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The Last Chronicle of Barset

by Anthony Trollope · English · Gutenberg #3045 · 1,873,768 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Last Chronicle of Barset

Author: Anthony Trollope


        
Release date: January 1, 2002 [eBook #3045]
                Most recently updated: March 20, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: Smith, Elder and Co., London, 1867.

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3045

Credits: Kenneth David Cooper and revised by Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D.


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET ***




THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET

by

ANTHONY TROLLOPE

First published in monthly installments from December 1, 1866, to
July 6, 1867, and in book form in 1867


[Illustration: Mr. Crawley before the Magistrates. (Frontispiece)]






CONTENTS

         I. How Did He Get It?
        II. By Heavens He Had Better Not!
       III. The Archdeacon's Threat
        IV. The Clergyman's House at Hogglestock
         V. What the World Thought About It
        VI. Grace Crawley
       VII. Miss Prettyman's Private Room
      VIII. Mr. Crawley Is Taken to Silverbridge
        IX. Grace Crawley Goes to Allington
         X. Dinner at Framley Court
        XI. The Bishop Sends His Inhibition
       XII. Mr. Crawley Seeks for Sympathy
      XIII. The Bishop's Angel
       XIV. Major Grantly Consults a Friend
        XV. Up in London
       XVI. Down at Allington
      XVII. Mr. Crawley Is Summoned to Barchester
     XVIII. The Bishop of Barchester Is Crushed
       XIX. Where Did It Come From?
        XX. What Mr. Walker Thought About It
       XXI. Mr. Robarts on His Embassy
      XXII. Major Grantly at Home
     XXIII. Miss Lily Dale's Resolution
      XXIV. Mrs. Dobbs Broughton's Dinner-party
       XXV. Miss Madalina Demolines
      XXVI. The Picture
     XXVII. A Hero at Home
    XXVIII. Showing How Major Grantly Took a Walk
      XXIX. Miss Lily Dale's Logic
       XXX. Showing What Major Grantly Did After His Walk
      XXXI. Showing How Major Grantly Returned to Guestwick
     XXXII. Mr. Toogood
    XXXIII. The Plumstead Foxes
     XXXIV. Mrs. Proudie Sends for Her Lawyer
      XXXV. Lily Dale Writes Two Words in Her Book
     XXXVI. Grace Crawley Returns Home
    XXXVII. Hook Court
   XXXVIII. Jael
     XXXIX. A New Flirtation
        XL. Mr. Toogood's Ideas About Society
       XLI. Grace Crawley at Home
      XLII. Mr. Toogood Travels Professionally
     XLIII. Mr. Crosbie Goes into the City
      XLIV. "I Suppose I Must Let You Have It"
       XLV. Lily Dale Goes to London
      XLVI. The Bayswater Romance
     XLVII. Dr. Tempest at the Palace
    XLVIII. The Softness of Sir Raffle Buffle
      XLIX. Near the Close
         L. Lady Lufton's Proposition
        LI. Mrs. Dobbs Broughton Piles Her Fagots
       LII. Why Don't You Have an "It" for Yourself?
      LIII. Rotten Row
       LIV. The Clerical Commission
        LV. Framley Parsonage
       LVI. The Archdeacon Goes to Framley
      LVII. A Double Pledge
     LVIII. The Cross-grainedness of Men
       LIX. A Lady Presents Her Compliments to Miss L. D.
        LX. The End of Jael and Sisera
       LXI. "It's Dogged as Does It"
      LXII. Mr. Crawley's Letter to the Dean
     LXIII. Two Visitors to Hogglestock
      LXIV. The Tragedy in Hook Court
       LXV. Miss Van Siever Makes Her Choice
      LXVI. Requiescat in Pace
     LXVII. In Memoriam
    LXVIII. The Obstinacy of Mr. Crawley
      LXIX. Mr. Crawley's Last Appearance in His Own Pulpit
       LXX. Mrs. Arabin Is Caught
      LXXI. Mr. Toogood at Silverbridge
     LXXII. Mr. Toogood at "The Dragon of Wantly"
    LXXIII. There Is Comfort at Plumstead
     LXXIV. The Crawleys Are Informed
      LXXV. Madalina's Heart Is Bleeding
     LXXVI. I Think He Is Light of Heart
    LXXVII. The Shattered Tree
   LXXVIII. The Arabins Return to Barchester
     LXXIX. Mr. Crawley Speaks of His Coat
      LXXX. Miss Demolines Desires to Become a Finger-post
     LXXXI. Barchester Cloisters
    LXXXII. The Last Scene at Hogglestock
   LXXXIII. Mr. Crawley Is Conquered
    LXXXIV. Conclusion



TITLED ILLUSTRATIONS

   Mr. Crawley before the Magistrates.           Frontispiece
   Mr. and Mrs. Crawley.                         Chapter I
   "I love you as though you were my own,"
      said the Schoolmistress.                   Chapter VI
   "A convicted thief," repeated Mrs. Proudie.   Chapter XI
   "Speak out, Dan."                             Chapter XII
   Grace Crawley is introduced to Squire Dale.   Chapter XVI
   Farmer Mangle and Mr. Crawley.                Chapter XVII
   "She's more like Eleanor than any one else."  Chapter XXII
   "I am very glad to have the opportunity
      of shaking hands with you."                Chapter XXIV
   "What do you think of it, Mrs. Broughton?"    Chapter XXVI
   Squire Dale and Major Grantly.                Chapter XXVIII
   "Never mind Mr. Henry."                       Chapter XXXIII
   Lily wishes that they might swear
      to be Brother and Sister.                  Chapter XXXV
   She read the beginning--"Dearest Grace."      Chapter XXXVI
   "Mamma, I've got something to tell you."      Chapter XLI
   Mr. Toogood and the old Waiter.               Chapter XLII
   They pronounced her to be very much
      like a Lady.                               Chapter XLV
   "As right as a trivet, Uncle."                Chapter XLVIII
   Posy and her Grandpapa.                       Chapter XLIX
   Mrs. Dobbs Broughton piles her Fagots.        Chapter LI
   "Because of Papa's disgrace."                 Chapter LV
   "But it will never pass away," said Grace.    Chapter LVII
   "Honour thy Father,--that thy days
      may be long in the Land."                  Chapter LVIII
   "It's dogged as does it."                     Chapter LXI
   Mrs. Proudie's Emissary.                      Chapter LXIII
   "You do not know what starving is, my dear."  Chapter LXV
   "They will come to hear a ruined man
      declare his own ruin."                     Chapter LXIX
   "No sale after all?"                          Chapter LXXI
   "These are the young Hogglestockians,
      are they?"                                 Chapter LXXIV
   The last Denial.                              Chapter LXXVII
   "What is it that I behold?"                   Chapter LXXX
   "Peradventure he signifies his Consent."      Chapter LXXXII




CHAPTER I.

HOW DID HE GET IT?


[Illustration]

"I can never bring myself to believe it, John," said Mary Walker,
the pretty daughter of Mr. George Walker, attorney of Silverbridge.
Walker and Winthrop was the name of the firm, and they were
respectable people, who did all the solicitors' business that had
to be done in that part of Barsetshire on behalf of the Crown, were
employed on the local business of the Duke of Omnium who is great in
those parts, and altogether held their heads up high, as provincial
lawyers often do. They,--the Walkers,--lived in a great brick
house in the middle of the town, gave dinners, to which the county
gentlemen not unfrequently condescended to come, and in a mild way
led the fashion in Silverbridge. "I can never bring myself to believe
it, John," said Miss Walker.

"You'll have to bring yourself to believe it," said John, without
taking his eyes from his book.

"A clergyman,--and such a clergyman too!"

"I don't see that that has anything to do with it." And as he now
spoke, John did take his eyes off his book. "Why should not a
clergyman turn thief as well as anybody else? You girls always seem
to forget that clergymen are only men after all."

"Their conduct is likely to be better than that of other men, I
think."

"I deny it utterly," said John Walker. "I'll undertake to say that
at this moment there are more clergymen in debt in Barsetshire than
there are either lawyers or doctors. This man has always been in
debt. Since he has been in the county I don't think he has ever been
able to show his face in the High Street of Silverbridge."

"John, that is saying more than you have a right to say," said Mrs.
Walker.

"Why, mother, this very cheque was given to a butcher who had
threatened a few days before to post bills all about the county,
giving an account of the debt that was due to him, if the money was
not paid at once."

"More shame for Mr. Fletcher," said Mary. "He has made a fortune as
butcher in Silverbridge."

"What has that to do with it? Of course a man likes to have his
money. He had written three times to the bishop, and he had sent
a man over to Hogglestock to get his little bill settled six days
running. You see he got it at last. Of course, a tradesman must look
for his money."

"Mamma, do you think that Mr. Crawley stole the cheque?" Mary, as she
asked the question, came and stood over her mother, looking at her
with anxious eyes.

"I would rather give no opinion, my dear."

"But you must think something when everybody is talking about it,
mamma."

"Of course my mother thinks he did," said John, going back to his
book. "It is impossible that she should think otherwise."

"That is not fair, John," said Mrs. Walker; "and I won't have you
fabricate thoughts for me, or put the expression of them into my
mouth. The whole affair is very painful, and as your father is
engaged in the inquiry, I think that the less said about the matter
in this house the better. I am sure that that would be your father's
feeling."

"Of course I should say nothing about it before him," said Mary. "I
know that papa does not wish to have it talked about. But how is one
to help thinking about such a thing? It would be so terrible for all
of us who belong to the Church."

"I do not see that at all," said John. "Mr. Crawley is not more than
any other man just because he's a clergyman. I hate all that kind of
clap-trap. There are a lot of people here in Silverbridge who think
the matter shouldn't be followed up, just because the man is in a
position which makes the crime more criminal in him than it would be
in another."

"But I feel sure that Mr. Crawley has committed no crime at all,"
said Mary.

"My dear," said Mrs. Walker, "I have just said that I would rather
you would not talk about it. Papa will be in directly."

"I won't, mamma;--only--"

"Only! yes; just only!" said John. "She'd go on till dinner if any
one would stay to hear her."

"You've said twice as much as I have, John." But John had left the
room before his sister's last words could reach him.

"You know, mamma, it is quite impossible not to help thinking of it,"
said Mary.

"I dare say it is, my dear."

"And when one knows the people it does make it so dreadful."

"But do you know them? I never spoke to Mr. Crawley in my life, and
I do not think I ever saw her."

"I knew Grace very well,--when she used to come first to Miss
Prettyman's school."

"Poor girl. I pity her."

"Pity her! Pity is no word for it, mamma. My heart bleeds for them.
And yet I do not believe for a moment that he stole the cheque. How
can it be possible? For though he may have been in debt because they
have been so very, very poor; yet we all know that he has been an
excellent clergyman. When the Robartses were dining here last, I
heard Mrs. Robarts say that for piety and devotion to his duties she
had hardly ever seen any one equal to him. And the Robartses know
more of them than anybody."

"They say that the dean is his great friend."

"What a pity it is that the Arabins should be away just now when he
is in such trouble." And in this way the mother and daughter went
on discussing the question of the clergyman's guilt in spite of Mrs.
Walker's previously expressed desire that nothing more might be said
about it. But Mrs. Walker, like many other mothers, was apt to be
more free in converse with her daughter than she was with her son.
While they were thus talking the father came in from his office, and
then the subject was dropped. He was a man between fifty and sixty
years of age, with grey hair, rather short, and somewhat corpulent,
but still gifted with that amount of personal comeliness which
comfortable position and the respect of others will generally seem to
give. A man rarely carries himself meanly, whom the world holds high
in esteem.

"I am very tired, my dear," said Mr. Walker.

"You look tired. Come and sit down for a few minutes before you
dress. Mary, get your father's slippers." Mary instantly ran to the
door.

"Thanks, my darling," said the father. And then he whispered to his
wife, as soon as Mary was out of hearing, "I fear that unfortunate
man is guilty. I fear he is! I fear he is!"

"Oh, heavens! what will become of them?"

"What indeed? She has been with me to-day."

"Has she? And what could you say to her?"

"I told her at first that I could not see her, and begged her not to
speak to me about it. I tried to make her understand that she should
go to some one else. But it was of no use."

"And how did it end?"

"I asked her to go in to you, but she declined. She said you could do
nothing for her."

"And does she think her husband guilty?"

"No, indeed. She think him guilty! Nothing on earth,--or from heaven
either, as I take it, would make her suppose it to be possible. She
came to me simply to tell me how good he was."

"I love her for that," said Mrs. Walker.

"So did I. But what is the good of loving her? Thank you, dearest.
I'll get your slippers for you some day, perhaps."

