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  • 1867
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there is much anxiety to spare me in that matter. He is desirous rather of making me understand that I have no power of saving him from his own folly. Of course I have no power of saving him.’

‘But is he engaged to her?’

‘He says that she has refused him. But of course that means nothing.’

Again the archdeacon’s position was very like Lady Lufton’s position, as it had existed before her son’s marriage. In that case also the young lady, who was now Lady Lufton’s own daughter and dearest friend, had refused the lover who proposed to her, although the marriage was so much to her advantage–loving him too, the while, with her whole heart, as it was natural to suppose that Grace Crawley might so love her lover. The more she thought of the similarity of the stories, the stronger were her sympathies on the side of poor Grace. Nevertheless, she would comfort her old friend if she knew how; and of course she could not but admit to herself that the match was one which must be a cause of real sorrow to him. ‘I don’t know why her refusal should mean nothing,’ said Lady Lufton.

‘Of course a girl refuses at first–a girl, I mean, in such circumstances as hers. She can’t but feel that more is offered to her than she ought to take, and that she is bound to go through the ceremony of declining. But my anger is not with her, Lady Lufton.’

‘I do not see how it can be.’

‘No; it is not with her. If she becomes his wife I trust that I may never see her.’

‘Oh, Dr Grantly!’

‘I do; I do. How can it be otherwise with me? But I shall have no quarrel with her. With him I must quarrel.’

‘I do not see why,’ said Lady Lufton.

‘You do not? Does he not set me at defiance?’

‘At his age surely a son has a right to marry as he pleases.’

‘If he took her out of the streets, then it would be the same?’ said the archdeacon with bitter anger.

‘No;–for such a one would herself be bad.’

‘Or if she were the daughter of a huckster out of the city?’

‘No again;–or in that case her want of education would probably unfit her for your society.’

‘Her father’s disgrace, then, should be a matter of indifference to me, Lady Lufton?’

‘I did not say so. In the first place, her father is not disgraced–not as yet; and we do not know whether he may ever be disgraced. You will hardly be disposed to say that persecution from the palace disgraces a clergyman in Barsetshire.’

‘All the same, I believe that the man was guilty,’ said the archdeacon.

‘Wait and see, my friend, before you condemn him altogether. But, be that as it may, I acknowledge that the marriage is one which must naturally be distasteful to you.’

‘Oh, Lady Lufton! If you only knew! If you only knew!’

‘I do know; and I feel for you. But I think that your son has a right to expect that you should not show the same repugnance to such a marriage as this as you would have had a right to show had he suggested to himself a wife as those at which you had just now hinted. Of course you can advise him, and make him understand your feelings; but I cannot think you will be justified in quarrelling with him, or in changing your views towards him with regards money, seeing that Miss Crawley is an educated lady, who has done nothing to forfeit your respect.’ A heavy cloud came upon the archdeacons’s brow as he heard these words, but he did not make any immediate answer. ‘Of course, my friend,’ continued Lady Lufton, ‘I should not have ventured to say so much to you, had you not come to me, as it were, for my opinion.’

‘I came here because I thought Henry was here,’ said the archdeacon.

‘If I have said too much, I beg your pardon.’

‘No; you have not said too much. It is not that. You and I are such old friends that either may say almost anything to the other.’

‘Yes;–just so. And therefore I have ventured to speak my mind,’ said Lady Lufton.

‘Of course;–and I am obliged to you. But, Lady Lufton, you do not understand yet how this hits me. Everything in life that I have done, I have done for my children. I am wealthy, but I have not used my wealth for myself, because I have desired that they should be able to hold their heads high in the world. All my ambition has been for them, and all the pleasure which I have anticipated for myself in my old age is that which I have hoped to receive from their credit. As for Henry, he might have had anything he wanted from me in the way of money. He expressed a wish, a few months since, to go into Parliament, and I promised to help him as far as ever I could go. I have kept up the game altogether for him. He, the younger son of a working parish parson, has had everything that could be given to the eldest son of a country gentleman–more than is given to the eldest son of many a peer. I have hoped that he would marry again, but I have never cared that he should marry for money. I have been willing to do anything for him myself. But, Lady Lufton, a father does feel that he should have some return for all this. No one can imagine that Henry ever supposed that a bride from that wretched place at Hogglestock could be welcomed among us. He knew that he would break our hearts, and he did not care for it. That is what I feel. Of course he has the power to do as he likes;–and of course I have the power to do as I like also with what is my own.’

Lady Lufton was a very good woman, devoted to her duties, affectionate and just to those about her, truly religious, and charitable from her nature; but I doubt whether the thorough worldliness of the archdeacon’s appeal struck her as it will strike the reader. People are so much more worldly in practice than they are in theory, so much keener after their own gratification in detail than they are in the abstract, that the narrative of many an adventure would shock us, though the same adventure would not shock us in the action. One girl tells another how she has changed her mind in love; and the friend sympathises with the friend, and perhaps applauds. Had the story been told in print, the friend who had listened with equanimity would have read of such vacillation with indignation. She who vacillated herself would have hated her own performance when brought before her judgment as a matter in which she had no personal interest. Very fine things are written every day about honesty and truth, and men read them with a sort of external conviction that a man, if he be anything of a man at all, is of course honest and true. But when the internal convictions are brought out between two or three who are personally interested together–between two or three who feel that their little gathering is, so to say, ’tiled’–those internal convictions differ very much from the external convictions. This man, in his confidences, asserts broadly that he does not mean to be thrown over, and that man has a project for throwing over somebody else; and the intention of each is that scruples are not to stand in the way of his success. The ‘Ruat coelum, fiat justitia’ was said, no doubt, from an outside balcony to a crowd, and the speaker knew that he was talking buncombe. The ‘Rem, si possis recte, si non quocunque modo’ was whispered into the ear in a club smoking-room, and the whisperer intended that his words should prevail.

Lady Lufton had often heard her friend the archdeacon preach, and she knew well the high tone which he could take as the necessity of trusting our hopes for the future for all our true happiness; and yet she sympathised with him when he told her that he was broken-hearted because his son would take a step which might possibly interfere with his worldly prosperity. Had the archdeacon been preaching about matrimony, he would have recommended young men, in taking wives to themselves, especially to look for young women who feared the Lord. But in talking about his own son’s wife, no word as to her eligibility or non- eligibility in this respect escaped his lips. Had he talked on the subject till nightfall no such word would have been spoken. Had any friend of his own, man or woman, in discussing such a matter with him and asking his advice upon it, alluded to the fear of the Lord, the allusion would have been distasteful to him and would have smacked to his palate of hypocrisy. Lady Lufton, who understood as well as any woman what it is to be ’tiled’ with a friend, took all this in good part. The archdeacon had spoken out of his heart what was in his heart. One of his children had married a marquis. Another might probably become a bishop–perhaps an archbishop. The third might be a county squire–high among the county squires. But he could only so become by walking warily;–and now he was bent on marrying the penniless daughter of an impoverished half-mad country curate, who was about to be tried for stealing twenty pounds! Lady Lufton, in spite of all her arguments, could not refuse her sympathy to her old friend.

‘After all, from what you say, I suppose they are not engaged.’

‘I do not know,’ said the archdeacon. ‘I cannot tell!’

‘And what do you wish me to do?’

‘Oh–nothing. I came over, as I said before, because I thought he was here. I think it right, before he has absolutely committed himself, to take every means in my power to make him understand that I shall withdraw from him all pecuniary assistance–now and for the future.’

‘My friend, that threat seems to me to be so terrible.’

‘It is the only power I have left to me.’

‘But you, who are so affectionate by nature, would never adhere to it.’

‘I will try. I will try my best to be firm. I will at once put everything beyond my control after my death.’ The archdeacon, as he uttered these terrible words–words which were awful to Lady Lufton’s ears–resolved that he would endeavour to nurse his own wrath; but, at the same time, almost hated himself for his own pusillanimity, because he feared that his wrath would die away before he should have availed himself of its heat.

‘I would do nothing rash of that kind,’ said Lady Lufton. ‘Your object is to prevent the marriage–not to punish him for it when once he has made it.’

‘He is not to have his own way in everything, Lady Lufton.’

‘But you should first try to prevent it.’

‘What can I do to prevent it?’

