a poor man has come to think that
another man's property is his own? We send him to prison for making
the mistake."

"I hope they won't send Crawley to prison."

"I hope so too; but what is a jury to do?"

"You think it will go to a jury, then?"

"I do," said Lord Lufton. "I don't see how the magistrates can save
themselves from committing him. It is one of those cases in which
every one concerned would wish to drop it if it were only possible.
But it is not possible. On the evidence, as one sees it at present,
one is bound to say that it is a case for a jury."

"I believe that he is mad," said the brother parson.

"He always was, as far as I could learn," said the lord. "I never
knew him, myself. You do, I think?"

"Oh yes, I know him." and the vicar of Framley became silent and
thoughtful as the memory of a certain interview between himself
and Mr Crawley came back upon his mind. At that time the waters
had nearly closed over his head and Mr Crawley had given him some
assistance. When the gentlemen had again found the ladies, they kept
their own doubts to themselves; for at Framley Hall, as at present
tenanted, female voices and female influences predominated over those
which came from the other sex.

At Barchester, the cathedral city of the county in which the Crawleys
lived, opinion was violently against Mr Crawley. In the city Mrs
Proudie, the wife of the bishop, was the leader of opinion in
general, and she was very strong in her belief in the man's guilt.
She had known much of clergymen all her life, as it behoved a
bishop's wife to do, and she had none of that mingled weakness and
ignorance which taught so many ladies in Barsetshire to suppose that
an ordained clergyman could not become a thief. She hated old Lady
Lufton with all her heart, and old Lady Lufton hated her as warmly.
Mrs Proudie would say frequently that Lady Lufton was a conceited old
idiot, and Lady Lufton would declare as frequently that Mrs Proudie
was a vulgar virago. It was known at the palace in Barchester that
kindness had been shown to the Crawleys by the family at Framley
Hall, and this alone would have been sufficient to make Mrs Proudie
believe that Mr Crawley could have been guilty of any crime. And as
Mrs Proudie believed, so did the bishop believe. "It is a terrible
disgrace to the diocese," said the bishop, shaking his head, and
patting his apron as he sat by his study fire.

"Fiddlestick!" said Mrs Proudie.

"But, my dear,--a beneficed clergyman!"

"You must get rid of him; that's all. You must be firm whether he be
acquitted or convicted."

"But if he be acquitted, I cannot get rid of him, my dear."

"Yes, you can, if you are firm. And you must be firm. Is it not true
that he has been disgracefully involved in debt ever since he has
been there; that you have been pestered by letters from unfortunate
tradesmen who cannot get their money from him?"

"That is true, my dear, certainly."

"And is that kind of thing to go on? He cannot come to the palace
as all clergymen should do, because he has got no clothes to come
in. I saw him once about the lanes, and I never set my eyes on such
an object in all my life! I would not believe that the man was a
clergyman till John told me. He is a disgrace to the diocese, and
he must be got rid of. I feel sure of his guilt, and I hope he will
be convicted. One is bound to hope that a guilty man should be
convicted. But if he escape conviction, you must sequestrate the
living because of the debts. The income is enough to get an excellent
curate. It would just do for Thumble." To all of which the bishop
made no further reply, but simply nodded his head and patted his
apron. He knew that he could not do exactly what his wife required of
him; but if it should so turn out that poor Crawley was found to be
guilty, then the matter would be comparatively easy.

"It should be an example to us, that we should look to our own steps,
my dear," said the bishop.

"That's all very well," said Mrs Proudie, "but it has become your
duty, and mine too, to look to the steps of other people; and that
duty we must do."

"Of course, my dear; of course." That was the tone in which the
question of Mr Crawley's alleged guilt was discussed at the palace.

We have already heard what was said on the subject at the house of
Archdeacon Grantly. As the days passed by, and as other tidings
came in, confirmatory of those which had before reached him, the
archdeacon felt himself unable not to believe in the man's guilt.
And the fear which he entertained as to his son's intended marriage
with Grace Crawley, tended to increase the strength of his belief.
Dr Grantly had been a very successful man in the world, and on all
ordinary occasions had been able to show that bold front with which
success endows a man. But he still had his moments of weakness, and
feared greatly lest anything of misfortune should touch him, and mar
the comely roundness of his prosperity. He was very wealthy. The
wife of his bosom had been to him all that a wife should be. His
reputation in the clerical world stood very high. He had lived all
his life on terms of equality with the best of the gentry around
him. His only daughter had made a splendid marriage. His two sons
had hitherto done well in the world, not only as regarded their
happiness, but as to marriage also, and as to social standing. But
how great would be the fall if his son should at last marry the
daughter of a convicted thief! How would the Proudies rejoice over
him,--the Proudies who had been crushed to the ground by the success
of the Hartletop alliance; and how would the low-church curates, who
swarmed in Barsetshire, gather together and scream in delight over
his dismay! "But why should we say that he is guilty?" said Mrs
Grantly.