The whole county was astir in this matter of this alleged guilt of
the Reverend Josiah Crawley,--the whole county, almost as keenly as
the family of Mr. Walker, of Silverbridge. The crime laid to his
charge was the theft of a cheque for twenty pounds, which he was said
to have stolen out of a pocket-book left or dropped in his house, and
to have passed as money into the hands of one Fletcher, a butcher
of Silverbridge, to whom he was indebted. Mr. Crawley was in those
days the perpetual curate of Hogglestock, a parish in the northern
extremity of East Barsetshire; a man known by all who knew anything
of him to be very poor,--an unhappy, moody, disappointed man, upon
whom the troubles of the world always seemed to come with a double
weight. But he had ever been respected as a clergyman, since his
old friend Mr. Arabin, the dean of Barchester, had given him the
small incumbency which he now held. Though moody, unhappy, and
disappointed, he was a hard-working, conscientious pastor among
the poor people with whom his lot was cast; for in the parish of
Hogglestock there resided only a few farmers higher in degree than
field labourers, brickmakers, and such like. Mr. Crawley had now
passed some ten years of his life at Hogglestock; and during those
years he had worked very hard to do his duty, struggling to teach the
people around him perhaps too much of the mystery, but something also
of the comfort, of religion. That he had become popular in his parish
cannot be said of him. He was not a man to make himself popular in
any position. I have said that he was moody and disappointed. He was
even worse than this; he was morose, sometimes almost to insanity.
There had been days in which even his wife had found it impossible
to deal with him otherwise than as with an acknowledged lunatic. And
this was known among the farmers, who talked about their clergyman
among themselves as though he were a madman. But among the very poor,
among the brickmakers of Hoggle End,--a lawless, drunken, terribly
rough lot of humanity,--he was held in high respect; for they knew
that he lived hardly, as they lived; that he worked hard, as they
worked; and that the outside world was hard to him, as it was to
them; and there had been an apparent sincerity of godliness about the
man, and a manifest struggle to do his duty in spite of the world's
ill-usage, which had won its way even with the rough; so that Mr.
Crawley's name had stood high with many in his parish, in spite of
the unfortunate peculiarity of his disposition. This was the man who
was now accused of stealing a cheque for twenty pounds.

But before the circumstances of the alleged theft are stated, a word
or two must be said as to Mr. Crawley's family. It is declared that a
good wife is a crown to her husband, but Mrs. Crawley had been much
more than a crown to him. As had regarded all the inner life of the
man,--all that portion of his life which had not been passed in the
pulpit or in pastoral teaching,--she had been crown, throne, and
sceptre all in one. That she had endured with him and on his behalf
the miseries of poverty, and the troubles of a life which had known
no smiles, is perhaps not to be alleged as much to her honour.
She had joined herself to him for better or worse, and it was her
manifest duty to bear such things; wives always have to bear them,
knowing when they marry that they must take their chance. Mr. Crawley
might have been a bishop, and Mrs. Crawley, when she married him,
perhaps thought it probable that such would be his fortune. Instead
of that he was now, just as he was approaching his fiftieth year, a
perpetual curate, with an income of one hundred and thirty pounds
per annum,--and a family. That had been Mrs. Crawley's luck in life,
and of course she bore it. But she had also done much more than
this. She had striven hard to be contented, or, rather, to appear
to be contented, when he had been most wretched and most moody.
She had struggled to conceal from him her own conviction as to his
half-insanity, treating him at the same time with the respect due
to an honoured father of a family, and with the careful measured
indulgence fit for a sick and wayward child. In all the terrible
troubles of their life her courage had been higher than his. The
metal of which she was made had been tempered to a steel which was
very rare and fine, but the rareness and fineness of which he had
failed to appreciate. He had often told her that she was without
pride, because she had stooped to receive from others, on his behalf
and on behalf of her children, things which were very needful, but
which she could not buy. He had told her that she was a beggar, and
that it was better to starve than to beg. She had borne the rebuke
without a word in reply, and had then begged again for him, and had
endured the starvation herself. Nothing in their poverty had, for
years past, been a shame to her; but every accident of their poverty
was still, and ever had been, a living disgrace to him.

[Illustration: Mr. and Mrs. Crawley.]

They had had many children, and three were still alive. Of the
eldest, Grace Crawley, we shall hear much in the coming story. She
was at this time nineteen years old, and there were those who said
that, in spite of her poverty, her shabby outward apparel, and a
certain thin, unfledged, unrounded form of person, a want of fulness
in the lines of her figure, she was the prettiest girl in that part
of the world. She was living now at a school in Silverbridge, where
for the last year she had been a teacher; and there were many in
Silverbridge who declared that very bright prospects were opening to
her,--that young Major Grantly of Cosby Lodge, who, though a widower
with a young child, was the cynosure of all female eyes in and
round Silverbridge, had found beauty in her thin face, and that
Grace Crawley's fortune was made in the teeth, as it were, of the
prevailing ill-fortune of her family. Bob Crawley, who was two years
younger, was now at Marlbro' School, from whence it was intended that
he should proceed to Cambridge, and be educated there at the expense
of his godfather, Dean Arabin. In this also the world saw a stroke
of good luck. But then nothing was lucky to Mr. Crawley. Bob, indeed,
who had done very well at school, might do well at Cambridge,--might
do great things there. But Mr. Crawley would almost have preferred
that the boy should work in the fields, than that he should be
educated in a manner so manifestly eleemosynary. And then his
clothes! How was he to be provided with clothes fit either for school
or for college? But the dean and Mrs. Crawley between them managed
this, leaving Mr. Crawley very much in the dark, as Mrs. Crawley was
in the habit of leaving him. Then there was a younger daughter, Jane,
still at home, who passed her life between her mother's work-table
and her father's Greek, mending linen and learning to scan
iambics,--for Mr. Crawley in his early days had been a ripe scholar.

And now there had come upon them all this terribly-crushing disaster.
That poor Mr. Crawley had gradually got himself into a mess of debt
at Silverbridge, from which he was quite unable to extricate himself,
was generally known by all the world both of Silverbridge and
Hogglestock. To a great many it was known that Dean Arabin had
paid money for him, very much contrary to his own consent, and
that he had quarrelled, or attempted to quarrel, with the dean in
consequence,--had so attempted, although the money had in part passed
through his own hands. There had been one creditor, Fletcher, the
butcher of Silverbridge, who had of late been specially hard upon
poor Crawley. This man, who had not been without good nature in his
dealings, had heard stories of the dean's good-will and such like,
and had loudly expressed his opinion that the perpetual curate of
Hogglestock would show a higher pride in allowing himself to be
indebted to a rich brother clergyman, than in remaining under thrall
to a butcher. And thus a rumour had grown up. And then the butcher
had written repeated letters to the bishop,--to Bishop Proudie of
Barchester, who had at first caused his chaplain to answer them,
and had told Mr. Crawley somewhat roundly what was his opinion of a
clergyman who eat meat and did not pay for it. But nothing that the
bishop could say or do enabled Mr. Crawley to pay the butcher. It was
very grievous to such a man as Mr. Crawley to receive these letters
from such a man as Bishop Proudie; but the letters came, and made
festering wounds, but then there was an end of them. And at last
there had come forth from the butcher's shop a threat that if the
money were not paid by a certain date, printed bills should be posted
about the county. All who heard of this in Silverbridge were very
angry with Mr. Fletcher, for no one there had ever known a tradesman
to take such a step before; but Fletcher swore that he would
persevere, and defended himself by showing that six or seven months
since, in the spring of the year, Mr. Crawley had been paying money
in Silverbridge, but had paid none to him,--to him who had been not
only his earliest, but his most enduring creditor. "He got money
from the dean in March," said Mr. Fletcher to Mr. Walker, "and he
paid twelve pounds ten to Green, and seventeen pounds to Grobury,
the baker." It was that seventeen pounds to Grobury, the baker, for
flour, which made the butcher so fixedly determined to smite the
poor clergyman hip and thigh. "And he paid money to Hall, and to Mrs.
Holt, and to a deal more; but he never came near my shop. If he had
even shown himself, I would not have said so much about it." And then
a day before the date named, Mrs. Crawley had come to Silverbridge,
and had paid the butcher twenty pounds in four five-pound notes. So
far Fletcher the butcher had been successful.

Some six weeks after this, inquiry began to be made as to a certain
cheque for twenty pounds drawn by Lord Lufton on his bankers in
London, which cheque had been lost early in the spring by Mr. Soames,
Lord Lufton's man of business in Barsetshire, together with a
pocket-book in which it had been folded. This pocket-book Soames had
believed himself to have left at Mr. Crawley's house, and had gone
so far, even at the time of the loss, as to express his absolute
conviction that he had so left it. He was in the habit of paying a
rentcharge to Mr. Crawley on behalf of Lord Lufton, amounting to
twenty pounds four shillings, every half-year. Lord Lufton held
the large tithes of Hogglestock, and paid annually a sum of forty
pounds eight shillings to the incumbent. This amount was, as a rule,
remitted punctually by Mr. Soames through the post. On the occasion
now spoken of, he had had some reason for visiting Hogglestock, and
had paid the money personally to Mr. Crawley. Of so much there was
no doubt. But he had paid it by a cheque drawn by himself on his
own bankers at Barchester, and that cheque had been cashed in the
ordinary way on the next morning. On returning to his own house in
Barchester he had missed his pocket-book, and had written to Mr.
Crawley to make inquiry. There had been no money in it, beyond the
cheque drawn by Lord Lufton for twenty pounds. Mr. Crawley had
answered this letter by another, saying that no pocket-book had been
found in his house. All this had happened in March.

In October, Mrs. Crawley paid the twenty pounds to Fletcher, the
butcher, and in November Lord Lufton's cheque was traced back through
the Barchester bank to Mr. Crawley's hands. A brickmaker of Hoggle
End, much favoured by Mr. Crawley, had asked for change over the
counter of this Barchester bank,--not, as will be understood,
the bank on which the cheque was drawn--and had received it. The
accommodation had been refused to the man at first, but when he
presented the cheque the second day, bearing Mr. Crawley's name on
the back of it, together with a note from Mr. Crawley himself, the
money had been given for it; and the identical notes so paid had been
given to Fletcher, the butcher, on the next day by Mrs. Crawley. When
inquiry was made, Mr. Crawley stated that the cheque had been paid
to him by Mr. Soames, on behalf of the rentcharge due to him by Lord
Lufton. But the error of this statement was at once made manifest.
There was the cheque, signed by Mr. Soames himself, for the exact
amount,--twenty pounds four shillings. As he himself declared, he had
never in his life paid money on behalf of Lord Lufton by a cheque
drawn by his lordship. The cheque given by Lord Lufton, and which had
been lost, had been a private matter between them. His lordship had
simply wanted change in his pocket, and his agent had given it to
him. Mr. Crawley was speedily shown to be altogether wrong in the
statement made to account for possession of the cheque.

Then he became very moody and would say nothing further. But his
wife, who had known nothing of his first statement when made, came
forward and declared that she believed the cheque for twenty pounds
to be a part of a present given by Dean Arabin to her husband in
April last. There had been, she said, great heartburnings about
this gift, and she had hardly dared to speak to her husband on the
subject. An execution had been threatened in the house by Grobury,
the baker, of which the dean had heard. Then there had been some
scenes at the deanery between her husband and the dean and Mrs.
Arabin, as to which she had subsequently heard much from Mrs. Arabin.
Mrs. Arabin had told her that money had been given,--and at last
taken. Indeed, so much had been very apparent, as bills had been paid
to the amount of at least fifty pounds. When the threat made by the
butcher had reached her husband's ears, the effect upon him had been
very grievous. All this was the story told by Mrs. Crawley to Mr.
Walker, the lawyer, when he was pushing his inquiries. She, poor
woman, at any rate told all that she knew. Her husband had told her
one morning, when the butcher's threat was weighing heavily on his
mind, speaking to her in such a humour that she found it impossible
to cross-question him, that he had still money left, though it was
money which he had hoped that he would not be driven to use; and he
had given her the four five-pound notes, and had told her to go to
Silverbridge and satisfy the man who was so eager for his money. She
had done so, and had felt no doubt that the money so forthcoming had
been given by the dean. That was the story as told by Mrs. Crawley.

But how could she explain her husband's statement as to the cheque,
which had been shown to be altogether false? All this passed between
Mr. Walker and Mrs. Crawley, and the lawyer was very gentle with her.
In the first stages of the inquiry he had simply desired to learn the
truth, and place the clergyman above suspicion. Latterly, being bound
as he was to follow the matter up officially, he would not have seen
Mrs. Crawley, had he been able to escape that lady's importunity.
"Mr. Walker," she had said, at last, "you do not know my husband.
No one knows him but I. It is hard to have to tell you of all our
troubles." "If I can lessen them, trust me that I will do so," said
the lawyer. "No one, I think, can lessen them in this world," said
the lady. "The truth is, sir, that my husband often knows not what
he says. When he declared that the money had been paid to him by Mr.
Soames, most certainly he thought so. There are times when in his
misery he knows not what he says,--when he forgets everything."