Lady Lufton paused a couple of minutes before she replied. She had a scheme in her head, but it seemed to her to savour of cruelty. And yet at present it was her chief duty to assist her old friend, if any assistance could be given. There could hardly be a doubt that such a marriage as this, of which they were speaking, was in itself an evil. In her case, the case of her son, there had been no question of a trial, of money stolen, of aught that was in truth disgraceful. ‘I think if I were you, Dr Grantly,’ she said, ‘that I would see the young lady while I was here.’

‘See her myself?’ said the archdeacon. The idea of seeing Grace Crawley himself had, up to this moment, never entered his head.

‘I think I would do so.’

‘I think I will,’ said the archdeacon, after a pause. Then he got up from his chair. ‘If I am to do it, I had better do it at once.’

‘Be gentle with her, my friend.’ The archdeacon paused again. He certainly had entertained the idea of encountering Miss Crawley with severity rather than gentleness. Lady Lufton rose from her seat, and coming up to him, took one of his hands between her own two. ‘Be gentle to her,’ she said. ‘You have owned that she has done nothing wrong.’ The archdeacon bowed his head in token of assent and left the room.

Poor Grace Crawley.

CHAPTER LVII

A DOUBLE PLEDGE

The archdeacon, as he walked across from the Court to the parsonage, was very thoughtful and his steps were very slow. The idea of seeing Miss Crawley herself had been suggested to him suddenly, and he had to determine how he could bear himself towards her, and what he would say to her. Lady Lufton had beseeched him to be gentle with her. Was the mission one in which gentleness would be possible? Must it not be his object to make this young lady understand that she could not be right in desiring to come into his family and share in all his good things when she had no good things of her own–nothing but evil things to bring with her? And how could this be properly explained to the young lady in gentle terms? Must he not be round with her, and give her to understand in plain words–the plainest which he could use–that she would not get his good things, though she would most certainly impose the burden of all her evil things on the man whom she was proposing to herself as a husband. He remembered very well as he went, that he had been told that Miss Crawley had herself refused the offer, feeling herself to be unfit for the honour tendered to her; but he suspected the sincerity of such a refusal. Calculating in his own mind the unreasonably great advantages which would be conferred on such a young lady as Miss Crawley by a marriage with his son, he declared to himself that any girl must be very wicked indeed who should expect, or even accept, so much more than was her due;–but nevertheless he could not bring himself to believe that any girl, when so tempted, would, in sincerity, decline to commit this great wickedness. If he was to do any good by seeing Miss Crawley, must it not consist in a proper explanation to her of the selfishness, abomination, and altogether damnable blackness of such wickedness as this on the part of a young woman in her circumstances? ‘Heaven and earth!’ he must say, ‘here are you, without a penny in your pocket, with hardly decent raiment on your back, with a thief for your father, and you think that you are to come and share all the wealth that the Grantlys have amassed, that you are to have a husband with broad acres, a big house, and game preserves, and become one of a family whose name has never been touched by a single accusation–no, not a suspicion? No;–injustice such as that shall never be done betwixt you and me. You may wring my heart, and you may ruin my son; but the broad acres and the big house, and the game preserves, and the rest of it, shall never be your reward for doing do.’ How was all that to be told effectively to a young woman in gentle words? And then how was a man in the archdeacon’s position to be desirous of gentle words–gentle words which would not be efficient–when he knew well in his heart of hearts that he had nothing but threats on which to depend. He had no more power of disinheriting his own son for such an offence as that contemplated than he had of blowing out his own brains, and he knew that it was so. He was a man incapable of such persistency of wrath against one whom he loved. He was neither cruel enough nor strong enough to do such a thing. He could only threaten to do it, and make what best use he might have of threats, whilst threats might be of avail. In spite of all that he had said to his wife, to Lady Lufton, and to himself, he knew very well that if his son did sin in this way he, the father, would forgive the sin of the son.

In going across from the front gate of the Court to the parsonage there was a place where three roads met, and on this spot there stood a finger-post. Round this finger-post there was now pasted a placard, which at once arrested the archdeacon’s eye:–‘Cosby Lodge–Sale of furniture–Growing crops to be sold on the grounds. Three hunters. A brown gelding warranted for saddle or harness!’–The archdeacon himself had given the brown gelding to his son, as a great treasure.–‘Three Alderney cows, two cow-calves, a low phaeton, a gig, two ricks of hay.’ In this fashion were proclaimed in odious details all those comfortable additions to a gentleman’s house in the country, with which the archdeacon was so well acquainted. Only last November he had recommended his son to buy a certain clod-crusher, and the clod-crusher had of course been bought. The bright blue paint upon it had as yet not given way to the stains of ordinary farmyard muck and mire;–and here was the clod-crusher advertised for sale! The archdeacon did not want his son to leave Cosby Lodge. He knew well enough that his son need not leave Cosby Lodge. Why had the foolish fellow been in such a hurry with his hideous ill-conditioned advertisements? Gentle! How was he in such circumstances to be gentle? He raised his umbrella and poked angrily at the disgusting notice. The iron ferrule caught the paper at a chink in the post, and tore it from the top to the bottom. But what was the use? A horrid ugly bill lying torn in such a spot would attract only more attention than one fixed to a post. He could not condescend, however, to give it further attention, but passed on to the parsonage. Gentle indeed!

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

‘Grace, my dear,’ said Mrs Robarts, coming up into the nursery in which Miss Crawley was sitting with the children, ‘come out here a moment, will you?’ Then Grace left the children and went out into the passage. ‘My dear, there is a gentleman in the drawing-room who asks to see you.’

‘A gentleman, Mrs Robarts! What gentleman?’ But Grace, though she asked the questions, conceived that the gentleman must be Henry Grantly. Her mind did not suggest to her the possibility of any other gentleman coming to see her.

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

‘Oh, Mrs Robarts, who is it?’

‘It is Major Grantly’s father.’

‘The archdeacon?’

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

‘Must I see him, Mrs Robarts?’

‘Well, Grace–I think you must. I hardly know how you can refuse. He is an intimate friend of everybody here at Framley.’

‘What will he say to me?’

‘Nay; that I cannot tell. I suppose you know–‘

‘He has come, no doubt, to bid me having nothing to say to his son. He need not have troubled himself. But he may say what he likes. I am no coward, and I will go to him.’

‘Stop a moment, Grace. Come into my room for an instant. The children have pulled your hair about.’ But Grace, though she followed Mrs Robarts into the bedroom, would have nothing done to her hair. She was too proud for that–and we may say, also, too little confident in any good which such resources might effect on her behalf. ‘Never mind about that,’ she said. ‘What am I to say to him?’ Mrs Robarts paused before she replied, feeling that the matter was one which required some deliberation. ‘Tell me what I must say to him?’ said Grace, repeating her question.

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

‘Yes, you do. You do know. If I had all the world to give, I would give it all to Major Grantly.’

‘Tell him that, then.’

‘No, I will not tell him that. Never mind about my frock, Mrs Robarts. I do not care for that. I will tell him that I love his son and his granddaughter too well to injure them. I will tell him nothing else. I might as well go now.’ Mrs Robarts, as she looked at Grace, was astonished at the serenity of her face. And yet when her hand was in the drawing-room door Grace hesitated, looked back, and trembled. Mrs Robarts blew a kiss to her from the stairs; and then the door was opened, and the girl found herself in the presence of the archdeacon. He was standing on the rug, with his back to the fire, and his heavy ecclesiastical hat was placed on the middle of the round table. The hat caught Grace’s eyes at the moment of her entrance, and she felt that all the thunders of the Church were contained within it. And then the archdeacon himself was so big and so clerical, and so imposing. Her father’s aspect was severe, but the severity of her father’s face was essentially different from that expressed by the archdeacon. Whatever impression came from her father came from the man himself. There was no outward adornment there; there was, so to say, no wig about Mr Crawley. Now the archdeacon was not exactly adorned; but he was so thoroughly imbued with high clerical belongings and sacerdotal fitnesses as to appear always as a walking, sitting, or standing impersonation of parsondom. To poor Grace, as she entered the room, he appeared to be a personation of parsondom in its severest aspect.

‘Miss Crawley, I believe?’ said he.

‘Yes, sir,’ said she, curtseying ever so slightly, as she stood before him at some considerable distance.

