The Last Chronicle of Barset

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Pray write to me soon. I feel as though nothing on earth
could comfort me, and yet I shall like to have your
letter. Dear, dear Lily, I am not even yet so wretched but
what I shall rejoice to be told good news of you. If it
only could be as John wishes it! And why should it not?
It seems to me that nobody has a right or a reason to by
unhappy except us. Good-by, dearest Lily,

Your affectionate friend,

GRACE CRAWLEY.

P.S.--I think I have made up my mind that I will go back
to Hogglestock at once if the magistrates decide against
papa. I think I should be doing the school harm if I were
to stay here.


The answer to this letter did not reach Miss Crawley till after the
magistrates' meeting on the Thursday, but it will be better for our
story that it should be given here than postponed until the result
of that meeting shall have been told. Miss Dale's answer was as
follows:--


ALLINGTON, -- December, 186--

DEAR GRACE,

Your letter has made me very unhappy. If it can at all
comfort you to know that mamma and I sympathise with you
altogether, in that you may at any rate be sure. But in
such troubles nothing will give comfort. They must be
borne, till the fire of misfortune burns itself out.

I had heard about the affair a day or two before I got
your note. Our clergyman, Mr Boyce, told us of it. Of
course we all know that the charge must be altogether
unfounded, and mamma says that the truth will be sure to
show itself at last. But that conviction does not cure the
evil, and I can well understand that your father should
suffer grievously; and I pity your mother quite as much as
I do him.

As for Major Grantly, if he be such a man as I took him to
be from the little I saw of him, all this would make no
difference to him. I am sure that it ought to make none.
Whether it should not make a difference in you is another
question. I think it should; and I think your answer to
him should be that you could not even consider any such
proposition while your father was in so great trouble. I
am so much older than you, and seem to have had so much
experience, that I do not scruple, as you will see, to
come down upon you with all the weight of my wisdom.

About that other subject I had rather say nothing. I have
known your cousin all my life, almost; and I regard no one
more kindly than I do him. When I think of my friends, he
is always one of the dearest. But when one thinks of going
beyond friendship, even if one tries to do so, there are
so many barriers!

Your affectionate friend,

LILY DALE.

Mamma bids me say that she would be delighted to have you
here whenever it might suit you to come; and I add to this
message my entreaty that you will come at once. You say
that you think you ought to leave Miss Prettyman's for a
while. I can well understand your feeling; but as your
sister is with your mother, surely you had better come
to us,--I mean quite at once. I will not scruple to tell
you what mamma says, because I know your good sense. She
says that as the interest of the school may possibly be
concerned, and as you have no regular engagement, she
thinks you ought to leave Silverbridge; but she says that
it will be better that you come to us than that you should
go home. If you went home, people might say that you had
left in some sort of disgrace. Come to us, and when all
this has been put right, then you go back to Silverbridge;
and then, if a certain person speaks again, you can make a
different answer. Mamma quite understands that you are to
come; so you have only got to ask your own mamma, and come
at once.


This letter, as the reader will understand, did not reach Grace
Crawley till after the all-important Thursday; but before that day
had come round, Grace had told Miss Prettyman,--had told both the
Miss Prettymans,--that she was resolved to leave them. She had done
this without even consulting her mother, driven to it by various
motives. She knew that her father's conduct was being discussed by
the girls in the school, and that things were said of him which it
could not but be for the disadvantage of Miss Prettyman that any one
should say of a teacher in her establishment. She felt, too, that
she could not hold up her head in Silverbridge in these days, as it
would become her to do if she retained her position. She did struggle
gallantly, and succeeded much more nearly than she was herself
aware. She was all but able to carry herself as though no terrible
accusation was being made against her father. Of the struggle,
however, she was not herself the less conscious, and she told herself
that on that account also she must go. And then she must go also
because of Major Grantly. Whether he was minded to come and speak
to her that one other needed word, or whether he was not so minded,
it would be better that she should be away from Silverbridge. If he
spoke it she could only answer him by a negative; and if he were
minded not to speak it, would it not be better that she should leave
herself the power of thinking that his silence had been caused by her
absence, and not by his coldness or indifference?