"It hardly matters as far as we are concerned, whether they find him
guilty or not," said the archdeacon; "if Henry marries that girl my
heart will be broken."

But perhaps to no one except the Crawleys themselves had the matter
caused so much terrible anxiety as to the archdeacon's son. He had
told his father that he had made no offer of marriage to Grace
Crawley, and he had told the truth. But there are perhaps few men who
make such offers in direct terms without having already said and done
that which make such offers simply necessary as the final closing of
an accepted bargain. It was so at any rate between Major Grantly and
Miss Crawley, and Major Grantly acknowledged to himself that it was
so. He acknowledged also to himself that as regarded Grace herself
he had no wish to go back from his implied intentions. Nothing that
either his father or mother might say would shake him in that. But
could it be his duty to bind himself to the family of a convicted
thief? Could it be right that he should disgrace his father and his
mother and his sister and his one child by such a connexion? He
had a man's heart, and the poverty of the Crawleys caused him no
solicitude. But he shrank from the contamination of a prison.




CHAPTER VI

Grace Crawley


It has already been said that Grace Crawley was at this time
living with the two Miss Prettymans, who kept a girls' school at
Silverbridge. Two more benignant ladies than the Miss Prettymans
never presided over such an establishment. The younger was fat,
and fresh, and fair, and seemed to be always running over with the
milk of human kindness. The other was very thin and very small, and
somewhat afflicted with bad health;--was weak, too, in the eyes, and
subject to racking headaches, so that it was considered generally
that she was unable to take much active part in the education of
the pupils. But it was considered as generally that she did all the
thinking, that she knew more than any other woman in Barsetshire, and
that all the Prettyman schemes for education emanated from her mind.
It was said, too, by those who knew them best, that her sister's
good-nature was as nothing to hers; that she was the most charitable,
the most loving, and the most conscientious of schoolmistresses.
This was Miss Annabella Prettyman, the elder; and perhaps it may be
inferred that some portion of her great character for virtue may have
been due to the fact that nobody ever saw her out of her own house.
She could not even go to church, because the open air brought on
neuralgia. She was therefore perhaps taken to be magnificent, partly
because she was unknown. Miss Anne Prettyman, the younger, went about
frequently to tea-parties,--would go, indeed, to any party to which
she might be invited; and was known to have a pleasant taste for
poundcake and sweetmeats. Being seen so much in the outer world, she
became common, and her character did not stand so high as did that
of her sister. Some people were ill-natured enough to say that she
wanted to marry Mr Winthrop; but of what maiden lady that goes out
into the world are not such stories told? And all such stories in
Silverbridge were told with special reference to Mr Winthrop.

Miss Crawley, at present, lived with the Miss Prettymans, and
assisted them in the school. This arrangement had been going on for
the last twelve months, since the time in which Grace would have left
the school in the natural course of things. There had been no bargain
made, and no intention that Grace should stay. She had been invited
to fill the place of an absent superintendent, first, for one
month, then for another, and then for two more months; and when the
assistant came back, the Miss Prettymans thought there were reasons
why Grace should be asked to remain a little longer. But they took
great care to let the fashionable world of Silverbridge know that
Grace Crawley was a visitor with them, and not a teacher. "We pay
her no salary, or anything of that kind," said Miss Anne Prettyman;
a statement, however, which was by no means true, for during those
four months the regular stipend had been paid to her; and twice since
then, Miss Annabella Prettyman, who managed all the money matters,
had called Grace into her little room, and had made a little speech,
and had put a little bit of paper into her hand. "I know I ought
not to take it," Grace had said to her friend Anne. "If I was not
here, there would be no one in my place." "Nonsense, my dear," Anne
Prettyman had said; "it is the greatest comfort to us in the world.
And you should make yourself nice, you know, for his sake. All the
gentlemen like it." Then Grace had been very angry, and had sworn
that she would give the money back again. Nevertheless, I think she
did make herself as nice as she knew how to do. And from all this it
may be seen that the Miss Prettymans had hitherto quite approved of
Major Grantly's attentions.

But when this terrible affair came on about the cheque which had been
lost and found and traced to Mr Crawley's hands, Miss Anne Prettyman
said nothing further to Grace Crawley about Major Grantly. It was not
that she thought that Mr Crawley was guilty, but she knew enough of
the world to be aware that suspicion of such guilt might compel such
a man as Major Grantly to change his mind. "If he had only popped,"
Anne said to her sister, "it would have been all right. He would
never have gone back from his word." "My dear," said Annabella, "I
wish you would not talk about popping. It is a terrible word." "I
shouldn't, to any one except you," said Anne.