Up to this period Mr. Walker had not suspected Mr. Crawley of
anything dishonest, nor did he suspect him as yet. The poor man had
probably received the money from the dean, and had told the lie about
it, not choosing to own that he had taken money from his rich friend,
and thinking that there would be no further inquiry. He had been very
foolish, and that would be the end of it. Mr. Soames was by no means
so good-natured in his belief. "How should my pocket-book have got
into Dean Arabin's hands?" said Mr. Soames, almost triumphantly. "And
then I felt sure at the time that I had left it at Crawley's house!"

Mr. Walker wrote a letter to the dean, who at that moment was in
Florence, on his way to Rome, from whence he was going on to the Holy
Land. There came back a letter from Mr. Arabin, saying that on the
17th of March he had given to Mr. Crawley a sum of fifty pounds, and
that the payment had been made with five Bank of England notes of
ten pounds each, which had been handed by him to his friend in the
library at the deanery. The letter was very short, and may, perhaps,
be described as having been almost curt. Mr. Walker, in his anxiety
to do the best he could for Mr. Crawley, had simply asked a question
as to the nature of the transaction between the two gentlemen, saying
that no doubt the dean's answer would clear up a little mystery which
existed at present respecting a cheque for twenty pounds. The dean
in answer simply stated the fact as it has been given above; but
he wrote to Mr. Crawley begging to know what was in truth this new
difficulty, and offering any assistance in his power. He explained
all the circumstances of the money, as he remembered them. The sum
advanced had certainly consisted of fifty pounds, and there had
certainly been five Bank of England notes. He had put the notes
into an envelope, which he had not closed, but had addressed to Mr.
Crawley, and had placed this envelope in his friend's hands. He went
on to say that Mrs. Arabin would have written, but that she was in
Paris with her son. Mrs. Arabin was to remain in Paris during his
absence in the Holy Land, and meet him in Italy on his return. As
she was so much nearer at hand, the dean expressed a hope that Mrs.
Crawley would apply to her if there was any trouble.

The letter to Mr. Walker was conclusive as to the dean's money. Mr.
Crawley had not received Lord Lufton's cheque from the dean. Then
whence had he received it? The poor wife was left by the lawyer to
obtain further information from her husband. Ah, who can tell how
terrible were the scenes between that poor pair of wretches, as the
wife endeavoured to learn the truth from her miserable, half-maddened
husband! That her husband had been honest throughout, she had not
any shadow of doubt. She did not doubt that to her at least he
endeavoured to tell the truth, as far as his poor racked imperfect
memory would allow him to remember what was true and what was not
true. The upshot of it all was that the husband declared that he
still believed that the money had come to him from the dean. He had
kept it by him, not wishing to use it if he could help it. He had
forgotten it,--so he said at times,--having understood from Arabin
that he was to have fifty pounds, and having received more. If it had
not come to him from the dean, then it had been sent to him by the
Prince of Evil for his utter undoing; and there were times in which
he seemed to think that such had been the manner in which the fatal
cheque had reached him. In all that he said he was terribly confused,
contradictory, unintelligible,--speaking almost as a madman might
speak,--ending always by declaring that the cruelty of the world had
been too much for him, that the waters were meeting over his head,
and praying for God's mercy to remove him from the world. It need
hardly be said that his poor wife in these days had a burden on her
shoulders that was more than enough to crush any woman.

She at last acknowledged to Mr. Walker that she could not account
for the twenty pounds. She herself would write again to the dean
about it, but she hardly hoped for any further assistance there. "The
dean's answer is very plain," said Mr. Walker. "He says that he gave
Mr. Crawley five ten-pound notes, and those five notes we have traced
to Mr. Crawley's hands." Then Mrs. Crawley could say nothing further
beyond making protestations of her husband's innocence.




CHAPTER II.

BY HEAVENS HE HAD BETTER NOT!


I must ask the reader to make the acquaintance of Major Grantly of
Cosby Lodge, before he is introduced to the family of Mr. Crawley, at
their parsonage in Hogglestock. It has been said that Major Grantly
had thrown a favourable eye on Grace Crawley,--by which report
occasion was given to all men and women in those parts to hint that
the Crawleys, with all their piety and humility, were very cunning,
and that one of the Grantlys was,--to say the least of it,--very
soft, admitted as it was throughout the county of Barsetshire,
that there was no family therein more widely awake to the affairs
generally of this world and the next combined, than the family of
which Archdeacon Grantly was the respected head and patriarch. Mrs.
Walker, the most good-natured woman in Silverbridge, had acknowledged
to her daughter that she could not understand it,--that she could not
see anything at all in Grace Crawley. Mr. Walker had shrugged his
shoulders and expressed a confident belief that Major Grantly had
not a shilling of his own beyond his half-pay and his late wife's
fortune, which was only six thousand pounds. Others, who were
ill-natured, had declared that Grace Crawley was little better than a
beggar, and that she could not possibly have acquired the manners of
a gentlewoman. Fletcher the butcher had wondered whether the major
would pay his future father-in-law's debts; and Dr. Tempest, the
old rector of Silverbridge, whose four daughters were all as yet
unmarried, had turned up his old nose, and had hinted that half-pay
majors did not get caught in marriage so easily as that.

Such and such like had been the expressions of the opinion of
men and women in Silverbridge. But the matter had been discussed
further afield than at Silverbridge, and had been allowed to intrude
itself as a most unwelcome subject into the family conclave of the
archdeacon's rectory. To those who have not as yet learned the fact
from the public character and well-appreciated reputation of the
man, let it be known that Archdeacon Grantly was at this time, as
he had been for many years previously, Archdeacon of Barchester and
Rector of Plumstead Episcopi. A rich and prosperous man he had ever
been,--though he also had had his sore troubles, as we all have,--his
having arisen chiefly from want of that higher ecclesiastical
promotion which his soul had coveted, and for which the whole tenour
of his life had especially fitted him. Now, in his green old age, he
had ceased to covet, but had not ceased to repine. He had ceased to
covet aught for himself, but still coveted much for his children; and
for him such a marriage as this which was now suggested for his son
was encompassed almost with the bitterness of death. "I think it
would kill me," he had said to his wife; "by heavens, I think it
would be my death!"

A daughter of the archdeacon had made a splendid matrimonial
alliance,--so splendid that its history was at the time known to all
the aristocracy of the county, and had not been altogether forgotten
by any of those who keep themselves well instructed in the details of
the peerage. Griselda Grantly had married Lord Dumbello, the eldest
son of the Marquis of Hartletop,--than whom no English nobleman was
more puissant, if broad acres, many castles, high title, and stars
and ribbons are any signs of puissance,--and she was now, herself,
Marchioness of Hartletop, with a little Lord Dumbello of her own. The
daughter's visits to the parsonage of her father were of necessity
rare, such necessity having come from her own altered sphere of life.
A Marchioness of Hartletop has special duties which will hardly
permit her to devote herself frequently to the humdrum society of a
clerical father and mother. That it would be so, father and mother
had understood when they sent the fortunate girl forth to a higher
world. But, now and again, since her August marriage, she had laid
her coroneted head upon one of the old rectory pillows for a night
or so, and on such occasions all the Plumsteadians had been loud in
praise of her condescension. Now it happened that when this second
and more aggravated blast of the evil wind reached the rectory,--the
renewed waft of the tidings as to Major Grantly's infatuation
regarding Miss Grace Crawley, which, on its renewal, seemed to bring
with it something of confirmation,--it chanced, I say, that at that
moment Griselda, Marchioness of Hartletop, was gracing the paternal
mansion. It need hardly be said that the father was not slow to
invoke such a daughter's counsel, and such a sister's aid.

I am not quite sure that the mother would have been equally quick to
ask her daughter's advice, had she been left in the matter entirely
to her own propensities. Mrs. Grantly had ever loved her daughter
dearly, and had been very proud of that great success in life which
Griselda had achieved; but in late years, the child had become,
as a woman, separate from the mother, and there had arisen, not
unnaturally, a break of that close confidence which in early years
had existed between them. Griselda, Marchioness of Hartletop,
was more than ever a daughter to the archdeacon, even though he
might never see her. Nothing could rob him of the honour of such a
progeny,--nothing, even though there had been actual estrangement
between them. But it was not so with Mrs. Grantly. Griselda had
done very well, and Mrs. Grantly had rejoiced; but she had lost her
child. Now the major, who had done well also, though in a much lesser
degree, was still her child, moving in the same sphere of life with
her, still dependent in a great degree upon his father's bounty, a
neighbour in the county, a frequent visitor at the parsonage, and
a visitor who could be received without any of that trouble which
attended the unfrequent comings of Griselda, the marchioness, to the
home of her youth. And for this reason Mrs. Grantly, terribly put out
as she was at the idea of a marriage between her son and one standing
so poorly in the world's esteem as Grace Crawley, would not have
brought forward the matter before her daughter, had she been left
to her own desires. A marchioness in one's family is a tower of
strength, no doubt; but there are counsellors so strong that we
do not wish to trust them, lest in the trusting we ourselves be
overwhelmed by their strength. Now Mrs. Grantly was by no means
willing to throw her influence into the hands of her titled daughter.

But the titled daughter was consulted and gave her advice. On the
occasion of the present visit to Plumstead she had consented to lay
her head for two nights on the parsonage pillows, and on the second
evening her brother the major was to come over from Cosby Lodge
to meet her. Before his coming the affair of Grace Crawley was
discussed.

"It would break my heart, Griselda," said the archdeacon,
piteously--"and your mother's."

"There is nothing against the girl's character," said Mrs. Grantly,
"and the father and mother are gentlefolks by birth; but such a
marriage for Henry would be very unseemly."

"To make it worse, there is this terrible story about him," said the
archdeacon.

"I don't suppose there is much in that," said Mrs. Grantly.

"I can't say. There is no knowing. They told me to-day in Barchester
that Soames is pressing the case against him."

"Who is Soames, papa?" asked the marchioness.

"He is Lord Lufton's man of business, my dear."

"Oh, Lord Lufton's man of business!" There was something of a sneer
in the tone of the lady's voice as she mentioned Lord Lufton's name.

"I am told," continued the archdeacon, "that Soames declares the
cheque was taken from a pocket-book which he left by accident in
Crawley's house."

"You don't mean to say, archdeacon, that you think that Mr.
Crawley--a clergyman--stole it!" said Mrs. Grantly.

"I don't say anything of the kind, my dear. But supposing Mr. Crawley
to be as honest as the sun, you wouldn't wish Henry to marry his
daughter."

"Certainly not," said the mother. "It would be an unfitting marriage.
The poor girl has had no advantages."

"He is not able even to pay his baker's bill. I always thought Arabin
was very wrong to place such a man in such a parish as Hogglestock.
Of course the family could not live there." The Arabin here spoken of
was Dr. Arabin, dean of Barchester. The dean and the archdeacon had
married sisters, and there was much intimacy between the families.

"After all it is only a rumour as yet," said Mrs. Grantly.

"Fothergill told me only yesterday, that he sees her almost every
day," said the father. "What are we to do, Griselda? You know how
headstrong Henry is." The marchioness sat quite still, looking at the
fire, and made no immediate answer to this address.

"There is nothing for it, but that you should tell him what you
think," said the mother.

"If his sister were to speak to him, it might do much," said the
archdeacon. To this Mrs. Grantly said nothing; but Mrs. Grantly's
daughter understood very well that her mother's confidence in her was
not equal to her father's. Lady Hartletop said nothing, but still
sat, with impassive face, and eyes fixed upon the fire. "I think
that if you were to speak to him, Griselda, and tell him that he
would disgrace his family, he would be ashamed to go on with such a
marriage," said the father. "He would feel, connected as he is with
Lord Hartletop--"

"I don't think he would feel anything about that," said Mrs. Grantly.

"I dare say not," said Lady Hartletop.

"I am sure he ought to feel it," said the father. They were all
silent, and sat looking at the fire.

"I suppose, papa, you allow Henry an income," said Lady Hartletop,
after a while.

"Indeed I do,--eight hundred a year."

"Then I think I should tell him that that must depend upon his
conduct. Mamma, if you won't mind ringing the bell, I will send
for Cecile, and go upstairs and dress." Then the marchioness went
upstairs to dress, and in about an hour the major arrived in his
dog-cart. He also was allowed to go upstairs to dress before anything
was said to him about his great offence.

"Griselda is right," said the archdeacon, speaking to his wife out of
his dressing-room. "She always was right. I never knew a young woman
with more sense than Griselda."

"But you do not mean to say that in any event you would stop Henry's
income?" Mrs. Grantly also was dressing, and made reply out of her
bedroom.

"Upon my word, I don't know. As a father I would do anything to
prevent such a marriage as that."

"But if he did marry her in spite of the threat? And he would if he
had once said so."

"Is a father's word, then, to go for nothing; and a father who allows
his son eight hundred a year? If he told the girl that he would be
ruined she couldn't hold him to it."