She asked, therefore, for an interview with Miss Prettyman, and was
shown into the elder sister's room, at eleven o'clock on the Tuesday
morning. The elder Miss Prettyman never came into the school herself
till twelve, but was in the habit of having interviews with the young
ladies,--which were sometimes very awful in their nature,--for the
two previous hours. During these interviews an immense amount of
business was done, and the fortunes in life of some girls were said
to have been there made or marred; as when, for instance, Miss
Crimpton had been advised to stay at home with her uncle in England,
instead of going out with her sisters to India, both of which sisters
were married within three months of their landing in Bombay. The way
in which she gave her counsel on such occasions was very efficacious.
No one knew better than Miss Prettyman that a cock can crow most
effectively in his own farmyard, and therefore all crowing intended
to be effective was done by her within the shrine of her own peculiar
room.

"Well, my dear, what is it?" she said to Grace. "Sit in the
arm-chair, my dear, and we can then talk comfortably." The teachers,
when they were closeted with Miss Prettyman, were always asked to sit
in the arm-chair, whereas a small, straight-backed, uneasy chair was
kept for the young ladies. And there was, too, a stool of repentance,
out against the wall, very uncomfortable indeed for young ladies who
had not behaved themselves so prettily as young ladies generally do.

Grace seated herself, and then began her speech very quickly. "Miss
Prettyman," she said, "I have made up my mind that I will go home, if
you please."

"And why should you go home, Grace? Did I not tell you that you
should have a home here?" Miss Prettyman had weak eyes, and was very
small, and had never possessed any claim to be called good-looking.
And she assumed nothing of the majestical awe from any adornment or
studied amplification of the outward woman by means of impressive
trappings. The possessor of an unobservant eye might have called her
a mean-looking, little old woman. And certainly there would have been
nothing awful in her to any one who came across her otherwise than
as a lady having authority in her own school. But within her own
precincts, she did know how to surround herself with a dignity which
all felt who approached her there. Grace Crawley, as she heard
the simple question which Miss Prettyman had asked, unconsciously
acknowledged the strength of the woman's manner. She already stood
rebuked for having proposed a plan so ungracious, so unnecessary, and
so unwise.

"I think I ought to be with mamma at present," said Grace.

"You mother has your sister with her."

"Yes, Miss Prettyman; Jane is there."

"If there is no other reason, I cannot think that that can be held to
be a reason now. Of course your mother would like to have you always;
unless you should be married,--but then there are reasons why this
should not be so."

"Of course there are."

"I do not think,--that is, if I know all that there is to be
known,--I do not think, I say, that there can be any good ground for
your leaving us now,--just now."

Then Grace sat silent for a moment, gathering her courage, and
collecting her words; and after that she spoke. "It is because of
papa, and because of this charge--"

"But, Grace--"

"I know what you are going to say, Miss Prettyman;--that is, I think
I know."

"If you will hear me, you may be sure that you know."

"But I want you to hear me for one moment first. I beg your pardon,
Miss Prettyman; I do indeed, but I want to say this before you go on.
I must go home, and I know I ought. We are all disgraced, and I won't
stop here to disgrace the school. I know papa has done nothing wrong;
but nevertheless we are disgraced. The police are to bring him in
here on Thursday, and everybody in Silverbridge will know it. It
cannot be right that I should be here teaching in the school, while
it is all going on;--and I won't. And, Miss Prettyman, I couldn't do
it,--indeed I couldn't. I can't bring myself to think of anything
I am doing. Indeed I can't; and then, Miss Prettyman, there are
other reasons." By the time that she had proceeded thus far, Grace
Crawley's words were nearly choked by her tears.

"And what are the other reasons, Grace?"

"I don't know," said Grace, struggling to speak through her tears.

"But I know," said Miss Prettyman. "I know them all. I know all your
reasons, and I tell you that in my opinion you ought to remain where
you are, and not go away. The very reasons which to you are reasons
for your going, to me are reasons for your remaining here."

"I can't remain. I am determined to go. I don't mind you and Miss
Anne, but I can't bear to have the girls looking at me,--and the
servants."