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

‘Will you take a chair?’ he said. Then Grace sat down, still at a distance from the archdeacon, and he kept his place upon the rug. He felt that there would be a difficulty in making her feel the full force of his eloquence all across the room; and yet he did not know how to bring himself nearer to her. She became suddenly very important in his eyes, and he was to some extent afraid of her. She was so slight, so meek, so young; and yet there was about her something so beautifully feminine–and, withal, so like a lady–that he felt instinctively that he could not attack her with harsh words. Had her lips been full, and her colour high, and had her eyes rolled, had she put forth against him any of that ordinary artillery with which youthful feminine batteries are charged, he would have been ready to rush to combat. But this girl, about whom his son had gone mad, sat there as passively as though she were conscious of the possession of no artillery. There was not a single gun fired from beneath her eyelids. He knew not why, but he respected his son now more than he had respected him for the last two months;–more, perhaps, than he had ever respected him before. He was an eager as ever against the marriage;–but in thinking of his son in what he said and did after these few moments of the interview, he ceased to think of him with contempt. The creature before him was a woman who grew in his opinion till he began to feel that she was in truth fit to be the wife of his son–if only she were not a pauper, and the daughter of a mad curate, and alas! too probably, of a thief. Though his feeling towards the girl had changed, his duty to himself, his family, and his son, was the same as ever, and therefore he began his task.

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

‘No, indeed, sir.’

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

Then there was another pause, and Grace felt that she was compelled to say something. ‘Major Grantly has been very good to me,’ she said, and then she hated herself for having uttered words which were so tame and unwomanly in their spirit. Of course her lover’s father would despise her for having so spoken. After all it did not much signify. If he would only despise her and go away, it would perhaps be for the best.

‘I do not know about being good,’ said the archdeacon. ‘I think he is good. I think he means to be good.’

‘I am sure he is good,’ said Grace warmly.

‘You know he has a daughter, Miss Crawley?’

‘Oh, yes; I know Edith well.’

‘Of course his first duty is to her. Is it not? and he owes much to his family. Do you not feel that?’

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

‘Now, Miss Crawley, pray listen to me; I will speak to you very openly. I must speak to you openly, because it is my duty on my son’s behalf–but I will endeavour to speak to you kindly also. Of yourself I have heard nothing but what is favourable, and there is no reason as yet why I should not respect and esteem you.’ Grace told herself that she would do nothing which ought to forfeit his respect and esteem, but that she did not care two straws whether his respect and esteem were bestowed on her or not. She was striving after something very different from that. ‘If my son were to marry you, he would greatly injure himself, and would very greatly injure his child.’ Again he paused. He had told her to listen, and she was resolved that she would listen–unless he would say something which might make a word from her necessary at the moment. ‘I do not know whether there does at present exist any engagement between you.’

‘There is no engagement, sir.’

‘I am glad of that–very glad of it. I do not know whether you are aware that my son is dependent upon me for the greater part of his income. It is so, and as I am so circumstanced with my son, of course, I feel the closest possible concern in his future prospects.’ The archdeacon did not know how to explain clearly why the fact of his making his son an annual allowance should give him a warmer interest in his son’s affairs than he might have had had the major been altogether independent of him; but he trusted that Grace would understand this by her own natural lights. ‘Now, Miss Crawley, of course I cannot wish to say a word that will hurt your feelings. But there are reasons–‘

‘I know,’ said she, interrupting him. ‘Papa is accused of stealing money. He did not steal it, but people think he did. And then we are so very poor.’

‘You do understand me then–and I feel grateful; I do indeed.’

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

‘But, my dear–‘

‘I know I ought not to be your son’s wife as long as people think that papa stole the money. If he had stolen it, I ought never to be Major Grantly’s wife–or anybody else’s. I know that very well. And as for Edith–I would sooner die than do anything that would be bad to her.’

The archdeacon had now left the rug, and advanced till he was almost close to the chair on which Grace was sitting. ‘My dear,’ he said,’ what you say does you very much honour–very much honour indeed.’ Now that he was close to her, he could look into her eyes, and he could see the exact form of her features, and could understand–could not help understanding–the character of her countenance. It was a noble face, having in it nothing that was poor, nothing that was mean, nothing that was shapeless. It was a face that promised infinite beauty, with a promise that was on the very verge of fulfilment. There was a play about her mouth as she spoke and a curl in her nostrils as the eager words came from her, which almost made the selfish father give way. Why had they not told him that she was such a one as this? Why had not Henry himself spoken of the speciality of her beauty? No man in England knew better than the archdeacon the difference between beauty of one kind and beauty of another kind in a woman’s face–the one beauty, which comes from health and youth and animal spirits, and which belongs to the miller’s daughter, and the other beauty, which shows itself in fine lines and a noble spirit–the beauty which comes from breeding. ‘What you say does you very much honour indeed,’ said the archdeacon.

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

‘No; no; no,’ said the archdeacon.

‘Poor as we are–and no clergyman, I think, was ever so poor–I should have done as your son asked me at once, if it had been only that–because I love him.’

‘If you love him you will not wish to injure him.’

‘I will not injure him. Sir, there is my promise.’ And now as she spoke she rose from her chair, and standing close to the archdeacon, laid her hand very lightly on the sleeve of his coat. ‘There is my promise. As long as people say that papa stole the money, I will never marry your son. There.’

The archdeacon was still looking down at her, and feeling the slight touch of her fingers, raised his arm a little as though to welcome the pressure. He looked into her eyes, which were turned eagerly towards his, and when doing so was quite sure that the promise would be kept. It would have been a sacrilege–he felt that it would have been a sacrilege–to doubt such a promise. He almost relented. His soft heart, which was never very well under his own control, gave way so far that he was nearly moved to tell her that, on his son’s behalf, he acquitted her of the promise. What could any man’s son do better than have such a woman for his wife? It would have been of no avail had he made her such offer. The pledge she had given had not been wrung from her by his influence, nor could his influence have availed aught with her towards the alteration of her purpose. It was not the archdeacon who had taught her that it would not be her duty to take disgrace into the house of the man she loved. As he looked down upon her face two tears formed themselves in his eyes, and gradually trickled down his old nose. ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘if this cloud passes away from you, you shall come to us and be our daughter.’ And thus he also pledged himself. There was a dash of generosity about the man, in spite of his selfishness, which always made him desirous of giving largely to those who gave largely to him. He would fain that his gifts should be bigger, if it were possible. He longed at this moment to tell her that the dirty cheque should go for nothing. He would have done it, I think, but that it was impossible for him to speak in her presence of that which moved her so greatly.

He had contrived that her hand should fall from his arm into his grasp, and now for a moment he held it. ‘You are a good girl,’ he said–‘a dear, dear, good girl. When this cloud has passed away, you shall come to us and be our daughter.’

‘But it will never pass away,’ said Grace.

‘Let us hope that it may. Let us hope that it may.’ Then he stooped over and kissed her, and leaving the room, got out into the hall and thence into the garden, and so away, without saying a word of adieu to Mrs Robarts.

As he walked across to the Court, whither he was obliged to go, because of his chaise, he was lost in surprise at what had occurred. He had gone to the parsonage hating the girl, and despising his son. Now, as he retraced his steps, his feelings were altogether changed. He admired the girl–and as for his son, even his anger was for the moment altogether gone. He would write to his son at once and implore him to stop the sale. He would tell his son all that had occurred, or rather would make Mrs Grantly do so. In respect to his son he was quite safe. He thought at that moment that he was safe. There would be no use in hurling further threats at him. If Crawley was found guilty of stealing the money, there was the girl’s promise. If he were acquitted there was his own pledge. He remembered perfectly well that the girl had said more than this–that she had not confined her assurance to the verdict of the jury, that she had protested that she would not accept Major Grantly’s hand as long as people thought that her father had stolen the cheque; but the archdeacon felt that it would be ignoble to hold her closely to her words. The event, according to his ideas of the compact, was to depend on the verdict of the jury. If the jury should find Mr Crawley not guilty, all objection on his part to the marriage was to be withdrawn. And he would keep his word! In such case it should be withdrawn.

When he came to the rags of the auctioneer’s bill, which he had before torn down with his umbrella, he stopped a moment to consider he would act at once. In the first place he would tell his son that his threats were withdrawn, and would ask him to remain at Cosby Lodge. He would write the letter as he passed through Barchester, on his way home, so that his son might receive it on the following morning; and he would refer the major to his mother for a full explanation of the circumstances. Those odious bills must be removed from every barn-door and wall in the county. At the present moment his anger against his son was chiefly directed against his ill-judged haste in having put up those ill-omened bills. Then he paused to consider what must be his wish as to the verdict of the jury. He had pledged himself to abide by the verdict, and he could not but have a wish on the subject. Could he desire in his heart that Mr Crawley should be found guilty? He stood still for a moment thinking of this, and then he walked on, shaking his head. If it might be possible he would have no wish on the subject whatsoever.