"My dear, they'd know as well as I do, that you would give way after
three months."

"But why should I give way? Good heavens--!"

"Of course you'd give way, and of course we should have the young
woman here, and of course we should make the best of it."

The idea of having Grace Crawley as a daughter at the Plumstead
Rectory was too much for the archdeacon, and he resented it by
additional vehemence in the tone of his voice, and a nearer personal
approach to the wife of his bosom. All unaccoutred as he was, he
stood in the doorway between the two rooms, and thence fulminated
at his wife his assurances that he would never allow himself to be
immersed in such a depth of humility as that she had suggested. "I
can tell you this, then, that if ever she comes here, I shall take
care to be away. I will never receive her here. You can do as you
please."

"That is just what I cannot do. If I could do as I pleased, I would
put a stop to it at once."

"It seems to me that you want to encourage him. A child about sixteen
years of age!"

"I am told she is nineteen."

"What does it matter if she was fifty-nine? Think of what her
bringing up has been. Think what it would be to have all the Crawleys
in our house for ever, and all their debts, and all their disgrace!"

"I do not know that they have ever been disgraced."

"You'll see. The whole county has heard of the affair of this twenty
pounds. Look at that dear girl upstairs, who has been such a comfort
to us. Do you think it would be fit that she and her husband should
meet such a one as Grace Crawley at our table?"

"I don't think it would do them a bit of harm," said Mrs. Grantly.
"But there would be no chance of that, seeing that Griselda's husband
never comes to us."

"He was here the year before last."

"And I never was so tired of a man in all my life."

"Then you prefer the Crawleys, I suppose. This is what you get from
Eleanor's teaching." Eleanor was the dean's wife, and Mrs. Grantly's
younger sister. "It has always been a sorrow to me that I ever
brought Arabin into the diocese."

"I never asked you to bring him, archdeacon. But nobody was so glad
as you when he proposed to Eleanor."

"Well, the long and the short of it is this, I shall tell Henry
to-night that if he makes a fool of himself with this girl, he must
not look to me any longer for an income. He has about six hundred
a year of his own, and if he chooses to throw himself away, he had
better go and live in the south of France, or in Canada, or where he
pleases. He shan't come here."

"I hope he won't marry the girl, with all my heart," said Mrs.
Grantly.

"He had better not. By heavens, he had better not!"

"But if he does, you'll be the first to forgive him."

On hearing this the archdeacon slammed the door, and retired to his
washing apparatus. At the present moment he was very angry with his
wife, but then he was so accustomed to such anger, and was so well
aware that it in truth meant nothing, that it did not make him
unhappy. The archdeacon and Mrs. Grantly had now been man and
wife for more than a quarter of a century, and had never in truth
quarrelled. He had the most profound respect for her judgment, and
the most implicit reliance on her conduct. She had never yet offended
him, or caused him to repent the hour in which he had made her Mrs.
Grantly. But she had come to understand that she might use a woman's
privilege with her tongue; and she used it,--not altogether to his
comfort. On the present occasion he was the more annoyed because he
felt that she might be right. "It would be a positive disgrace, and
I never would see him again," he said to himself. And yet as he said
it, he knew that he would not have the strength of character to carry
him through a prolonged quarrel with his son. "I never would see
her,--never, never!" he said to himself. "And then such an opening as
he might have at his sister's house."

Major Grantly had been a successful man in life,--with the one
exception of having lost the mother of his child within a twelvemonth
of his marriage and within a few hours of that child's birth. He had
served in India as a very young man, and had been decorated with the
Victoria Cross. Then he had married a lady with some money, and had
left the active service of the army, with the concurring advice of
his own family and that of his wife. He had taken a small place in
his father's county, but the wife for whose comfort he had taken it
had died before she was permitted to see it. Nevertheless he had gone
to reside there, hunting a good deal and farming a little, making
himself popular in the district, and keeping up the good name of
Grantly in a successful way, till--alas,--it had seemed good to him
to throw those favouring eyes on poor Grace Crawley. His wife had
now been dead just two years, and as he was still under thirty,
no one could deny it would be right that he should marry again.
No one did deny it. His father had hinted that he ought to do so,
and had generously whispered that if some little increase to the
major's present income were needed, he might possibly be able to do
something. "What is the good of keeping it?" the archdeacon had said
in liberal after-dinner warmth; "I only want it for your brother and
yourself." The brother was a clergyman.

And the major's mother had strongly advised him to marry again
without loss of time. "My dear Henry," she had said, "you'll never be
younger, and youth does go for something. As for dear little Edith,
being a girl, she is almost no impediment. Do you know those two
girls at Chaldicotes?"

"What, Mrs. Thorne's nieces?"

"No; they are not her nieces but her cousins. Emily Dunstable is very
handsome;--and as for money--!"

"But what about birth, mother?"

"One can't have everything, my dear."

"As far as I am concerned, I should like to have everything or
nothing," the major had said laughing. Now for him to think of Grace
Crawley after that,--of Grace Crawley who had no money, and no
particular birth, and not even beauty itself,--so at least Mrs.
Grantly said,--who had not even enjoyed the ordinary education of
a lady, was too bad. Nothing had been wanting to Emily Dunstable's
education, and it was calculated that she would have at least twenty
thousand pounds on the day of her marriage.

The disappointment to the mother would be the more sore because
she had gone to work upon her little scheme with reference to Miss
Emily Dunstable, and had at first, as she thought, seen her way to
success,--to success in spite of the disparaging words which her
son had spoken to her. Mrs. Thorne's house at Chaldicotes,--or Dr.
Thorne's house as it should, perhaps, be more properly called, for
Dr. Thorne was the husband of Mrs. Thorne,--was in these days the
pleasantest house in Barsetshire. No one saw so much company as the
Thornes, or spent so much money in so pleasant a way. The great
county families, the Pallisers and the De Courcys, the Luftons
and the Greshams, were no doubt grander, and some of them were
perhaps richer than the Chaldicote Thornes,--as they were called to
distinguish them from the Thornes of Ullathorne; but none of these
people were so pleasant in their ways, so free in their hospitality,
or so easy in their modes of living, as the doctor and his wife.
When first Chaldicotes, a very old country seat, had by the chances
of war fallen into their hands and been newly furnished, and newly
decorated, and newly gardened, and newly greenhoused and hot-watered
by them, many of the county people had turned up their noses at
them. Dear old Lady Lufton had done so, and had been greatly
grieved,--saying nothing, however, of her grief, when her son and
daughter-in-law had broken away from her, and submitted themselves to
the blandishments of the doctor's wife. And the Grantlys had stood
aloof, partly influenced, no doubt, by their dear and intimate old
friend Miss Monica Thorne of Ullathorne, a lady of the very old
school, who, though good as gold and kind as charity, could not
endure that an interloping Mrs. Thorne, who never had a grandfather,
should come to honour and glory in the county, simply because of her
riches. Miss Monica Thorne stood out, but Mrs. Grantly gave way, and
having once given way found that Dr. Thorne, and Mrs. Thorne, and
Emily Dunstable, and Chaldicote House together, were very charming.
And the major had been once there with her, and had made himself
very pleasant, and there had certainly been some little passage
of incipient love between him and Miss Dunstable, as to which Mrs.
Thorne, who managed everything, seemed to be well pleased. This had
been after the first mention made by Mrs. Grantly to her son of Emily
Dunstable's name, but before she had heard any faintest whispers of
his fancy for Grace Crawley; and she had therefore been justified
in hoping,--almost in expecting, that Emily Dunstable would be her
daughter-in-law, and was therefore the more aggrieved when this
terrible Crawley peril first opened itself before her eyes.




CHAPTER III.

THE ARCHDEACON'S THREAT.


The dinner-party at the rectory comprised none but the Grantly
family. The marchioness had written to say that she preferred to have
it so. The father had suggested that the Thornes of Ullathorne, very
old friends, might be asked, and the Greshams from Boxall Hill, and
had even promised to endeavour to get old Lady Lufton over to the
rectory, Lady Lufton having in former years been Griselda's warm
friend. But Lady Hartletop had preferred to see her dear father
and mother in privacy. Her brother Henry she would be glad to meet,
and hoped to make some arrangement with him for a short visit to
Hartlebury, her husband's place in Shropshire,--as to which latter
hint, it may, however, be at once said, that nothing further was
spoken after the Crawley alliance had been suggested. And there had
been a very sore point mooted by the daughter in a request made
by her to her father that she might not be called upon to meet
her grandfather, her mother's father, Mr. Harding, a clergyman of
Barchester, who was now stricken in years.--"Papa would not have
come," said Mrs. Grantly, "but I think,--I do think--" Then she
stopped herself.

"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-by, 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 into 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 either 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 mean to 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 said never 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.


[Illustration]

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 itself 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 fire-place. 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 his 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 paterfamilias. 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 Cæsar'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 it 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 their 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 there let them take me as they
would another. I shall be here for them,--unless I am dead."

At this moment Jane reappeared, 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 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 this 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
villany 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 the 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.

"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, 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
there 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 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 well nigh 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 Hall. 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 of 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 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 to 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 connection? 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
pound-cake and sweet-meats. 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 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 in London 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, than 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.

   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 be
   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 sympathize 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 at 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 use of 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 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.

"Your mother has your sister with her."

"Yes, Miss Prettyman; Jane is there."

"If there be 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 down 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?"

[Illustration: "I love you as though you were my own," said the
Schoolmistress.]

"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 this 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 having 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 at 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 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.


[Illustration]

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 every 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 apologize for not doing this magnificent thing. His
mind was quite made up. Nevertheless he built those 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?"

"I'll tell him. We need not make more fuss than necessary, with the
servants, you know. I suppose I'd better not come back with him?"

There was a tone of supplication in the younger sister's voice as she
made the last suggestion, which ought to have melted the heart of the
elder; but it was unavailing. "As he has asked to see me, I think you
had better not," said Annabella. Miss Anne Prettyman bore her cross
meekly, offered no argument on the subject, and returning to the
little parlour where she had left the major, brought him upstairs and
ushered him into her sister's room without even entering it again,
herself.

Major Grantly was as intimately acquainted with Miss Anne Prettyman
as a man under thirty may well be with a lady nearer fifty than
forty, who is not specially connected with him by any family tie; but
of Miss Prettyman he knew personally very much less. Miss Prettyman,
as has before been said, did not go out, and was therefore not common
to the eyes of the Silverbridgians. She did occasionally see her
friends in her own house, and Grace Crawley's lover, as the major had
come to be called, had been there on more than one occasion; but of
real personal intimacy between them there had hitherto existed none.
He might have spoken, perhaps, a dozen words to her in his life. He
had now more than a dozen to speak to her, but he hardly knew how to
commence them.

She had got up and curtseyed, and had then taken his hand and asked
him to sit down. "My sister tells me that you want to see me," she
said, in her softest, mildest voice.

"I do, Miss Prettyman. I want to speak to you about a matter that
troubles me very much,--very much indeed."

"Anything that I can do, Major Grantly--"

"Thank you, yes. I know that you are very good, or I should not have
ventured to come to you. Indeed I shouldn't trouble you now, of
course, if it was only about myself. I know very well what a great
friend you are to Miss Crawley."

"Yes, I am. We love Grace dearly here."

"So do I," said the major, bluntly; "I love her dearly, too." Then he
paused, as though he thought that Miss Prettyman ought to take up the
speech. But Miss Prettyman seemed to think differently, and he was
obliged to go on. "I don't know whether you have ever heard about it,
or noticed it, or--or--or--" He felt that he was very awkward, and he
blushed. Major as he was, he blushed as he sat before the old woman,
trying to tell his story, but not knowing how to tell it. "The truth
is, Miss Prettyman, I have done all but ask her to be my wife, and
now has come this terrible affair about her father."

"It is a terrible affair, Major Grantly; very terrible."

"By Jove, you may say that!"

"Of course Mr. Crawley is as innocent in the matter as you or I are."

"You think so, Miss Prettyman?"

"Think so! I feel quite sure of it. What; a clergyman of the Church
of England, a pious, hard-working country clergyman, whom we have
known among us by his good works for years, suddenly turn thief,
and pilfer a few pounds! It is not possible, Major Grantly. And the
father of such a daughter, too! It is not possible. It may do for
men of business to think so, lawyers and such like, who are obliged
to think in accordance with the evidence, as they call it; but to
my mind the idea is monstrous. I don't know how he got it, and I
don't care; but I'm quite sure he did not steal it. Whoever heard of
anybody becoming so base as that all at once?"

The major was startled by her eloquence, and by the indignant tone of
voice in which it was expressed. It seemed to tell him that she would
give him no sympathy in that which he had come to say to her, and to
upbraid him already in that he was not prepared to do the magnificent
thing of which he had thought when he had been building his castles
in the air. Why should he not do the magnificent thing? Miss
Prettyman's eloquence was so strong that it half convinced him that
the Barchester Club and Mr. Walker had come to a wrong conclusion
after all.