There had come to Silverbridge some few months since, on a visit to
Mrs Walker, a young lady from Allington, in the neighbouring county,
between whom and Grace Crawley there had grown up from circumstances
a warm friendship. Grace had a cousin in London,--a clerk high up and
well-to-do in a public office, a nephew of her mother's,--and this
cousin was, and for years had been, violently smitten in love for
this young lady. But the young lady's tale had been sad, and though
she acknowledged feelings of the most affectionate friendship for
the cousin, she could not bring herself to acknowledge more. Grace
Crawley had met the young lady at Silverbridge, and words had been
spoken about the cousin; and though the young lady from Allington was
some years older than Grace, there had grown up to be a friendship,
and, as is not uncommon between young ladies, there had been an
agreement that they would correspond. The name of the lady was Miss
Lily Dale, and the name of the well-to-do cousin was Mr John Eames.

At the present moment Miss Dale was at home with her mother at
Allington, and Grace Crawley in her terrible sorrow wrote to her
friend, pouring out her whole heart. As Grace's letter and Miss
Dale's answer will assist us in our story, I will venture to give
them both.


SILVERBRIDGE, -- December, 186--

DEAREST LILY,

I hardly know how to tell you what has happened, it is so
very terrible. But perhaps you will have heard it already,
as everybody is talking of it here. It has got into the
newspapers, and therefore it cannot be kept secret. Not
that I should keep anything from you; only this is so very
dreadful that I hardly know how to write it. Somebody
says,--a Mr Soames, I believe it is,--that papa has taken
some money that does not belong to him, and he is to be
brought before the magistrates and tried. Of course papa
has done nothing wrong. I do think he would be the last
man in the world to take a penny that did not belong to
him. You know how poor he is; what a life he has had! But
I think he would almost sooner see mamma starving;--I am
sure he would rather be starved himself, then even borrow
a shilling which he could not pay. To suppose that he
would take money [she had tried to write the word "steal"
but she could not bring her pen to form the letters] is
monstrous. But, somehow, the circumstances have been made
to look bad against him, and they say that he must come
over here to the magistrates. I often think that of all
men in the world papa is the most unfortunate. Everything
seems to go against him, and yet he is so good! Poor mamma
has been over here, and she is distracted. I never saw her
so wretched before. She had been to your friend Mr Walker,
and came to me afterwards for a minute. Mr Walker has got
something to do with it, though mamma says she thinks he
is quite friendly to papa. I wonder whether you could
find out, through Mr Walker, what he thinks about it. Of
course, mamma knows that papa has done nothing wrong; but
she says that the whole thing is most mysterious, and
that she does not know how to account for the money. Papa,
you know, is not like other people. He forgets things;
and is always thinking, thinking, thinking of his great
misfortunes. Poor papa! My heart bleeds so when I remember
all his sorrows, that I hate myself for thinking about
myself.

When mamma left me,--and it was then I first knew that
papa would really have to be tried,--I went to Miss
Annabella, and told her that I would go home. She asked me
why, and I said I would not disgrace her house by staying
in it. She got up and took me in her arms, and there came
a tear out of both her dear old eyes, and she said that if
anything evil came to papa,--which she would not believe,
as she knew him to be a good man,--there should be a home
in her house not only for me, but for mamma and Jane.
Isn't she a wonderful woman? When I think of her, I
sometimes think that she must be an angel already. Then
she became very serious,--for just before, through her
tears, she had tried to smile,--and she told me to
remember that all people could not be like her, who had
nobody to look to but herself and her sister; and that at
present I must task myself not to think of that which I
had been thinking of before. She did not mention anybody's
name, but of course I understood very well what she meant;
and I suppose she is right. I said nothing in answer to
her, for I could not speak. She was holding my hand, and I
took hers up and kissed it, to show her, if I could, that
I knew that she was right; but I could not have spoken
about it for all the world. It was not ten days since
that she herself, with all her prudence, told me that she
thought I ought to make up my mind what answer I would
give him. And then I did not say anything; but of course
she knew. And after that Miss Anne spoke quite freely
about it, so that I had to beg her to be silent even
before the girls. You know how imprudent she is. But it
is all over now. Of course Miss Annabella is right. He
has got a great many people to think of; his father and
mother, and his darling little Edith, whom he brought here
twice, and left her with us once for two days, so that
she got to know me quite well; and I took such a love for
her, that I could not bear to part with her. But I think
sometimes that all our family are born to be unfortunate,
and then I tell myself that I will never hope for anything
again.