‘Well!’ said Lady Lufton, stopping him in the passage–‘have you seen her?’

‘Yes; I have seen her.’

‘Well?’

‘She is a good girl–a very good girl. I am in a great hurry, and hardly know how to tell you more now.’

‘You say that she is a good girl.’

‘I say that she is a very good girl. An angel could not have behaved better. I will tell you some day, Lady Lufton, but I can hardly tell you now.’

When the archdeacon was gone old Lady Lufton confided to young Lady Lufton her very strong opinion that many months would not be gone before Grace Crawley would be the mistress of Cosby Lodge. ‘It will be a great promotion,’ said the old lady, with a little toss of her head. When Grace was interrogated afterwards by Mrs Robarts as to what had passed between her and the archdeacon she had very little to say as to the interview. ‘No he did not scold me,’ she replied to an inquiry from her friend. ‘There is no engagement,’ said Grace. ‘But I suppose you acknowledged, my dear, that a future engagement is quite possible?’ ‘I told him, Mrs Robarts,’ Grace answered, after hesitating for a moment, ‘that I would never marry his son as long as papa was suspected by any one in the world of being a thief. And I will keep my word.’ but she said nothing to Mrs Robarts of the pledge which the archdeacon had made to her.

CHAPTER LVIII

THE CROSS-GRAINEDNESS OF MEN

By the time that the archdeacon reached Plumstead his enthusiasm in favour of Grace Crawley had somewhat cooled itself; and the language which from time to time he prepared for conveying his impressions to his wife, became less fervid as he approached his home. There was his pledge, and by that he would abide;–and so much he would make both his wife and son understand. But any idea which he might have entertained for a moment of extending the promise he had given and relaxing that given to him was gone before he saw his own chimneys. Indeed, I fear he had by that time begun to feel that the only salvation now open to him must come from the jury’s verdict. If the jury should declare Mr Crawley to be guilty, then–; he would not say even to himself that in such case all would be right, but he did feel that much as he might regret the fate of the poor Crawleys, and of the girl whom in his warmth he had declared to be almost an angel, nevertheless to him personally such a verdict would bring consolatory comfort.

‘I have seen Miss Crawley,’ he said to his wife, as soon as he had closed the door of his study, before he had been two minutes out of the chaise. He had determined that he would dash at the subject at once, and he thus carried his resolution into effect.

‘You have seen Grace Crawley?’

‘Yes; I went up to the parsonage and called upon her. Lady Lufton advised me to do so.’

‘And Henry?’

‘Oh, Henry has gone. He was only there one night. I suppose he saw her, but I am not sure.’

‘Would not Miss Crawley tell you?’

‘I forgot to ask her.’ Mrs Grantly, at hearing this, expressed her surprise by opening wide her eyes. He had gone all the way over to Framley on purpose to look after his son, and learn what were his doings, and when there he had forgotten to ask the person who could have given him better information than anyone else! ‘But it does not signify,’ continued the archdeacon; ‘she said enough to me to make that of no importance.’

‘And what did she say?’

‘She said that she would never consent to marry Henry as long as there was any suspicion abroad as to her father’s guilt.’

‘And you believe her promise?’

‘Certainly I do; I do not doubt that in the least. I put implicit confidence in her. And I have promised her that if her father is acquitted–I will withdraw my opposition.’

‘No!’

‘But I have. And you would have done the same had you been there.’

‘I doubt that, my dear. I am not so impulsive as you are.’

‘You could not have helped yourself. You would have felt yourself obliged to be equally generous with her. She came up to me and she put her hand upon me–‘ ‘Psha!’ said Mrs Grantly. ‘But she did, my dear, and then she said, “I promise you that I will not become your son’s wife while people think papa stole this money.” What else could I do?’

‘And is she pretty?’

‘Very pretty; very beautiful.’

‘And like a lady?’

‘Quite like a lady. There is no mistake about that.’

‘And she behaved well?’

‘Admirably,’ said the archdeacon, who was in measure compelled to justify the generosity into which he had been betrayed by his feelings.

‘Then she is a paragon,’ said Mrs Grantly.

‘I don’t know what you may call a paragon, my dear. I say that she is a lady, and that she is extremely good-looking, and that she behaved very well. I cannot say less in her favour. I am sure you would not say less yourself, if you had been present.’

‘She must be a wonderful young woman.’

‘I don’t know anything about her being wonderful.’

‘She must be wonderful when she has succeeded both with the son and with the father.’

‘I wish you had been there instead of me,’ said the archdeacon angrily. Mrs Grantly very probably wished so also, feeling that in that case a more serene mode of business would have been adopted. How keenly susceptible the archdeacon still was to the influences of feminine charms, no one knew better than Mrs Grantly, and whenever she became aware that he had been in this way seduced from the wisdom of his cooler judgment she always felt something akin to indignation against the seducer. As for her husband, she probably told herself at such moments that he was an old goose. ‘If you had been there, and Henry with you, you would have made a great deal worse job of it than I have done,’ said the archdeacon.

‘I don’t say you have made a bad job of it, my dear,’ said Mrs Grantly. ‘But it’s past eight, and you must be terribly in want of your dinner. Had you not better go and dress?’

In the evening the plan of future campaign was arranged between them. The archdeacon would not write to his son at all. In passing through Barchester he had abandoned his idea of despatching a note from the hotel, feeling that such a note as would be required was not easily written in a hurry. Mrs Grantly would now write to her son, telling him that circumstances had changed, that it would be altogether unnecessary for him to sell his furniture, and begging him to come over and see his father without a day’s delay. She wrote her letter that night, and read to the archdeacon all that she had written–with the exception of the postscript:–‘You may be quite sure that there will be no unpleasantness with your father.’ That was the postscript which was not communicated to the archdeacon.

On the third day after that Henry Grantly did come over to Plumstead. His mother in her letter to him had not explained how it had come to pass that the sale of the furniture would be unnecessary. His father had given him to understand distinctly that his income would be withdrawn from him unless he would express his intention of giving up Miss Crawley; and it had been admitted among them all that Cosby Lodge must be abandoned if this were done. He certainly would not give up Grace Crawley. Sooner than that, he would give up every stick in his possession, and go an live in New Zealand if it were necessary. Not only had Grace’s conduct to him made him thus firm, but the natural bent of his own disposition had tended that way also. His father had attempted to dictate to him, and sooner than submit to that he would sell the coat off his back. Had his father confined his opposition to advice, and had Miss Crawley been less firm in her view of her duty, the major might have been less firm also. But things had so gone that he was determined to be fixed as granite. If others would not be moved from their resolves, neither would he. Such being the state of his mind, he could not understand why he was thus summoned to Plumstead. He had already written over to Pau about his house, and it was well that he should, at any rate, see his mother before he started. He was willing, therefore, to go to Plumstead, but he took no steps as to the withdrawal of those auctioneer’s bills to which the archdeacon so strongly objected. When he drove into the rectory yard, his father was standing there before him. ‘Henry,’ he said, ‘I am very glad to see you. I am very much obliged to you for coming.’ Then Henry got out of his cart and shook hands with his father, and the archdeacon began to talk about the weather. ‘Your mother has gone into Barchester to see your grandfather,’ said the archdeacon. ‘If you are not tired, we might as well take a walk. I want to go up as far as Flurry’s cottage.’ The major of course declared that he was not at all tired, and that he should be delighted of all things to go up and see old Flurry, and thus they started. Young Grantly had not even been into the house before he left the yard with his father. Of course, he was thinking of the coming sale at Cosby Lodge, and of his future life at Pau, and of his injured position in the world. There would be no longer any occasion for him to be solicitous as to the Plumstead foxes. Of course these things were in his mind; but he could not begin to speak of them till his father did so. ‘I’m afraid your grandfather is not very strong,’ said the archdeacon, shaking his head. ‘I fear he won’t be with us very long.’

‘Is it so bad as that?’