"And how does Miss Crawley bear it?" he asked, desirous of postponing
for a while any declaration of his own purpose.

"She is very unhappy, of course. Not that she thinks evil of her
father."

"Of course she does not think him guilty."

"Nobody thinks him so in this house, Major Grantly," said the little
woman, very imperiously. "But Grace is, naturally enough, very
sad;--very sad indeed. I do not think I can ask you to see her
to-day."

"I was not thinking of it," said the major.

"Poor, dear girl! it is a great trial for her. Do you wish me to give
her any message, Major Grantly?"

The moment had now come in which he must say that which he had come
to say. The little woman waited for an answer, and as he was there,
within her power as it were, he must speak. I fear that what he said
will not be approved by any strong-minded reader. I fear that our
lover will henceforth be considered by such a one as being but a
weak, wishy-washy man, who had hardly any mind of his own to speak
of;--that he was a man of no account, as the poor people say. "Miss
Prettyman, what message ought I to send to her?" he said.

"Nay, Major Grantly, how can I tell you that? How can I put words
into your mouth?"

"It isn't the words," he said; "but the feelings."

"And how can I tell the feelings of your heart?"

"Oh, as for that, I know what my feelings are. I do love her with all
my heart;--I do, indeed. A fortnight ago I was only thinking whether
she would accept me when I asked her,--wondering whether I was too
old for her, and whether she would mind having Edith to take care
of."

"She is very fond of Edith,--very fond indeed."

"Is she?" said the major, more distracted than ever. Why should he
not do the magnificent thing after all? "But it is a great charge for
a young girl when she marries."

"It is a great charge;--a very great charge. It is for you to think
whether you should entrust so great a charge to one so young."

"I have no fear about that at all."

"Nor should I have any,--as you ask me. We have known Grace well,
thoroughly, and are quite sure that she will do her duty in that
state of life to which it may please God to call her."

The major was aware when this was said to him that he had not come
to Miss Prettyman for a character of the girl he loved; and yet
he was not angry at receiving it. He was neither angry, nor even
indifferent. He accepted the character almost gratefully, though
he felt that he was being led away from his purpose. He consoled
himself for this, however, by remembering that the path by which Miss
Prettyman was now leading him, led to the magnificent, and to those
pleasant castles in the air which he had been building as he walked
into Silverbridge. "I am quite sure that she is all that you say," he
replied. "Indeed I had made up my mind about that long ago."

"And what can I do for you, Major Grantly?"

"You think I ought not to see her?"

"I will ask herself, if you please. I have such trust in her judgment
that I should leave her altogether to her own discretion."

The magnificent thing must be done, and the major made up his mind
accordingly. Something of regret came over his spirit as he thought
of a father-in-law disgraced and degraded, and of his own father
broken-hearted. But now there was hardly an alternative left to him.
And was it not the manly thing for him to do? He had loved the girl
before this trouble had come upon her, and was he not bound to accept
the burden which his love had brought with it? "I will see her," he
said, "at once, if you will let me, and ask her to be my wife. But I
must see her alone."

Then Miss Prettyman paused. Hitherto she had undoubtedly been playing
her fish cautiously, or rather her young friend's fish,--perhaps I
may say cunningly. She had descended to artifice on behalf of the
girl whom she loved, admired, and pitied. She had seen some way into
the man's mind, and had been partly aware of his purpose,--of his
infirmity of purpose, of his double purpose. She had perceived that a
word from her might help Grace's chance, and had led the man on till
he had committed himself, at any rate to her. In doing this she had
been actuated by friendship rather than by abstract principle. But
now, when the moment had come in which she must decide upon some
action, she paused. Was it right, for the sake of either of them,
that an offer of marriage should be made at such a moment as this?
It might be very well, in regard to some future time, that the major
should have so committed himself. She saw something of the man's
spirit, and believed that, having gone so far,--having so far told
his love, he would return to his love hereafter, let the result of
the Crawley trial be what it might. But,--but, this could be no
proper time for love-making. Though Grace loved the man, as Miss
Prettyman knew well,--though Grace loved the child, having allowed
herself to long to call it her own, though such a marriage would be
the making of Grace's fortune as those who loved her could hardly
have hoped that it should ever have been made, she would certainly
refuse the man, if he were to propose to her now. She would refuse
him, and then the man would be free;--free to change his mind if he
thought fit. Considering all these things, craftily in the exercise
of her friendship, too cunningly, I fear, to satisfy the claims of a
high morality, she resolved that the major had better not see Miss
Crawley at the present moment. Miss Prettyman paused before she
replied, and, when she did speak, Major Grantly had risen from his
chair and was standing with his back to the fire. "Major Grantly,"
she said, "you shall see her if you please, and if she pleases; but I
doubt whether her answer at such a moment as this would be that which
you would wish to receive."

"You think she would refuse me?"

"I do not think that she would accept you now. She would feel,--I am
sure she would feel, that these hours of her father's sorrow are not
hours in which love should be either offered or accepted. You shall,
however, see her if you please."

The major allowed himself a moment for thought; and as he thought he
sighed. Grace Crawley became more beautiful in his eyes than ever,
was endowed by these words from Miss Prettyman with new charms and
brighter virtues than he had seen before. Let come what might he
would ask her to be his wife on some future day, if he did not so ask
her now. For the present, perhaps, he had better be guided by Miss
Prettyman. "Then I will not see her," he said.

"I think that will be the wiser course."

"Of course you knew before this that I--loved her?"

"I thought so, Major Grantly."

"And that I intended to ask her to be my wife?"

"Well; since you put the question to me so plainly, I must confess
that as Grace's friend I should not quite have let things go on as
they have gone,--though I am not at all disposed to interfere with
any girl whom I believe to be pure and good as I know her to be,--but
still I should hardly have been justified in letting things go as
they have gone, if I had not believed that such was your purpose."

"I wanted to set myself right with you, Miss Prettyman."

"You are right with me,--quite right;" and she got up and gave him
her hand. "You are a fine, noble-hearted gentleman, and I hope that
our Grace may live to be your happy wife, and the mother of your
darling child, and the mother of other children. I do not see how a
woman could have a happier lot in life."

"And will you give Grace my love?"

"I will tell her at any rate that you have been here, and that
you have inquired after her with the greatest kindness. She will
understand what that means without any word of love."

"Can I do anything for her,--or for her father; I mean in the way
of--money? I don't mind mentioning it to you, Miss Prettyman."

"I will tell her that you are ready to do it, if anything can be
done. For myself I feel no doubt that the mystery will be cleared up
at last; and then, if you will come here, we shall be so glad to see
you.--I shall, at least."

Then the major went, and Miss Prettyman herself actually descended
with him into the hall, and bade him farewell most affectionately
before her sister and two of the maids who came out to open the door.
Miss Anne Prettyman, when she saw the great friendship with which
the major was dismissed, could not contain herself, but asked most
impudent questions, in a whisper indeed, but in such a whisper that
any sharp-eared maid-servant could hear and understand them. "Is
it settled," she asked when her sister had ascended only the first
flight of stairs;--"has he popped?" The look with which the elder
sister punished and dismayed the younger, I would not have borne for
twenty pounds. She simply looked, and said nothing, but passed on.
When she had regained her room she rang the bell, and desired the
servant to ask Miss Crawley to be good enough to step to her. Poor
Miss Anne retired discomforted into the solitude of one of the lower
rooms, and sat for some minutes all alone, recovering from the shock
of her sister's anger. "At any rate, he hasn't popped," she said to
herself, as she made her way back to the school.

After that Miss Prettyman and Miss Crawley were closeted together for
about an hour. What passed between them need not be repeated here
word for word; but it may be understood that Miss Prettyman said no
more than she ought to have said, and that Grace understood all that
she ought to have understood.

"No man ever behaved with more considerate friendship, or more like a
gentleman," said Miss Prettyman.

"I am sure he is very good, and I am so glad he did not ask to see
me," said Grace. Then Grace went away, and Miss Prettyman sat awhile
in thought, considering what she had done, not without some stings of
conscience.

Major Grantly, as he walked home, was not altogether satisfied with
himself, though he gave himself credit for some diplomacy which I
do not think he deserved. He felt that Miss Prettyman and the world
in general, should the world in general ever hear anything about
it, would give him credit for having behaved well; and that he had
obtained this credit without committing himself to the necessity
of marrying the daughter of a thief, should things turn out badly
in regard to the father. But,--and this but robbed him of all the
pleasure which comes from real success,--but he had not treated Grace
Crawley with the perfect generosity which love owes, and he was in
some degree ashamed of himself. He felt, however, that he might
probably have Grace, should he choose to ask for her when this
trouble should have passed by. "And I will," he said to himself, as
he entered the gate of his own paddock, and saw his child in her
perambulator before the nurse. "And I will ask her, sooner or later,
let things go as they may." Then he took the perambulator under his
own charge for half-an-hour, to the satisfaction of the nurse, of the
child, and of himself.




CHAPTER VIII.

MR. CRAWLEY IS TAKEN TO SILVERBRIDGE.


It had become necessary on the Monday morning that Mrs. Crawley
should obtain from her husband an undertaking that he would present
himself before the magistrates at Silverbridge on the Thursday. She
had been made to understand that the magistrates were sinning against
the strict rule of the law in not issuing a warrant at once for Mr.
Crawley's apprehension; and that they were so sinning at the instance
of Mr. Walker,--at whose instance they would have committed almost
any sin practicable by a board of English magistrates, so great was
their faith in him; and she knew that she was bound to answer her
engagement. She had also another task to perform--that, namely,
of persuading him to employ an attorney for his defence; and she
was prepared with the name of an attorney, one Mr. Mason, also of
Silverbridge, who had been recommended to her by Mr. Walker. But when
she came to the performance of these two tasks on the Monday morning,
she found that she was unable to accomplish either of them. Mr.
Crawley first declared that he would have nothing to do with any
attorney. As to that he seemed to have made up his mind beforehand,
and she saw at once that she had no hope of shaking him. But when she
found that he was equally obstinate in the other matter, and that he
declared that he would not go before the magistrates unless he were
made to do so,--unless the policemen came and fetched him, then she
almost sank beneath the burden of her troubles, and for a while was
disposed to let things go as they would. How could she strive to bear
a load that was so manifestly too heavy for her shoulders?

On the Sunday the poor man had exerted himself to get through his
Sunday duties, and he had succeeded. He had succeeded so well that
his wife had thought that things might yet come right with him, that
he would remember, before it was too late, the true history of that
unhappy bit of paper, and that he was rising above that half madness
which for months past had afflicted him. On the Sunday evening, when
he was tired with his work, she thought it best to say nothing to him
about the magistrates and the business of Thursday. But on the Monday
morning she commenced her task, feeling that she owed it to Mr.
Walker to lose no more time. He was very decided in his manners and
made her understand that he would employ no lawyer on his own behalf.
"Why should I want a lawyer? I have done nothing wrong," he said.
Then she tried to make him understand that many who may have done
nothing wrong require a lawyer's aid. "And who is to pay him?" he
asked. To this she replied, unfortunately, that there would be no
need of thinking of that at once. "And I am to get further into
debt!" he said. "I am to put myself right before the world by
incurring debts which I know I can never pay? When it has been a
question of food for the children I have been weak, but I will not be
weak in such a matter as this. I will have no lawyer." She did not
regard this denial on his part as very material, though she would
fain have followed Mr. Walker's advice had she been able; but when,
later in the day, he declared that the police should fetch him, then
her spirit gave way. Early in the morning he had seemed to assent to
the expediency of going into Silverbridge on the Thursday, and it was
not till after he had worked himself into a rage about the proposed
attorney, that he utterly refused to make the journey. During the
whole day, however, his state was such as almost to break his wife's
heart. He would do nothing. He would not go to the school, nor even
stir beyond the house-door. He would not open a book. He would not
eat, nor would he even sit at table or say the accustomed grace
when the scanty mid-day meal was placed upon the table. "Nothing is
blessed to me," he said, when his wife pressed him to say the words
for their child's sake. "Shall I say that I thank God when my heart
is thankless? Shall I serve my child by a lie?" Then for hours he
sat in the same position, in the old arm-chair, hanging over the
fire speechless, sleepless, thinking ever, as she well knew, of the
injustice of the world. She hardly dared to speak to him, so great
was the bitterness of his words when he was goaded to reply. At last,
late in the evening, feeling that it would be her duty to send in to
Mr. Walker early on the following morning, she laid her hand gently
on his shoulder and asked him for his promise. "I may tell Mr. Walker
that you will be there on Thursday?"

"No," he said, shouting at her. "No. I will have no such message
sent." She started back, trembling. Not that she was accustomed to
tremble at his ways, or to show that she feared him in his paroxysms,
but that his voice had been louder than she had before known it. "I
will hold no intercourse with them at Silverbridge in this matter. Do
you hear me, Mary?"