Then Miss Prettyman paused awhile, thinking what words of wisdom
would be most appropriate in the present conjuncture. But words of
wisdom did not seem to come easily to her, having for the moment been
banished by tenderness of heart. "Come here, my love," she said at
last. "Come here, Grace." Slowly Grace got up from her seat and came
round, and stood by Miss Prettyman's elbow. Miss Prettyman pushed
her chair a little back, and pushed herself a little forward, and
stretching out one hand, placed her arm round Grace's waist, and
with the other took hold of Grace's hand, and thus drew her down and
kissed the girl's forehead and lips. And then Grace found herself
kneeling at her friend's feet. "Grace," she said, "do you not know
that I love you? Do you not know that I love you dearly?" In answer
to this Grace kissed the withered hand she held in hers, while the
warm tears trickled upon Miss Prettyman's knuckles. "I love you as
though you were my own," exclaimed the schoolmistress; "and will you
not trust me, that I know what is best for you?"

"I must go home," said Grace.

"Of course you shall, if you think it right at last; but let
us talk of it. No one in the house, you know, has the slightest
suspicion that your father has done anything that is in the least
dishonourable."

"I know that you have not."

"No, nor has Anne." Miss Prettyman said this as though no one in that
house beyond herself and her sister had a right to have any opinion
on any subject.

"I know that," said Grace.

"Well, my dear. If we think so--"

"But the servants, Miss Prettyman?"

"If any servant in this house says a word to offend you,
I'll--I'll--"

"They don't say anything, Miss Prettyman, but they look. Indeed, I'd
better go home. Indeed I had!"

"Do not you think your mother has cares enough upon her, and burden
enough, without another mouth to feed, and another head to shelter?
You haven't thought of that, Grace!"

"Yes, I have."

"And as for the work, whilst you are not quite well you shall not be
troubled with teaching. I have some old papers that want copying and
settling, and you shall sit here and do that just for an employment.
Anne knows that I've long wanted to have it done, and I'll tell her
that you've kindly promised to do it for me."

"No; no; no," said Grace; "I must go home." She was still kneeling at
Miss Prettyman's knee, and still holding Miss Prettyman's hand. And
then, at that moment, there came a tap on the door, gentle but yet
not humble, a tap which acknowledged, on the part of the tapper, the
supremacy in that room of the lady who was sitting there, but which
still claimed admittance almost as a right. The tap was well known by
both of them to be the tap of Miss Anne. Grace immediately jumped up,
and Miss Prettyman settled herself in her chair with a motion which
almost seemed to indicate some feeling of shame as to her late
position.

"I suppose I may come in?" said Miss Anne, opening the door and
inserting her head.

"Yes, you may come in,--if you have anything to say," said Miss
Prettyman, with an air which seemed to be intended to assert her
supremacy. But, in truth, she was simply collecting the wisdom and
dignity which had been somewhat dissipated by her tenderness.

"I did not know that Grace Crawley was here," said Miss Anne.

"Grace Crawley is here," said Miss Prettyman.

"What is the matter, Grace?" said Miss Anne, seeing the tears.

"Never mind now," said Miss Prettyman.

"Poor dear, I'm sure I'm sorry as though she were my own sister,"
said Anne. "But, Annabella, I want to speak to you especially."

"To me, in private?"

"Yes, to you; in private, if Grace won't mind?"

Then Grace prepared to go. But as she was going, Miss Anne, upon
whose brow a heavy burden of thought was lying, stopped her suddenly.
"Grace, my dear," she said, "go upstairs into your room, will
you?--not across the hall to the school."

"And why shouldn't she go to the school?" said Miss Prettyman.

Miss Anne paused for a moment, and then answered,--unwillingly,
as though driven to make a reply which she knew to be indiscreet.
"Because there is somebody in the hall."

"Go to your room, dear," said Miss Prettyman. And Grace went to her
room, never turning an eye down towards the hall. "Who is it?" said
Miss Prettyman.

"Major Grantly is here, asking to see you," said Miss Anne.