‘Well, you know, he is an old man, Henry; and he was always somewhat old for his age. He will be eighty, if he lives two years longer, I think. But he’ll never reach eighty;–never. You must go and see him before you go back home; you must indeed.’ The major, of course, promised that he would see his grandfather, and the archdeacon told his son how nearly the old man had fallen in the passage between the cathedral and the deanery. In this way they had nearly made their way up to the gamekeeper’s cottage without a word of reference to any subject that touched upon the matter of which each of them was of course thinking. Whether the major intended to remain at home or to live at Pau, the subject of Mr Harding’s health was a natural topic for conversation between him and his father; but when his father stopped suddenly, and began to tell him how a fox had been trapped on Darvell’s farm–‘and of course it was a Plumstead fox–there can be no doubt that Flurry is right about that’;–when the archdeacon spoke of this iniquity with much warmth, and told his son how he had at once written off to Mr Thorne of Ullathorne, and how Mr Thorne had declared that he didn’t believe a word of it, and how Flurry had produced the pad of the fox, with the marks of the trap on the skin–then the son began to feel that the ground was becoming very warm, and that he could not go on much longer without rushing into details about Grace Crawley. ‘I’ve no more doubt that it was one of our foxes than that I stand here,’ said the archdeacon.

‘It doesn’t matter where the fox was bred. It shouldn’t have been trapped,’ said the major.

‘Of course not,’ said the archdeacon, indignantly. I wonder whether he would have been so keen had a Romanist priest come into his parish and turned one of his Protestants into a Papist?

Then Flurry came up, and produced the identical pad out of his pocket. ‘I don’t suppose it was intended,’ said the major, looking at the interesting relic with scrutinising eyes. ‘I suppose it was caught in a rabbit-trap, eh, Flurry?’

‘I don’t see what right a man has with traps at all, when gentlemen is particular about their foxes,’ said Flurry. ‘Of course they’d call it rabbits.’

‘I never liked that man on Darvell’s farm,’ said the archdeacon.

‘Nor I either,’ said Flurry. ‘No farmer ought to be on that land who don’t have a horse of his own. And if I war Squire Thorne, I wouldn’t have no farmer there who didn’t keep no horse. When a farmer has a horse of his own, and follies the hounds, there ain’t no rabbit-traps;–never. How does that come about, Mr Henry? Rabbits! I know very well what rabbits is!’

Mr Henry shook his head, and turned away, and the archdeacon followed him. There was an hypocrisy about this pretended care for the foxes which displeased the major. He could not, of course, tell his father that the foxes were no longer anything to him; but yet he must make it understood that such was his conviction. His mother had written to him, saying that the sale of the furniture need not take place. It might be all very well for his mother to say that, or for his father; but after what had taken place, he could consent to remain in England on no other understanding than that his income should be made permanent to him. Such permanence must not be any longer dependent on his father’s caprice. In these days he had come to be somewhat in love with poverty and Pau, and had been feeding on the luxury of his grievance. There, perhaps, nothing so pleasant as the preparation for self-sacrifice. To give up Cosby Lodge and the foxes, to marry a penniless wife, and to go and live at Pau on six or seven hundred a year, seemed just now to Major Grantly to be a fine thing, and he did not intend to abandon this fine thing without receiving a very clear reason for doing so. ‘I can’t quite understand Thorne,’ said the archdeacon. ‘He used to be so particular about these foxes, and I don’t suppose that a country gentleman will change his ideas because he has given up hunting himself.’

‘Mr Thorne never thought very much of Flurry,’ said Henry Grantly, with his mind intent upon Pau and his grievance.

‘He might take my word, at any rate,’ said the archdeacon.

It was a known fact that the archdeacon’s solicitude about the Plumstead covers was wholly on behalf of his son the major. The major himself knew this thoroughly, and felt that his father’s present special anxiety was intended as a corroboration of the tidings conveyed in his mother’s letter. Every word so uttered was meant to have reference to his son’s future residence in the country. ‘Father,’ he said, turning round shortly, and standing before the archdeacon in the pathway, ‘I think you are quite right about the covers. I feel sure that every gentleman who preserves a fox does good to the country. I am sorry that I shall not have a closer interest in the matter myself.’

‘Why shouldn’t you have a closer interest in it?’ said the archdeacon.

‘Because I shall be living abroad.’

‘You got your mother’s letter?’

‘Yes, I got my mother’s letter.’

‘Did she not tell you that you can stay where you are?’

‘Yes, she said so. But, to tell you the truth, sir, I do not like the risk of living beyond my assured income.’

‘But if I justify it?’

‘I do not wish to complain, sir, but you have made me understand that you can, and that in certain circumstances, you will, at a moment, withdraw what you give me. Since this was said to me, I have felt myself to be unsafe in such a house as Cosby Lodge.’

The archdeacon did not know how to explain. He had intended that the real explanation should be given by Mrs Grantly, and had been anxious to return to his old relations with his son without any exact terms on his own part. But his son was, as he thought, awkward, and would drive him to some speech that was unnecessary. ‘You need not be unsafe there at all,’ he said, half angrily.

‘I must be unsafe if I am not sure of my income.’

‘Your income is not in any danger. But you had better speak to your mother about it. For myself, I think I may say that I have never yet behaved to any of you with any harshness. A son should, at any rate, not be offended because a father thinks that he is entitled to some consideration for what he does.’

‘There are some points on which a son cannot give way even to his father, sir.’

‘You had better speak to your mother, Henry. She will explain to you what has taken place. Look at that plantation. You don’t remember it, but every tree there was planted since you were born. I bought that farm from old Mr Thorne, when he was purchasing St Ewold’s Downs, and it was the first bit of land I ever had of my own.’

‘That is not in Plumstead, I think?’

‘No: this is Plumstead, where we stand, but that’s in Eiderdown. The parishes run in and out here. I never bought any other land as cheap as I bought that.’

‘And did old Thorne make a good purchase at St Ewold’s?’

‘Yes, I fancy he did. It gave him the whole of the parish, which was a great thing. It is astonishing how land has risen in value since that, and yet rents are not so very much higher. They who buy land now can’t have above two-and-a-half for their money.’

‘I wonder people are so fond of land,’ said the major.

‘It is a comfortable feeling to know that you stand on your own ground. Land is about the only thing that can’t fly away. And then, you see, land gives so much more than the rent. It gives position and influence and political power, to say nothing about the game. We’ll go back now. I daresay your mother will be at home by this time.’

The archdeacon was striving to teach a great lesson to his son when he thus spoke of the pleasure which a man feels when he stands upon his own ground. He was bidding his son to understand how great was the position of an heir to a landed property, and how small the position of a man depending on what Dr Grantly himself would have called a scratch income–an income made up of a few odds and ends, a share or two in this company and a share or two in that, a slight venture in foreign stocks, a small mortgage and such-like convenient but uninfluential driblets. A man, no doubt, may live at Pau and enjoy life after a fashion while reading Galignani and looking at the mountains. But–as it seemed to the archdeacon–when there was a choice between this kind of thing, and fox-covers at Plumstead, and a seat among the magistrates of Barsetshire, and an establishment full of horses, beeves, swine, carriages, and hayricks, a man brought up as his son had been brought up ought not to be very long in choosing. It never entered into the archdeacon’s mind that he was tempting his son; but Henry Grantly felt that he was having the good things of the world shown to him, and that he was being told that they should be his–for a consideration.

The major, in his present mood, looked at the matter from his own point of view, and determined that the consideration was too high. He was pledged not to give up Grace Crawley, and he would not yield on that point, though he might be tempted by all the fox-covers in Barsetshire. At this moment he did not know how far his father was prepared to yield, or how far it was expected that he should yield himself. He was told that he had to speak to his mother. He would speak to his mother, but, in the meantime, he could not bring himself to make a comfortable answer to his father’s eloquent praise of landed property. He could not allow himself to be enthusiastic on the matter till he knew what was expected of him if he chose to submit to be made a British squire. At present Galignani and the mountains had their charms for him. There was, therefore, but little conversation between the father and the son as the walked back to the rectory.

Late that night the major heard the whole story from his mother. Gradually, and as though unintentionally, Mrs Grantly told him all she knew of the archdeacon’s visit to Framley. Mrs Grantly was quite as anxious as was her husband to keep her son at home, and therefore she omitted in her story those little sneers against Grace which she herself had been tempted to make by the archdeacon’s fervour in the girl’s favour. The major said as little as was possible while he was being told of his father’s adventure, and expressed neither anger nor satisfaction till he had been made thoroughly to understand that Grace had pledged herself not to marry him as long as any suspicion should rest upon her father’s name.