"I hear you, Josiah; but I must keep my word to Mr. Walker. I
promised that I would send to him."

"Tell him, then, that I will not stir a foot out of this house on
Thursday, of my own accord. On Thursday I shall be here; and here I
will remain all day,--unless they take me hence by force."

"But, Josiah--"

"Will you obey me, or I shall walk into Silverbridge myself and tell
the man that I will not come to him." Then he arose from his chair
and stretched forth his hand to his hat as though he were going forth
immediately, on his way to Silverbridge. The night was now pitch
dark, and the rain was falling, and abroad he would encounter all the
severity of the pitiless winter. Still it might have been better that
he should have gone. The exercise and the fresh air, even the wet and
the mud, would have served to bring back his mind to reason. But his
wife thought of the misery of the journey, of his scanty clothing, of
his worn boots, of the need there was to preserve the raiment which
he wore; and she remembered that he was fasting,--that he had eaten
nothing since the morning, and that he was not fit to be alone. She
stopped him, therefore, before he could reach the door.

"Your bidding shall be done," she said,--"of course."

"Tell them, then, that they must seek me here if they want me."

"But, Josiah, think of the parish,--of the people who respect
you,--for their sakes let it not be said that you were taken away by
policemen."

"Was St. Paul not bound in prison? Did he think of what the people
might see?"

"If it were necessary, I would encourage you to bear it without a
murmur."

"It is necessary, whether you murmur, or do not murmur. Murmur,
indeed! Why does not your voice ascend to heaven with one loud wail
against the cruelty of man?" Then he went forth from the room into an
empty chamber on the other side of the passage; and his wife, when
she followed him there after a few minutes, found him on his knees,
with his forehead against the floor, and with his hands clutching at
the scanty hairs of his head. Often before had she seen him so, on
the same spot, half grovelling, half prostrate in prayer, reviling
in his agony all things around him,--nay, nearly all things above
him,--and yet striving to reconcile himself to his Creator by the
humiliation of confession.

It might be better with him now, if only he could bring himself to
some softness of heart. Softly she closed the door, and placing the
candle on the mantel-shelf, softly she knelt beside him, and softly
touched his hand with hers. He did not stir nor utter a word, but
seemed to clutch at his thin locks more violently than before. Then
she kneeling there, aloud, but with low voice, with her thin hands
clasped, uttered a prayer in which she asked her God to remove from
her husband the bitterness of that hour. He listened till she had
finished, and then he rose slowly to his feet. "It is in vain," said
he. "It is all in vain. It is all in vain." Then he returned back to
the parlour, and seating himself again in the arm-chair, remained
there without speaking till past midnight. At last, when she told him
that she herself was very cold, and reminded him that for the last
hour there had been no fire, still speechless, he went up with her to
their bed.

Early on the following morning she contrived to let him know that she
was about to send a neighbour's son over with a note to Mr. Walker,
fearing to urge him further to change his mind; but hoping that he
might express his purpose of doing so when he heard that the letter
was to be sent; but he took no notice whatever of her words. At this
moment he was reading Greek with his daughter, or rather rebuking her
because she could not be induced to read Greek.

"Oh, papa," the poor girl said, "don't scold me now. I am so unhappy
because of all this."

"And am not I unhappy?" he said, as he closed the book. "My God,
what have I done against thee, that my lines should be cast in such
terrible places?"

The letter was sent to Mr. Walker. "He knows himself to be innocent,"
said the poor wife, writing what best excuse she knew how to make,
"and thinks that he should take no step himself in such a matter. He
will not employ a lawyer, and he says that he should prefer that he
should be sent for, if the law requires his presence at Silverbridge
on Thursday." All this she wrote, as though she felt that she ought
to employ a high tone in defending her husband's purpose; but she
broke down altogether in the few words of the postscript. "Indeed,
indeed I have done what I could!" Mr. Walker understood it all, both
the high tone and the subsequent fall.

On the Thursday morning, at about ten o'clock, a fly stopped at the
gate of the Hogglestock Parsonage, and out of it there came two
men. One was dressed in ordinary black clothes, and seemed from his
bearing to be a respectable man of the middle class of life. He
was, however, the superintendent of police for the Silverbridge
district. The other man was a policeman, pure and simple, with the
helmet-looking hat which has lately become common, and all the
ordinary half-military and wholly disagreeable outward adjuncts of
the profession. "Wilkins," said the superintendent, "likely enough I
shall want you, for they tell me the gent is uncommon strange. But if
I don't call you when I come out, just open the door like a servant,
and mount up on the box when we're in. And don't speak nor say
nothing." Then the senior policeman entered the house.

He found Mrs. Crawley sitting in the parlour with her bonnet and
shawl on, and Mr. Crawley in the arm-chair, leaning over the fire.
"I suppose we had better go with you," said Mrs. Crawley directly the
door was opened; for of course she had seen the arrival of the fly
from the window.

"The gentleman had better come with us if he'll be so kind," said
Thompson. "I've brought a close carriage for him."

"But I may go with him?" said the wife, with frightened voice. "I may
accompany my husband. He is not well, sir, and wants assistance."

Thompson thought about it for a moment before he spoke. There was
room in the fly for only two, or if for three, still he knew his
place better than to thrust himself inside together with his prisoner
and his prisoner's wife. He had been specially asked by Mr. Walker
to be very civil. Only one could sit on the box with the driver, and
if the request was conceded the poor policeman must walk back. The
walk, however, would not kill the policeman. "All right, ma'am," said
Thompson;--"that is, if the gentleman will just pass his word not to
get out till I ask him."

"He will not! He will not!" said Mrs. Crawley.

"I will pass my word for nothing," said Mr. Crawley.

Upon hearing this, Thompson assumed a very long face, and shook his
head as he turned his eyes first towards the husband and then towards
the wife, and shrugged his shoulders, and compressing his lips, blew
out his breath, as though in this way he might blow off some of the
mingled sorrow and indignation with which the gentleman's words
afflicted him.

Mrs. Crawley rose and came close to him. "You may take my word for
it, he will not stir. You may indeed. He thinks it incumbent on him
not to give any undertaking himself, because he feels himself to be
so harshly used."

"I don't know about harshness," said Thompson, brindling up. "A close
carriage brought, and--"

"I will walk. If I am made to go, I will walk," shouted Mr. Crawley.

"I did not allude to you,--or to Mr. Walker," said the poor wife.
"I know you have been most kind. I meant the harshness of the
circumstances. Of course he is innocent, and you must feel for him."

"Yes, I feel for him, and for you too, ma'am."

"That is all I meant. He knows his own innocence, and therefore he is
unwilling to give way in anything."

"Of course he knows hisself, that's certain. But he'd better come in
the carriage, if only because of the dirt and slush."

"He will go in the carriage; and I will go with him. There will be
room there for you, sir."

Thompson looked up at the rain, and told himself that it was very
cold. Then he remembered Mr. Walker's injunction, and bethought
himself that Mrs. Crawley, in spite of her poverty, was a lady. He
conceived even unconsciously the idea that something was due to her
because of her poverty. "I'll go with the driver," said he, "but
he'll only give hisself a deal of trouble if he attempts to get out."

"He won't; he won't," said Mrs. Crawley. "And I thank you with all my
heart."

"Come along, then," said Thompson.

She went up to her husband, hat in hand, and looking round to see
that she was not watched, put the hat on his head, and then lifted
him as it were from his chair. He did not refuse to be led, and
allowed her to throw round his shoulders the old cloak which was
hanging in the passage, and then he passed out, and was the first
to seat himself in the Silverbridge fly. His wife followed him, and
did not hear the blandishments with which Thompson instructed his
myrmidon to follow through the mud on foot. Slowly they made their
way through the lanes, and it was nearly twelve when the fly was
driven into the yard of the "George and Vulture" at Silverbridge.

Silverbridge, though it was blessed with a mayor and corporation,
and was blessed also with a Member of Parliament all to itself, was
not blessed with any court-house. The magistrates were therefore
compelled to sit in the big room at the "George and Vulture," in
which the county balls were celebrated, and the meeting of the West
Barsetshire freemasons was held. That part of the country was, no
doubt, very much ashamed of its backwardness in this respect, but
as yet nothing had been done to remedy the evil. Thompson and his
fly were therefore driven into the yard of the Inn, and Mr. and
Mrs. Crawley were ushered by him up into a little bed-chamber close
adjoining to the big room in which the magistrates were already
assembled. "There's a bit of fire here," said Thompson, "and you can
make yourselves a little warm." He himself was shivering with the
cold. "When the gents is ready in there, I'll just come and fetch
you."

"I may go in with him?" said Mrs. Crawley.

"I'll have a chair for you at the end of the table, just nigh to
him," said Thompson. "You can slip into it and say nothing to
nobody." Then he left them and went away to the magistrates.

Mr. Crawley had not spoken a word since he had entered the vehicle.
Nor had she said much to him, but had sat with him holding his hand
in hers. Now he spoke to her,--"Where is it that we are?" he asked.

"At Silverbridge, dearest."

"But what is this chamber? And why are we here?"

"We are to wait here till the magistrates are ready. They are in the
next room."

"But this is the Inn?"

"Yes, dear, it is the Inn."

"And I see crowds of people about." There were crowds of people
about. There had been men in the yard, and others standing about on
the stairs, and the public room was full of men who were curious to
see the clergyman who had stolen twenty pounds, and to hear what
would be the result of the case before the magistrates. He must be
committed; so, at least, said everybody; but then there would be the
question of bail. Would the magistrates let him out on bail, and who
would be the bailsmen? "Why are the people here?" said Mr. Crawley.

"I suppose it is the custom when the magistrates are sitting," said
his wife.

"They have come to see the degradation of a clergyman," said
he;--"and they will not be disappointed."

"Nothing can degrade but guilt," said his wife.

"Yes,--misfortune can degrade, and poverty. A man is degraded when
the cares of the world press so heavily upon him that he cannot rouse
himself. They have come to look at me as though I were a hunted
beast."

"It is but their custom always on such days."

"They have not always a clergyman before them as a criminal." Then he
was silent for a while, while she was chafing his cold hands. "Would
that I were dead, before they had brought me to this! Would that I
were dead!"

"Is it not right, dear, that we should all bear what He sends us?"

"Would that I were dead!" he repeated. "The load is too heavy for me
to bear, and I would that I were dead!"

The time seemed to be very long before Thompson returned and asked
them to accompany him into the big room. When he did so, Mr. Crawley
grasped hold of his chair as though he had resolved that he would not
go. But his wife whispered a word to him, and he obeyed her. "He will
follow me," she said to the policeman. And in that way they went from
the small room into the large one. Thompson went first; Mrs. Crawley
with her veil down came next; and the wretched man followed his wife,
with his eyes fixed upon the ground and his hands clasped together
upon his breast. He could at first have seen nothing, and could
hardly have known where he was when they placed him in a chair. She,
with a better courage, contrived to look round through her veil, and
saw that there was a long board or table covered with green cloth,
and that six or seven gentlemen were sitting at one end of it, while
there seemed to be a crowd standing along the sides and about the
room. Her husband was seated at the other end of the table, near
the corner, and round the corner,--so that she might be close to
him,--her chair had been placed. On the other side of him there was
another chair, now empty, intended for any professional gentleman
whom he might choose to employ.

There were five magistrates sitting there. Lord Lufton, from Framley,
was in the chair;--a handsome man, still young, who was very popular
in the county. The cheque which had been cashed had borne his
signature, and he had consequently expressed his intention of not
sitting at the board; but Mr. Walker, desirous of having him there,
had overruled him, showing him that the loss was not his loss. The
cheque, if stolen, had not been stolen from him. He was not the
prosecutor. "No, by Jove," said Lord Lufton, "if I could quash the
whole thing, I'd do it at once!"

"You can't do that, my lord, but you may help us at the board," said
Mr. Walker.

Then there was the Hon. George De Courcy, Lord De Courcy's brother,
from Castle Courcy. Lord De Courcy did not live in the county, but
his brother did so, and endeavoured to maintain the glory of the
family by the discretion of his conduct. He was not, perhaps, among
the wisest of men, but he did very well as a country magistrate,
holding his tongue, keeping his eyes open, and, on such occasions as
this, obeying Mr. Walker in all things. Dr. Tempest was also there,
the rector of the parish, he being both magistrate and clergyman.
There were many in Silverbridge who declared that Dr. Tempest would
have done far better to stay away when a brother clergyman was
thus to be brought before the bench; but it had been long since Dr.
Tempest had cared what was said about him in Silverbridge. He had
become so accustomed to the life he led as to like to be disliked,
and to be enamoured of unpopularity. So when Mr. Walker had ventured
to suggest to him that, perhaps, he might not choose to be there, he
had laughed Mr. Walker to scorn. "Of course I shall be there," he
said. "I am interested in the case,--very much interested. Of course
I shall be there." And had not Lord Lufton been present he would have
made himself more conspicuous by taking the chair. Mr. Fothergill was
the fourth. Mr. Fothergill was man of business to the Duke of Omnium,
who was the great owner of property in and about Silverbridge, and he
was the most active magistrate in that part of the county. He was a
sharp man, and not at all likely to have any predisposition in favour
of a clergyman. The fifth was Dr. Thorne, of Chaldicotes, a gentleman
whose name has been already mentioned in these pages. He had been
for many years a medical man practising in a little village in the
further end of the county; but it had come to be his fate, late in
life, to marry a great heiress, with whose money the ancient house
and domain of Chaldicotes had been purchased from the Sowerbys. Since
then Dr. Thorne had done his duty well as a country gentleman,--not,
however, without some little want of smoothness between him and the
duke's people.