CHAPTER VII

Miss Prettyman's Private Room


Major Grantly, when threatened by his father with pecuniary
punishment, should he demean himself by such a marriage as that he
had proposed to himself, had declared that he would offer his hand
to Miss Crawley on the next morning. This, however, he had not done.
He had not done it, partly because he did not quite believe his
father's threat, and partly because he felt that that threat was
almost justified,--for the present moment,--by the circumstances
in which Grace Crawley's father had placed himself. Henry Grantly
acknowledged, as he drove himself home on the morning after his
dinner at the rectory, that in this matter of his marriage he did owe
much to his family. Should he marry at all, he owed it to them to
marry a lady. And Grace Crawley,--so he told himself,--was a lady.
And he owed it to them to bring among them as his wife a woman who
should not disgrace him or them by her education, manners, or even by
her personal appearance. In all these respects Grace Crawley was, in
his judgment, quite as good as they had a right to expect her to be,
and in some respects a great deal superior to that type of womanhood
with which they had been most generally conversant. "If everybody had
her due, my sister isn't fit to hold a candle to her," he said to
himself. It must be acknowledged, therefore, that he was really in
love with Grace Crawley; and he declared to himself, over and over
again, that his family had no right to demand that he should marry a
woman with money. The archdeacon's son by no means despised money.
How could he, having come forth as a bird fledged from such a nest
as the rectory at Plumstead Episcopi? Before he had been brought by
his better nature and true judgment to see that Grace Crawley was
the greater woman of the two, he had nearly submitted himself to the
twenty thousand pounds of Miss Emily Dunstable,--to that, and her
good-humour and rosy freshness combined. But he regarded himself as
the well-to-do son of a very rich father. His only child was amply
provided for; and he felt that, as regarded money, he had a right
to do as he pleased. He felt this with double strength after his
father's threat.

But he had no right to make a marriage by which his family would be
disgraced. Whether he was right or wrong in supposing that he would
disgrace his family were he to marry the daughter of a convicted
thief, it is hardly necessary to discuss here. He told himself that
it would be so,--telling himself also that, by the stern laws of
the world, the son and the daughter must pay for the offence of the
father and the mother. Even among the poor, who would willingly marry
the child of a man who had been hanged? But he carried the argument
beyond this, thinking much of the matter, and endeavouring to think
of it not only justly, but generously. If the accusation against
Crawley were false,--if the man were being injured by an unjust
charge,--even if he, Grantly, could make himself think that the
girl's father had not stolen the money, then he would dare everything
and go on. I do not know that his argument was good, or that his
mind was logical in the matter. He ought to have felt that his own
judgment as to the man's guilt was less likely to be correct than
that of those whose duty it was and would be to form and to express
a judgment on the matter; and as to Grace herself, she was equally
innocent whether her father were guilty or not guilty. If he were
to be debarred from asking her for her hand by his feelings for her
father and mother, he should hardly have trusted to his own skill in
ascertaining the real truth as to the alleged theft. But he was not
logical, and thus, meaning to be generous, he became unjust.

He found that among those in Silverbridge whom he presumed to be best
informed on such matters, there was a growing opinion that Mr Crawley
had stolen the money. He was intimate with all the Walkers, and was
able to find out that Mrs Walker knew that her husband believed in
the clergyman's guilt. He was by no means alone in his willingness
to accept Mr Walker's opinion as the true opinion. Silverbridge,
generally, was endeavouring to dress itself in Mr Walker's glass,
and to believe as Mr Walker believed. The ladies of Silverbridge,
including the Miss Prettymans, were aware that Mr Walker had been
very kind both to Mr and Mrs Crawley, and argued from this that Mr
Walker must think the man to be innocent. But Henry Grantly, who did
not dare to ask a direct question of the solicitor, went cunningly
to work, and closeted himself with Mrs Walker,--with Mrs Walker, who
knew well of the good fortune which was hovering over Grace's head
and was so nearly settling itself upon her shoulders. She would have
given a finger to be able to whitewash Mr Crawley in the major's
estimation. Nor must it be supposed that she told the major in plain
words that her husband had convinced himself of the man's guilt. In
plain words no question was asked between them, and in plain words
no opinion was expressed. But there was the look of sorrow in the
woman's eye, there was the absence of reference to her husband's
assurance that the man was innocent, there was the air of settled
grief which told of her own conviction; and the major left her,
convinced that Mrs Walker believed Mr Crawley to be guilty.