‘Your father is quite satisfied with her,’ said Mrs Grantly. ‘He thinks that she is behaving very well.’

‘My father had no right to exact such a pledge.’

‘But she made it of her own accord. She was the first to speak about Mr Crawley’s supposed guilt. Your father never mentioned it.’

‘He must have led to it; and I think that he had no right to do so. He had no right to go to her at all.’

‘Now don’t be foolish, Henry.’

‘I don’t see that I am foolish.’

‘Yes, you are. A man is foolish if he won’t take what he wants without asking exactly how he is to come by it. That your father should be anxious is the most natural thing in the world. You know how high he has always held his own head, and how much he thinks about the characters and the position of clergymen. It is not surprising that he should dislike the idea of such a marriage.’

‘Grace Crawley would disgrace no family,’ said the lover.

‘That’s all very well for you to say, and I’ll take your word that it is so;–that is as far as the young lady goes herself. And there’s your father almost as much in love with her as you are. I don’t know what you would have?’

‘I would be left alone.’

‘But what harm has been done you? From what you yourself have told me, I know that Miss Crawley has said the same thing to you that she has said to your father. You can’t but admire her for the feeling.’

‘I admire her for everything.’

‘Very well. We don’t say anything against that.’

‘And I don’t mean to give her up.’

‘Very well again. Let us hope that Mr Crawley will be acquitted, and then all will be right. Your father never goes back on his promise. He is always better than his word. You’ll find that if Mr Crawley is acquitted, or if he escapes in any way, your father will only be happy for an excuse to make much of the young lady. You should not be hard on him, Henry. Don’t you see that it is his one great desire to keep you near him. The sight of those odious bills nearly broke his heart.’

‘Then why did he threaten me?’

‘Henry, you are obstinate.’

‘I am not obstinate, mother.’

‘Yes, you are. You remember nothing, and you forget nothing. You expect everything to be made smooth for you, and will do nothing towards making things smooth for anybody else. You ought to promise to give up the sale. If the worst came to the worst, your father would not let you suffer in pocket for yielding to him so much.’

‘If the worst comes to the worst, I wish to take nothing from my father.’

‘You won’t put off the sale, then?’

The son paused a moment before he answered his mother, thinking over all the circumstances of his position. ‘I cannot do so as long as I am subject to my father’s threat,’ he said at last. ‘What took place between my father and Miss Crawley can go for nothing with me. He has told me that his allowance to me is to be withdrawn. Let him tell me that he has reconsidered the matter.’

‘But he has not withdrawn it. The last quarter was paid to your account only the other day. He does not mean to withdraw it.’

‘Let him tell me so; let him tell me that my power of living at Cosby Lodge does not depend on my marriage–that my income will be continued to me whether I marry or no, and I’ll arrange matters with the auctioneer tomorrow. You can’t suppose that I should prefer to live in France.’

‘Henry, you are too hard on your father.’

‘I think, mother, he has been too hard on me.’

‘It is you who are to blame now. I tell you plainly that that is my opinion. If evil comes of it, it will be your own fault.’

‘If evil comes of it, I must bear it.’

‘A son ought to give up something to his father;–especially to a father as indulgent as yours.’

But it was of no use. And Mrs Grantly when she went to bed could only lament in her own mind over what, in discussing the matter afterwards with her sister, she called the cross-grainedness of men. ‘They are as alike each other as two peas,’ she said, ‘and though each of them wished to be generous, neither of them would condescend to be just.’ Early on the following morning there was, no doubt, much said on the subject between the archdeacon and his wife before they met their son at breakfast; but neither at breakfast nor afterwards was there a word said between the father and the son that had the slightest reference to the subject in dispute between them. The archdeacon made no more speeches in favour of land, nor did he revert to the foxes. He was very civil to his son;–too civil by half, as Mrs Grantly continued to say to herself. And then the major drove himself away in his cart, going through Barchester, so that he might see his grandfather. When he wished his father good-bye, the archdeacon shook hands with him, and said something about the chance of rain. Had he not better take the big umbrella? The major thanked him courteously, and said that he did not think it would rain. Then he was gone. ‘Upon his own head be it,’ said the archdeacon when his son’s step was heard in the passage to the backyard. Then Mrs Grantly got up quietly and followed her son. She found him settling himself in his dog-cart, while the servant who was to accompany him was still at the horse’s head. She went up close to him, and, standing by the wheel of the gig, whispered a word or two into his ear. ‘If you love me, Henry, you will postpone the sale. Do it for my sake.’ There came across his face a look of great pain, but he answered her not a word.

The archdeacon was walking about the room striking one hand open with the other closed, clearly in a tumult of anger, when his wife returned to him. ‘I have done all that I can,’ he said–‘all that I can; more, indeed, than was becoming of me. Upon his own head be it. Upon his own head be it.’

‘What is it you fear?’ she asked.

‘I fear nothing. But if he chooses to sell his things at Cosby Lodge he must abide the consequences. They shall not be replaced with my money.’

‘What will it matter if he does sell them?’

‘Matter! Do you think there is a single person in the county who will not know that his doing is a sign that he has quarrelled with me?’

‘But he has not quarrelled with you.’

‘I can tell you, then, that in that case, I shall have quarrelled with him! I have not been a hard father, but there are some things which a man cannot bear. Of course you take his part.’

‘I am taking no part. I only want peace between you.’

‘Peace!–yes; peace indeed. I am to yield in everything. I am to be nobody. Look here;–as sure as ever an auctioneer’s hammer is raised at Cosby Lodge, I will alter the settlement of the property. Every acre shall go to Charles. There is my word for it.’ The poor woman had nothing more to say at that moment. She thought that at the present conjuncture her husband was less in the wrong than her son, but she could not tell him so lest she should strengthen him in his wrath.

Henry Grantly found his grandfather in bed, with Posy seated on the bed beside him. ‘My father told me that you were not quite well, and I thought I had better look in,’ said the major.

‘Thank you, my dear;–it is very good of you. There is not much the matter with me, but I am not quite so strong as I was once.’ And the old man smiled as he held his grandson’s hand.

‘And how is cousin Posy?’ said the major.

‘Posy is quite well;–isn’t she, my darling?’ said the old man.

‘Grandpa doesn’t go to the cathedral now,’ said Posy; ‘so I come in to talk to him. Don’t I, grandpa?’

‘And to play cat’s-cradle;–only we have not had any cat’s-cradle this morning, because it is cold for grandpa to sit up in bed,’ said Posy.

When the major had been there about twenty minutes he was preparing to take his leave–but Mr Harding, bidding Posy go out of the room, told his grandson that he had a word to say to him. ‘I don’t like to interfere, Henry,’ he said, ‘but I am afraid things are not quite smooth at Plumstead.’

‘There is nothing wrong between me and my mother,’ said the major.

‘God forbid that there should be; but, my dear boy, don’t let there be anything wrong between you and your father. He is a good man, and the time will come when you will be proud of his memory.’

‘I am proud of him now.’

‘Then be gentle with him–and submit yourself. I am an old man now–very fast going away from all those I love here. But I am happy in leaving my children because they have ever been gentle with me and kind. If I am permitted to remember them whither I am going, my thoughts of them all will be pleasant. Should it not be much to them that they have made by death-bed happy?’

The major could not but tell himself that Mr Harding had been a man easy to please, easy to satisfy, and, in that respect, very different from his father. But of course he said nothing of this. ‘I will do my best,’ he replied.

‘Do, my boy. Honour thy father–that thy days may be long in the land.’

It seemed to the major as he drove away from Barchester that everybody was against him; and yet he was sure that he himself was right. He could not give up Grace Crawley; and unless he were to do so he could not live at Cosby Lodge.

CHAPTER LIX

A LADY PRESENTS HER COMPLIMENTS TO MISS L.D.