Chaldicotes lay next to the duke's territory, and the duke had wished
to buy Chaldicotes. When Chaldicotes slipped through the duke's
fingers and went into the hands of Dr. Thorne,--or of Dr. Thorne's
wife,--the duke had been very angry with Mr. Fothergill. Hence it had
come to pass that there had not always been smoothness between the
duke's people and the Chaldicotes people. It was now rumoured that
Dr. Thorne intended to stand for the county on the next vacancy, and
that did not tend to make things smoother. On the right hand of Lord
Lufton sat Lord George and Mr. Fothergill, and beyond Mr. Fothergill
sat Mr. Walker, and beyond Mr. Walker sat Mr. Walker's clerk. On the
left hand of the chairman were Dr. Tempest and Dr. Thorne, and a
little lower down was Mr. Zachary Winthrop, who held the situation of
clerk to the magistrates. Many people in Silverbridge said that this
was all wrong, as Mr. Winthrop was partner with Mr. Walker, who was
always employed before the magistrates if there was any employment
going for an attorney. For this, however, Mr. Walker cared very
little. He had so much of his own way in Silverbridge, that he was
supposed to care nothing for anybody.

There were many other gentlemen in the room, and some who knew Mr.
Crawley with more or less intimacy. He, however, took notice of no
one, and when one friend, who had really known him well, came up
behind and spoke to him gently leaning over his chair, the poor man
hardly recognized his friend.

"I'm sure your husband won't forget me," said Mr. Robarts, the
clergyman of Framley, as he gave his hand to that lady across the
back of Mr. Crawley's chair.

"No, Mr. Robarts, he does not forget you. But you must excuse him if
at this moment he is not quite himself. It is a trying situation for
a clergyman."

"I can understand all that; but I'll tell you why I have come. I
suppose this inquiry will finish the whole affair, and clear up
whatever may be the difficulty. But should it not do so, it may be
just possible, Mrs. Crawley, that something may be said about bail. I
don't understand much about it, and I daresay you do not either; but
if there should be anything of that sort, let Mr. Crawley name me.
A brother clergyman will be best, and I'll have some other gentleman
with me." Then he left her, not waiting for any answer.

At the same time there was a conversation going on between Mr. Walker
and another attorney standing behind him, Mr. Mason. "I'll go to
him," said Walker, "and try to arrange it." So Mr. Walker seated
himself in the empty chair beside Mr. Crawley, and endeavoured to
explain to the wretched man, that he would do well to allow Mr. Mason
to assist him. Mr. Crawley seemed to listen to all that was said, and
then turned upon the speaker sharply: "I will have no one to assist
me," he said so loudly that every one in the room heard the words.
"I am innocent. Why should I want assistance? Nor have I money to
pay for it." Mr. Mason made a quick movement forward, intending to
explain that that consideration need offer no impediment, but was
stopped by further speech from Mr. Crawley. "I will have no one to
help me," said he, standing upright, and for the first time removing
his hat from his head. "Go on, and do what it is you have to do."
After that he did not sit down till the proceedings were nearly over,
though he was invited more than once by Lord Lufton to do so.

We need not go through all the evidence that was brought to bear upon
the question. It was proved that money for the cheque was paid to Mr.
Crawley's messenger, and that this money was given to Mr. Crawley.
When there occurred some little delay in the chain of evidence
necessary to show that Mr. Crawley had signed and sent the cheque and
got the money, he became impatient. "Why do you trouble the man?" he
said. "I had the cheque, and I sent him; I got the money. Has any
one denied it, that you should strive to drive a poor man like that
beyond his wits?" Then Mr. Soames and the manager of the bank showed
what inquiry had been made as soon as the cheque came back from the
London bank; how at first they had both thought that Mr. Crawley
could of course explain the matter, and how he had explained it by
a statement which was manifestly untrue. Then there was evidence to
prove that the cheque could not have been paid to him by Mr. Soames,
and as this was given, Mr. Crawley shook his head and again became
impatient. "I erred in that," he exclaimed. "Of course I erred. In my
haste I thought it was so, and in my haste I said so. I am not good
at reckoning money and remembering sums; but I saw that I had been
wrong when my error was shown to me, and I acknowledged at once that
I had been wrong."

Up to this point he had behaved not only with so much spirit, but
with so much reason, that his wife began to hope that the importance
of the occasion had brought back the clearness of his mind, and that
he would, even now, be able to place himself right as the inquiry
went on. Then it was explained that Mr. Crawley had stated that the
cheque had been given to him by Dean Arabin, as soon as it was shown
that it could not have been given to him by Mr. Soames. In reference
to this, Mr. Walker was obliged to explain that application had been
made to the dean, who was abroad, and that the dean had stated that
he had given fifty pounds to his friend. Mr. Walker explained also
that the very notes of which this fifty pounds had consisted had been
traced back to Mr. Crawley, and that they had had no connection with
the cheque or with the money which had been given for the cheque at
the bank.

Mr. Soames stated that he had lost the cheque with a pocket-book;
that he had certainly lost it on the day on which he had called on
Mr. Crawley at Hogglestock; and that he missed his pocket-book on his
journey back from Hogglestock to Barchester. At the moment of missing
it he remembered that he had taken the book out from his pocket in
Mr. Crawley's room, and, at that moment, he had not doubted but
that he had left it in Mr. Crawley's house. He had written and
sent to Mr. Crawley to inquire, but had been assured that nothing
had been found. There had been no other property of value in the
pocket-book,--nothing but a few visiting cards and a memorandum, and
he had therefore stopped the cheque at the London bank, and thought
no more about it.

Mr. Crawley was then asked to explain in what way he came possessed
of the cheque. The question was first put by Lord Lufton; but it soon
fell into Mr. Walker's hands, who certainly asked it with all the
kindness with which such an inquiry could be made. Could Mr. Crawley
at all remember by what means that bit of paper had come into his
possession, or how long he had had it? He answered the last question
first. "It had been with him for months." And why had he kept it? He
looked round the room sternly, almost savagely, before he answered,
fixing his eyes for a moment upon almost every face around him as he
did so. Then he spoke. "I was driven by shame to keep it,--and then
by shame to use it." That this statement was true, no one in the room
doubted.

And then the other question was pressed upon him; and he lifted up
his hands, and raised his voice, and swore by the Saviour in whom he
trusted, that he knew not from whence the money had come to him. Why
then had he said that it had come from the dean? He had thought so.
The dean had given him money, covered up, in an enclosure, "so that
the touch of the coin might not add to my disgrace in taking his
alms," said the wretched man, thus speaking openly and freely in his
agony of the shame which he had striven so persistently to hide. He
had not seen the dean's monies as they had been given, and he had
thought that the cheque had been with them. Beyond that he could tell
them nothing.

Then there was a conference between the magistrates and Mr. Walker,
in which Mr. Walker submitted that the magistrates had no alternative
but to commit the gentleman. To this Lord Lufton demurred, and with
him Dr. Thorne.

"I believe, as I am sitting here," said Lord Lufton, "that he has
told the truth, and that he does not know any more than I do from
whence the cheque came."

"I am quite sure he does not," said Dr. Thorne.

Lord George remarked that it was the "queerest go he had ever come
across." Dr. Tempest merely shook his head. Mr. Fothergill pointed
out that even supposing the gentleman's statement to be true, it by
no means went towards establishing the gentleman's innocence. The
cheque had been traced to the gentleman's hands, and the gentleman
was bound to show how it had come into his possession. Even supposing
that the gentleman had found the cheque in his house, which was
likely enough, he was not thereby justified in changing it, and
applying the proceeds to his own purposes. Mr. Walker told them that
Mr. Fothergill was right, and that the only excuse to be made for Mr.
Crawley was that he was out of his senses.

"I don't see it," said Lord Lufton. "I might have a lot of paper
money by me, and not know from Adam where I got it."

"But you would have to show where you got it, my lord, when inquiry
was made," said Mr. Fothergill.

Lord Lufton, who was not particularly fond of Mr. Fothergill, and
was very unwilling to be instructed by him in any of the duties of a
magistrate, turned his back at once upon the duke's agent; but within
three minutes afterwards he had submitted to the same instructions
from Mr. Walker.

Mr. Crawley had again seated himself, and during this period of the
affair was leaning over the table with his face buried on his arms.
Mrs. Crawley sat by his side, utterly impotent as to any assistance,
just touching him with her hand, and waiting behind her veil till
she should be made to understand what was the decision of the
magistrates. This was at last communicated to her,--and to him,--in
a whisper by Mr. Walker. Mr. Crawley must understand that he was
committed to take his trial at Barchester, at the next assizes, which
would be held in April, but that bail would be taken;--his own bail
in five hundred pounds, and that of two others in two hundred and
fifty pounds each. And Mr. Walker explained further that he and the
bailmen were ready, and that the bail-bond was prepared. The bailmen
were to be the Rev. Mr. Robarts, and Major Grantly. In five minutes
the bond was signed and Mr. Crawley was at liberty to go away, a free
man,--till the Barchester Assizes should come round in April.

Of all that was going on at this time Mr. Crawley knew little or
nothing, and Mrs. Crawley did not know much. She did say a word of
thanks to Mr. Robarts, and begged that the same might be said to--the
other gentleman. If she had heard the major's name she did not
remember it. Then they were led out back into the bed-room, where
Mrs. Walker was found, anxious to do something, if she only knew
what, to comfort the wretched husband and the wretched wife. But what
comfort or consolation could there be within their reach? There was
tea made ready for them, and sandwiches cut from the Inn larder. And
there was sherry in the Inn decanter. But no such comfort as that was
possible for either of them.

They were taken home again in the fly, returning without the escort
of Mr. Thompson, and as they went some few words were spoken by Mrs.
Crawley. "Josiah," she said, "there will be a way out of this, even
yet, if you will only hold up your head and trust."

"There is a way out of it," he said. "There is a way. There is but
one way." When he had so spoken she said no more, but resolved that
her eye should never be off him, no,--not for a moment. Then, when
she had gotten him once more into that front parlour, she threw her
arms round him and kissed him.




CHAPTER IX.

GRACE CRAWLEY GOES TO ALLINGTON.


[Illustration]

The tidings of what had been done by the magistrates at their petty
sessions was communicated the same night to Grace Crawley by Miss
Prettyman. Miss Anne Prettyman had heard the news within five minutes
of the execution of the bail-bond, and had rushed to her sister with
information as to the event. "They have found him guilty; they have,
indeed. They have convicted him,--or whatever it is, because he
couldn't say where he got it." "You do not mean that they have sent
him to prison?" "No;--not to prison; not as yet, that is. I don't
understand it altogether; but he's to be tried again at the assizes.
In the meantime he's to be out on bail. Major Grantly is to be the
bail,--he and Mr. Robarts. That, I think, was very nice of him." It
was undoubtedly the fact that Miss Anne Prettyman had received an
accession of pleasurable emotion when she learned that Mr. Crawley
had not been sent away scathless, but had been condemned, as it
were, to a public trial at the assizes. And yet she would have
done anything in her power to save Grace Crawley, or even to save
her father. And it must be explained that Miss Anne Prettyman was
supposed to be specially efficient in teaching Roman history to her
pupils, although she was so manifestly ignorant of the course of
law in the country in which she lived. "Committed him," said Miss
Prettyman, correcting her sister with scorn. "They have not convicted
him. Had they convicted him, there could be no question of bail."
"I don't know how all that is, Annabella, but at any rate Major
Grantly is to be the bailsman, and there is to be another trial at
Barchester." "There cannot be more than one trial in a criminal
case," said Miss Prettyman, "unless the jury should disagree, or
something of that kind. I suppose he has been committed, and that the
trial will take place at the assizes." "Exactly,--that's just it."
Had Lord Lufton appeared as lictor, and had Thompson carried the
fasces, Miss Anne would have known more about it.