Then he went to Barchester; not open-mouthed with inquiry, but rather
with open ears, and it seemed to him that all men in Barchester were
of one mind. There was a county-club in Barchester, and at this
county-club nine men out of ten were talking about Mr Crawley. It was
by no means necessary that a man should ask questions on the subject.
Opinion was expressed so freely that no such asking was required;
and opinion in Barchester,--at any rate in the county-club,--seemed
now to be all of one mind. There had been every disposition at
first to believe Mr Crawley to be innocent. He had been believed
to be innocent, even after he had said wrongly that the cheque had
been paid to him by Mr Soames; but he had since stated that he had
received it from Dean Arabin, and that statement was also shown to be
false. A man who has a cheque changed on his own behalf is bound at
least to show where he got the cheque. Mr Crawley had not only failed
to do this, but had given two false excuses. Henry Grantly, as he
drove home to Silverbridge on the Sunday afternoon, summed up all the
evidence in his own mind, and brought in a verdict of Guilty against
the father of the girl whom he loved.

On the following morning he walked into Silverbridge and called at
Miss Prettyman's house. As he went along his heart was warmer towards
Grace than it had ever been before. He had told himself that he was
now bound to abstain, for his father's sake, from doing that which
he had told his father that he would certainly do. But he knew also,
that he had said that which, though it did not bind him to Miss
Crawley, gave her a right to expect that he would so bind himself.
And Miss Prettyman could not but be aware of what his intention had
been, and could not but expect that he should now be explicit. Had
he been a wise man altogether, he would probably have abstained from
saying anything at the present moment,--a wise man, that is, in the
ways and feelings of the world in such matters. But, as there are men
who will allow themselves all imaginable latitude in their treatment
of women, believing that the world will condone any amount of fault
of that nature, so are there other men, and a class of men which on
the whole is the more numerous of the two, who are tremblingly alive
to the danger of censure on this head,--and to the danger of censure
not only from others, but from themselves also. Major Grantly had
done that which made him think it imperative upon him to do something
further, and to do that something at once.

Therefore he started off on the Monday morning after breakfast and
walked to Silverbridge, and as he walked he built various castles in
the air. Why should he not marry Grace,--if she would have him,--and
take her away beyond the reach of her father's calamity? Why should
he not throw over his own people altogether, money, position,
society, and all, and give himself up to love? Were he to do so, men
might say that he was foolish, but no one could hint that he was
dishonourable. His spirit was high enough to teach him to think that
such conduct on his part would have in it something of magnificence;
but, yet, such was not his purpose. In going to Miss Prettyman it was
his intention to apologise for not doing this magnificent thing. His
mind was quite made up. Nevertheless he built castles in the air.

It so happened that he encountered the younger Miss Prettyman in
the hall. It would not at all have suited him to reveal to her the
purport of his visit, or ask her either to assist his suit or to
receive his apologies. Miss Anne Prettyman was too common a personage
in the Silverbridge world to be fit for such employment. Miss Anne
Prettyman was, indeed, herself submissive to him, and treated him
with the courtesy which is due to a superior being. He therefore
simply asked her whether he could be allowed to see her sister.

"Surely, Major Grantly;--that is, I think so. It is a little early,
but I think she can receive you."

"It is early, I know; but as I want to say a word or two on
business--"

"Oh, on business. I am sure she will see you on business; she will
only be too proud. If you will be kind enough to step in here for two
minutes." Then Miss Anne, having deposited the major in the little
parlour, ran upstairs with her message to her sister. "Of course it's
about Grace Crawley" she said to herself as she went. "It can't be
about anything else. I wonder what it is he's going to say. If he's
going to pop, and the father in all this trouble, he's the finest
fellow that ever trod." Such were her thoughts as she tapped at the
door and announced in the presence of Grace that there was somebody
in the hall.

"It's Major Grantly," whispered Anne, as soon as Grace had shut the
door behind her.

"So I supposed by your telling her not to go into the hall. What has
he come to say?"

"How on earth can I tell you that, Annabella? But I suppose he can
have only one thing to say after all that has come and gone. He can
only have come with one object."

"He wouldn't have come to me for that. He would have asked to see
herself."

"But she never goes out now, and he can't see her."

"Or he would have gone to them over at Hogglestock," said Miss
Prettyman. "But of course he must come up now he is here. Would you
mind telling him? or shall I ring the bell?"