One morning while Lily Dale was staying with Mrs Thorne in London, there was brought up to her room, as she was dressing for dinner, a letter which the postman had just left for her. The address was written in a feminine hand, and Lily was at once aware that she did not know the writing. The angles were very acute, and the lines were very straight, and the vowels looked to be cruel and false, with their sharp points and their open eyes. Lily at once knew that it was the performance of a woman who had been taught to write at school, and not at home, and she became prejudiced against the writer before she opened the letter. When she had opened the letter and read it, her feelings towards the writer were not of a kindly nature. It was as follows:-

‘A lady presents her compliments to Miss L D and earnestly implores Miss L D to give her answer to the following question: Is Miss L D engaged to marry Mr J E? The lady in question pledges herself not to interfere with Miss L D in any way, should the answer be in the affirmative. The lady earnestly requests that a reply to this question may be sent to M D Post-office 455 Edgware Road. In order that L D may not doubt that M D had an interest in J E, M D encloses the last note she received from him before he started for the Continent.’ Then there was a scrap, which Lily well knew to be in the handwriting of John Eames, and the scrap was as follows:–‘Dearest M–punctually at 8.30. Ever and always your unalterable J E. Lily, as she read this, did not comprehend that John’s note to M D had been in itself a joke.

Lily Dale had heard of anonymous letters before, but had never received one, or even received one. Now that she had one in her hand, it seemed to her that there could be nothing more abominable than the writing of such a letter. She let it drop from her as though the receiving, and opening, and reading it had been a stain to her. As it lay on the ground at her feet, she trod upon it. Of what sort could a woman be who wrote such a letter as that? Answer it! Of course she would not answer it. It never occurred to her for a moment that it could become her to answer it. Had she been at home with her mother, she would have called her mother to her, and Mrs Dale would have taken it from the ground, and have read it, and then destroyed it. As it was, she must pick it up herself. She did so, and declared to herself that there should be an end to it. It might be right that somebody should see it, and therefore she would show it to Emily Dunstable; after that it should be destroyed.

Of course the letter could have no effect upon her. So she told herself. But it did have a very strong effect, and probably the exact effect which the writer had intended that it should have. J E was, of course, John Eames. There was no doubt about that. What a fool the writer must have been to talk of L D in the letter, when the outside cover was plainly addressed to Lily Dale! But there are some people for whom the pretended mystery of initial letters has a charm, and who love the darkness of anonymous letters. As Lily thought of this, she stamped on the letter again. Who was the M D to whom she was required to send an answer–with whom John Eames corresponded in the most affectionate terms? She had resolved not even to ask a question about M D, and yet she could not divert her mind from the inquiry. It was, at any rate, a fact that there must be some woman designated by the letters–some woman who had, at any rate, chosen to call herself M D. and John Eames had called her M. There must, at any rate, be such a woman. This female, be she who she might, had thought it worth her while to make this inquiry about John Eames, and had manifestly learned something of Lily’s own history. And the woman had pledged herself not to interfere with John Eames, if L D would only condescend to say that she was engaged to him! As Lily thought of the proposition, she trod upon the letter for the third time. Then she picked it up, and having no place of custody under lock and key ready to her hand she put it in her pocket.

At night, before she went to bed, she showed the letter to Emily Dunstable. ‘Is it not surprising that any woman could bring herself to write such a letter?’ said Lily.

But Miss Dunstable hardly saw it in the same light. ‘If anybody were to write me such a letter about Bernard,’ said she, ‘I should show to him as a good joke.’

‘That would be very different. You and Bernard, of course, understand each other.’

‘And so will you and Mr Eames–some day, I hope.’

‘Never more than we do now, dear. The thing that annoys me is that such a woman as that should have even heard my name at all.’

‘As long as people have got ears and tongues, people will hear other people’s names.’

Lily paused a moment, and then spoke again, asking another question. ‘I suppose this woman does know him? She must know him, because he has written to her.’

‘She knows something about him, no doubt, and has some reasons for wishing that you will quarrel with him. If I were you, I should take care not to gratify her. As for Mr Eames’s note, it is a joke.’

‘It is nothing to me,’ said Lily.

‘I suppose,’ continued Emily, ‘that most gentlemen become acquainted with some people that they would not wish all their friends to know that they knew. They go about so much more than we do, and meet people of all sorts.’

‘No gentleman should become intimately acquainted with a woman who could write such a letter as that,’ said Lily. And as she spoke she remembered a certain episode in John Eames’s early life, which had reached her from a source which she had not doubted, and which had given her pain and offended her. She had believed that John Eames had in that case behaved very cruelly to a young woman, and had thought that her offence had come simply from that feeling. ‘But of course it is nothing to me,’ she said. ‘Mr Eames can choose his friends as he likes. I only wish that my name might not be mentioned to them.’

‘It is not from him that she has heard it.’

‘Perhaps not. As I said before, of course, it does not signify; only there is something very disagreeable about the whole thing. The idea is so hateful! Of course this woman means me to understand that she considers herself to have a claim upon Mr Eames, and that I stand in her way.’

‘And why should you not stand in her way?’

‘I will stand in nobody’s way. Mr Eames has a right to give his hand to anyone that he pleases. I, at any rate, can have no cause of offence against him. The only thing is that I do wish that my name could be left alone.’ Lily, when she was in her own room again, did destroy the letter; but before she did so she read it again, and it became so indelibly impressed on her memory that she could not forget even the words of it. The lady who wrote had pledged herself, under certain conditions, ‘not to interfere with Miss L D.’ ‘Interfere with me!’ Lily said to herself; ‘nobody has power to do so.’ As she turned it over in her mind, her heart became hard against John Eames. No woman would have troubled herself to write such a letter without some cause for the writing. That the writer was vulgar, false, unfeminine, Lily thought that she could perceive from the letter itself; but no doubt the woman knew John Eames had some interest in the question of his marriage, and was entitled to some answer to her question–only was not entitled to such answer from Lily Dale.

For some weeks past now, up to the hour at which the anonymous letter had reached her hands, Lily’s heart had been growing soft and still softer towards John Eames; and now again it had become hardened. I think that the appearance of Adolphus Crosbie in the Park, that momentary vision of the real man by which the divinity of the imaginary Apollo had been dashed to the ground, had done a service to the cause of her other lover; of the lover who had never been a god, but who of late years had at any rate grown into the full dimension of a man. Unfortunately for the latter, he had commenced his love-making when he was but little more than a boy. Lily, as she had thought of the two together, in the days of her solitude, after she had been deserted by Crosbie, had ever pictured to herself the lover whom she had preferred as having something godlike in his favour, as being far the superior in wit, in manner, in acquirement, and in personal advantage. There had been good-nature and true hearty love on the side of the other man; but circumstances had seemed to show that his good-nature was equal to all, and that he was able to share even his hearty love among two or three. A man of such a character, known by a girl from his boyhood as John Eames had been known by Lily Dale, was likely to find more favour as a friend than as a lover. So it had been between John Eames and Lily. While the untrue memory of what Crosbie was, or ever had been, was present to her, she could hardly bring herself to accept in her mind the idea of a lover who was less noble in his manhood than the false picture which that untrue memory was ever painting for her. Then had come before her eyes the actual man; and though he had been seen but for a moment, the false image had been broken into shivers. Lily had discovered that she had been deceived, and that her forgiveness had been asked, not by a god, but by an ordinary human being. As regarded the ungodlike man himself, this could make no difference. Having thought upon the matter deeply, she had resolved that she would not marry Mr Crosbie, and had pledged herself to that effect to friends who never could have brought themselves to feel affection for him, even had she married him. But the shattering of the false image might have done John Eames a good turn. Lily knew that she had at any rate full permission from all her friends to throw in her lot with his–if she could persuade herself to do so. Mother, uncle, sister, brother-in-law, cousin–and now this new cousin’s bride that was to be–together with Lady Julia and a whole crowd of Allington and Guestwick friends, were in favour of such a marriage. There had been nothing against it but the fact that the other man had been dearer to her; and that other fact that poor Johnny lacked something–something of earnestness, something of manliness, something of that Phoebus divinity with which Crosbie had contrived to invest his own image. But, as I have said above, John had gradually grown, if not into divinity, at least into manliness; and the shattering of the false image had done him yeoman’s service. Now had come this accursed letter, and Lily, despite herself, despite her better judgment, could not sweep it away from her mind and make the letter as nothing to her. M D had promised not to interfere with her! There was no room for such interference, no possibility that such interference should take place. She hoped earnestly–so she told herself–that her old friend John Eames might have nothing to do with a woman so impudent and vulgar as must be this M D; but except as regarded old friendship, M D and John Eames, apart or together, could be as nothing to her. Therefore, I say that the letter had had the effect which the writer of it had desired.