The sad tidings were not told to Grace till the evening. Mrs.
Crawley, when the inquiry was over before the magistrates, would fain
have had herself driven to the Miss Prettymans' school, that she
might see her daughter; but she felt that to be impossible while
her husband was in her charge. The father would of course have gone
to his child, had the visit been suggested to him; but that would
have caused another terrible scene; and the mother, considering it
all in her mind, thought it better to abstain. Miss Prettyman did
her best to make poor Grace think that the affair had gone so far
favourably,--did her best, that is, without saying anything which her
conscience told her to be false. "It is to be settled at the assizes
in April," she said.

"And in the meantime what will become of papa?"

"Your papa will be at home, just as usual. He must have some one to
advise him. I dare say it would have been all over now if he would
have employed an attorney."

"But it seems so hard that an attorney should be wanted."

"My dear Grace, things in this world are hard."

"But they are always harder for papa and mamma than for anybody
else." In answer to this, Miss Prettyman made some remarks intended
to be wise and kind at the same time. Grace, whose eyes were laden
with tears, made no immediate reply to this, but reverted to her
former statement, that she must go home. "I cannot remain, Miss
Prettyman; I am so unhappy."

"Will you be more happy at home?"

"I can bear it better there."

The poor girl soon learned from the intended consolations of those
around her, from the ill-considered kindnesses of the pupils, and
from words which fell from the servants, that her father had in
fact been judged to be guilty, as far as judgment had as yet gone.
"They do say, miss, it's only because he hadn't a lawyer," said the
housekeeper. And if men so kind as Lord Lufton and Mr. Walker had
made him out to be guilty, what could be expected from a stern judge
down from London, who would know nothing about her poor father and
his peculiarities, and from twelve jurymen who would be shopkeepers
out of Barchester. It would kill her father, and then it would kill
her mother; and after that it would kill her also. And there was no
money in the house at home. She knew it well. She had been paid three
pounds a month for her services at the school, and the money for the
last two months had been sent to her mother. Yet, badly as she wanted
anything that she might be able to earn, she knew that she could
not go on teaching. It had come to be acknowledged by both the
Miss Prettymans that any teaching on her part for the present was
impossible. She would go home and perish with the rest of them. There
was no room left for hope to her, or to any of her family. They had
accused her father of being a common thief,--her father whom she knew
to be so nobly honest, her father whom she believed to be among the
most devoted of God's servants. He was accused of a paltry theft, and
the magistrates and lawyers and policemen among them had decided that
the accusation was true! How could she look the girls in the face
after that, or attempt to hold her own among the teachers!

On the next morning there came the letter from Miss Lily Dale, and
with that in her hand she again went to Miss Prettyman. She must
go home, she said. She must at any rate see her mother. Could Miss
Prettyman be kind enough to send her home. "I haven't sixpence to pay
for anything," she said, bursting out into tears; "and I haven't a
right to ask for it." Then the statements which Miss Prettyman made
in her eagerness to cover this latter misfortune were decidedly
false. There was so much money owing to Grace, she said; money for
this, money for that, money for anything or nothing! Ten pounds would
hardly clear the account. "Nobody owes me anything; but if you'll
lend me five shillings!" said Grace, in her agony. Miss Prettyman, as
she made her way through this difficulty, thought of Major Grantly
and his love. It would have been of no use, she knew. Had she brought
them together on that Monday, Grace would have said nothing to him.
Indeed such a meeting at such a time would have been improper.
But, regarding Major Grantly, as she did, in the light of a
millionaire,--for the wealth of the archdeacon was notorious,--she
could not but think it a pity that poor Grace should be begging for
five shillings. "You need not at any rate trouble yourself about
money, Grace," said Miss Prettyman. "What is a pound or two more or
less between you and me? It is almost unkind of you to think about
it. Is that letter in your hand anything for me to see, my dear?"
Then Grace explained that she did not wish to show Miss Dale's
letter, but that Miss Dale had asked her to go to Allington. "And you
will go," said Miss Prettyman. "It will be the best thing for you,
and the best thing for your mother."

It was at last decided that Grace should go to her friend at
Allington, and to Allington she went. She returned home for a day or
two, and was persuaded by her mother to accept the invitation that
had been given her. At Hogglestock, while she was there, new troubles
came up, of which something shall shortly be told; but they were
troubles in which Grace could give no assistance to her mother, and
which, indeed, though they were in truth troubles, as will be seen,
were so far beneficent that they stirred her father up to a certain
action which was in itself salutary. "I think it will be better that
you should be away, dearest," said the mother, who now, for the first
time, heard plainly all that poor Grace had to tell about Major
Grantly;--Grace having, heretofore, barely spoken, in most ambiguous
words, of Major Grantly as a gentleman whom she had met at Framley,
and whom she had described as being "very nice."

In old days, long ago, Lucy Robarts, the present Lady Lufton, sister
of the Rev. Mark Robarts, the parson of Framley, had sojourned
for a while under Mr. Crawley's roof at Hogglestock. Peculiar
circumstances, which need not, perhaps, be told here, had given
occasion for this visit. She had then resolved,--for her future
destiny had been known to her before she left Mrs. Crawley's
house,--that she would in coming days do much to befriend the family
of her friend; but the doing of much had been very difficult. And the
doing of anything had come to be very difficult through a certain
indiscretion on Lord Lufton's part. Lord Lufton had offered
assistance, pecuniary assistance, to Mr. Crawley, which Mr. Crawley
had rejected with outspoken anger. What was Lord Lufton to him that
his lordship should dare to come to him with his paltry money in his
hand? But after a while, Lady Lufton, exercising some cunning in the
operations of her friendship, had persuaded her sister-in-law at the
Framley parsonage to have Grace Crawley over there as a visitor,--and
there she had been during the summer holidays previous to the
commencement of our story. And there, at Framley, she had become
acquainted with Major Grantly, who was staying with Lord Lufton at
Framley Court. She had then said something to her mother about Major
Grantly, something ambiguous, something about his being "very nice,"
and the mother had thought how great was the pity that her daughter,
who was "nice" too in her estimation, should have so few of those
adjuncts to assist her which come from full pockets. She had thought
no more about it then; but now she felt herself constrained to think
more. "I don't quite understand why he should have come to Miss
Prettyman on Monday," said Grace, "because he hardly knows her at
all."

"I suppose it was on business," said Mrs. Crawley.

"No, mamma, it was not on business."

"How can you tell, dear?"

"Because Miss Prettyman said it was,--it was--to ask after me. Oh,
mamma, I must tell you. I know he did like me."

"Did he ever say so to you, dearest?"

"Yes, mamma."

"And what did you tell him?"

"I told him nothing, mamma."

"And did he ask to see you on Monday?"

"No, mamma; I don't think he did. I think he understood it all too
well, for I could not have spoken to him then."

Mrs. Crawley pursued the cross-examination no further, but made up
her mind that it would be better that her girl should be away from
her wretched home during this period of her life. If it were written
in the book of fate that one of her children should be exempted from
the series of misfortunes which seemed to fall, one after another,
almost as a matter of course, upon her husband, upon her, and upon
her family; if so great good fortune were in store for her Grace as
such a marriage as this which seemed to be so nearly offered to her,
it might probably be well that Grace should be as little at home as
possible. Mrs. Crawley had heard nothing but good of Major Grantly;
but she knew that the Grantlys were proud rich people,--who lived
with their heads high up in the county,--and it could hardly be that
a son of the archdeacon would like to take his bride direct from
Hogglestock parsonage.

It was settled that Grace should go to Allington as soon as a letter
could be received from Miss Dale in return to Grace's note, and on
the third morning after her arrival at home she started. None but
they who have themselves been poor gentry,--gentry so poor as not to
know how to raise a shilling,--can understand the peculiar bitterness
of the trials which such poverty produces. The poverty of the normal
poor does not approach it; or, rather, the pangs arising from such
poverty are altogether of a different sort. To be hungry and have no
food, to be cold and have no fuel, to be threatened with distraint
for one's few chairs and tables, and with the loss of the roof over
one's head,--all these miseries, which, if they do not positively
reach, are so frequently near to reaching the normal poor, are, no
doubt, the severest of the trials to which humanity is subjected.
They threaten life,--or, if not life, then liberty,--reducing the
abject one to a choice between captivity and starvation. By hook or
crook, the poor gentleman or poor lady,--let the one or the other
be ever so poor,--does not often come to the last extremity of the
workhouse. There are such cases, but they are exceptional. Mrs.
Crawley, through all her sufferings, had never yet found her cupboard
to be absolutely bare, or the bread-pan to be actually empty. But
there are pangs to which, at the time, starvation itself would seem
to be preferable. The angry eyes of unpaid tradesmen, savage with
an anger which one knows to be justifiable; the taunt of the poor
servant who wants her wages; the gradual relinquishment of habits
which the soft nurture of earlier, kinder years had made second
nature; the wan cheeks of the wife whose malady demands wine; the
rags of the husband whose outward occupations demand decency; the
neglected children, who are learning not to be the children of
gentlefolk; and, worse than all, the alms and doles of half-generous
friends, the waning pride, the pride that will not wane, the growing
doubt whether it be not better to bow the head, and acknowledge to
all the world that nothing of the pride of station is left,--that the
hand is open to receive and ready to touch the cap, that the fall
from the upper to the lower level has been accomplished,--these are
the pangs of poverty which drive the Crawleys of the world to the
frequent entertaining of that idea of the bare bodkin. It was settled
that Grace should go to Allington;--but how about her clothes? And
then, whence was to come the price of her journey?

"I don't think they'll mind about my being shabby at Allington. They
live very quietly there."

"But you say that Miss Dale is so very nice in all her ways."

"Lily is very nice, mamma; but I shan't mind her so much as her
mother, because she knows it all. I have told her everything."

"But you have given me all your money, dearest."

"Miss Prettyman told me I was to come to her," said Grace, who had
already taken some small sum from the schoolmistress, which at once
had gone into her mother's pocket, and into household purposes. "She
said I should be sure to go to Allington, and that of course I should
go to her, as I must pass through Silverbridge."

"I hope papa will not ask about it," said Mrs. Crawley. Luckily papa
did not ask about it, being at the moment occupied much with other
thoughts and other troubles, and Grace was allowed to return by
Silverbridge, and to take what was needed from Miss Prettyman. Who
can tell of the mending and patching, of the weary wearing midnight
hours of needlework which were accomplished before the poor girl
went, so that she might not reach her friend's house in actual rags?
And when the work was ended, what was there to show for it? I do not
think that the idea of the bare bodkin, as regarded herself, ever
flitted across Mrs. Crawley's brain,--she being one of those who are
very strong to endure; but it must have occurred to her very often
that the repose of the grave is sweet, and that there cometh after
death a levelling and making even of things, which would at last cure
all her evils.

Grace no doubt looked forward to a levelling and making even of
things,--or perhaps even to something more prosperous than that,
which should come to her relief on this side of the grave. She could
not but have high hopes in regard to her future destiny. Although,
as has been said, she understood no more than she ought to have
understood from Miss Prettyman's account of the conversation with
Major Grantly, still, innocent as she was, she had understood much.
She knew that the man loved her, and she knew also that she loved the
man. She thoroughly comprehended that the present could be to her no
time for listening to speeches of love, or for giving kind answers;
but still I think that she did look for relief on this side of the
grave.

"Tut, tut," said Miss Prettyman as Grace in vain tried to conceal her
tears up in the private sanctum. "You ought to know me by this time,
and to have learned that I can understand things." The tears had
flown in return not only for the five gold sovereigns which Miss
Prettyman had pressed into her hand, but on account of the prettiest,
soft, grey merino frock that ever charmed a girl's eye. "I should
like to know how many girls I have given dresses to, when they have
been going out visiting. Law, my dear; they take them, many of them,
from us old maids, almost as if we were only paying our debts in
giving them." And then Miss Anne gave her a cloth cloak, very warm,
with pretty buttons and gimp trimmings,--just such a cloak as any
girl might like to wear who thought that she would be seen out
walking by her Major Grantly on a Christmas morning. Grace Crawley
did not expect to be seen out walking by her Major Grantly, but
nevertheless she liked the cloak. By the power of her practical will,
and by her true sympathy, the elder Miss Prettyman had for a while
conquered the annoyance which, on Grace's part, was attached to the
receiving of gifts, by the consciousness of her poverty; and when
Miss Anne, with some pride in the tone of her voice, expressed a
hope that Grace would think the cloak pretty, Grace put her arms
pleasantly round her friend's neck, and declared that it was very
pretty,--the prettiest cloak in all the world!

Grace was met at the Guestwick railway-station by her friend Lilian
Dale, and was driven over to Allington in a pony carriage belonging
to Lilian's uncle, the squire of the parish. I think she will be
excused in having put on her new cloak, not so much because of the
cold as with a view of making the best of herself before Mrs. Dale.
And yet she knew that Mrs. Dale would know all the circumstances of
her poverty, and was very glad that it should be so. "I am so glad
that you have come, dear," said Lily. "It will be such a comfort."

"I am sure you are very good," said Grace.

"And mamma is so glad. From the moment 

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