All London was new to Lily Dale, and Mrs Thorne was very anxious to show her everything that could be seen. She was to return to Allington before the flowers of May would have come, and the crowd and the glare and the fashion and the art of the Academy’s great exhibition must therefore remain unknown to her; but she was taken to see many pictures, and among others she was taken to see the pictures belonging to a certain nobleman who, with that munificence which is so amply enjoyed and so little recognised in England, keeps open house for the world to see the treasures which the wealth of his family had collected. The necessary order was procured, and on a certain brilliant April afternoon, Mrs Thorne and her party found themselves in this nobleman’s drawing-room. Lily was with her, of course, and Emily Dunstable was there, and Bernard Dale, and Mrs Thorne’s dear friend Mrs Harold Smith, and Mrs Thorne’s constant and useful attendant, Siph Dunn. They had nearly completed their delightful but wearying task of gazing at pictures, and Mrs Harold Smith had declared that she would not look at another painting till the exhibition was open; three of the ladies were seated in the drawing-room, and Siph Dunn was standing before them, lecturing about art as though he had been brought up on the ancient masters; Emily and Bernard were lingering behind, and the others were simply delaying their departure till the truant lovers should have caught them. At this moment two gentlemen entered the room from the gallery, and the two gentlemen were Fowler Pratt and Adolphus Crosbie.

All the party except Mrs Thorne knew Crosbie personally, and all of them except Mrs Harold Smith knew something of the story of what had occurred between Crosbie and Lily. Siph Dunn had learned it all since the meeting in the park, having nearly learned it all from what he had seen with there with his eyes. But Mrs Thorne, who knew Lily’s story, did not know Crosbie’s appearance. But there was his friend Fowler Pratt, who, as will be remembered, had dined with her but the other day; and she, with that outspoken and somewhat loud impulse which was natural to her, addressed him at once across the room, calling him by name. Had she not done so, the two men might probably have escaped through the room, in which case they would have met Bernard Dale and Emily Dunstable in the doorway. Fowler Pratt would have endeavoured so to escape, and to carry Crosbie with him, as he was quite alive to the experience of saving Lily from such a meeting. But, as things turned out, escape from Mrs Thorne was impossible.

‘There’s Fowler Pratt,’ she had said when they first entered, quite loud enough for Fowler Pratt to hear her. ‘Mr Pratt, come here. How d’ye do? You dined with me last Tuesday, and you’ve never been to call.’

‘I never recognise that obligation till after the middle of May,’ said Mr Pratt, shaking hands with Mrs Thorne and Mrs Smith, and bowing to Miss Dale.

‘I don’t see the justice of that at all,’ said Mrs Thorne. ‘It seems to me that a good dinner is much entitled to a morsel of pasteboard in April as at any other time. You won’t have another till you have called–unless you’re specially wanted.’

Crosbie would have gone on, but that in his attempt to do so he passed close by the chair on which Mrs Harold Smith was sitting, and that he was accosted by her. ‘Mr Crosbie,’ she said, ‘I haven’t seen you for an age. Has it come to pass that you have buried yourself entirely?’ He did not know how to extricate himself so as to move on at once. He paused, and hesitated, and then stopped, and made an attempt to talk to Mrs Smith as though he were at his ease. The attempt was anything but successful; but having once stopped, he did not know how to put himself in motion again, so that he might escape. At this moment Bernard Dale and Emily Dunstable came up and joined the group; but neither of them had discovered who Crosbie was till they were close upon him.

Lily was seated between Mrs Thorne and Mrs Smith, and Siph Dunn had been standing immediately opposite to them. Fowler Pratt, who had been drawn into the circle against his will, was now standing close to Dunn, almost between him and Lily–and Crosbie was standing within two yards of Lily, on the other side of Dunn. Emily and Bernard had gone behind Pratt and Crosbie to Mrs Thorne’s side before they had recognised the two men;–and in this way Lily was completely surrounded. Mrs Thorne, who in spite of her eager, impetuous ways, was as thoughtful of others as any woman could be, as soon as she heard Crosbie’s name understood it all, and knew that it would be well that she should withdraw Lily from her plight. Crosbie, in his attempt to talk to Mrs Smith, had smiled and simpered, and had then felt that to smile and simper before Lily Dale, with a pretended indifference to her presence, was false on his part, and would seem to be mean. He would have avoided Lily for both their sakes, had it been possible; but it was no longer possible, and he could not keep his eyes from her face. Hardly knowing what he did, he bowed to her, lifted his hat, and uttered some word of greeting.

Lily, from the moment that she had perceived his presence, had looked straight before her, with something of fierceness in her eyes. Both Pratt and Siph Dunn had observed her narrowly. It had seemed as though Crosbie had been altogether outside the ken of her eyes, or the notice of her ears, and yet she had seen every motion of his body, and had heard every word which had fallen from his lips. Now, when he saluted her, she turned her face full upon him, and bowed to him. Then she rose from her seat, and made her way, between Siph Dunn and Pratt, out of the circle. The blood had mounted to her face and suffused it all, and her whole manner was such that it could escape the observation of none who stood there. Even Mrs Harold Smith had seen it, and had read the story. As soon as she was on her feet, Bernard had dropped Emily’s hand, and offered his arm to his cousin. ‘Lily,’ he had said out loud, ‘you had better let me take you away. It is a misfortune that you have been subjected to the insult of such a greeting.’ Bernard and Crosbie had been early friends, and Bernard had been the unfortunate means of bringing Crosbie and Lily together. Up to this day, Bernard had never had his revenge for the ill-treatment which his cousin had received. Some morsel of that revenge came to him now. Lily almost hated her cousin for what he said; but she took his arm, and walked with him from the room. It must be acknowledged in excuse for Bernard Dale, and as an apology for the apparent indiscretion of his words, that all the circumstances of the meeting had become apparent to everyone there. The misfortune of the encounter had become too plain to admit of its being hidden under any of the ordinary veils of society. Crosbie’s salutation had been made before the eyes of them all, and in the midst of absolute silence, and Lily had risen with so queen-like a demeanour, and had moved with so stately a step, that it was impossible that anyone concerned should pretend to ignore the facts of the scene that had occurred. Crosbie was still standing close to Mrs Harold Smith, Mrs Thorne had risen from her seat, and the words which Bernard Dale had uttered were still sounding in the ears of them all. ‘Shall I see after the carriage?’ said Siph Dunn. ‘Do,’ said Mrs Thorne; ‘or, stay a moment; the carriage will of course be there, and we will go together. Good-morning, Mr Pratt. I expect that, at any rate, you will send me your card by post.’ Then they all passed on, and Crosbie and Fowler Pratt were left among the pictures.

‘I think you will agree with me now that you had better give her up,’ said Fowler Pratt.

‘I will never give her up,’ said Crosbie, ’till I hear that she has married someone else.’

‘You may take my word for it, that she will never marry you after what has just occurred.’

‘Very likely not; but still the attempt, even the idea of the attempt will be a comfort to me. I shall be endeavouring to do that which I ought to have done.’

‘What you have got to think of, I should suppose, is her comfort–not your own.’

Crosbie stood for a while silent, looking at a portrait which was hung just within the doorway of a smaller room into which they had passed, as though his attention were entirely rivetted by the picture. But he was thinking of the picture not at all, and did not even know what kind of painting was on the canvas before him.

‘Pratt,’ he said at last, ‘you are always hard to me.’

‘I will say nothing more to you on the subject, if you wish me to be silent.’

‘I do wish you to be silent about that.’

‘That shall be enough,’ said Pratt.

‘You do not quite understand me. You do not know how thoroughly I have repented of the evil that I have done, or how far I would go to make retribution, if retribution were possible.’

Fowler Pratt having been told to hold his tongue as regarded that subject, made no reply to this, and began to talk about the pictures.

Lily, leaning on her cousin’s arm, was out in the courtyard in front of the house before Mrs Thorne and Siph Dunn. It was but for a minute, but still there was a minute in which Bernard felt that he ought to say a word to her.

‘I hope you are not angry with me, Lily, for having spoken.’

‘I wish, of course, that you had not spoken; but I am not angry. I have no right to be angry. I made the misfortune for myself. Do not say anything more about it, dear Bernard;–that is all.’

They had walked to the picture-gallery; but, by agreement, two carriages had come to take them away–Mrs Thorne’s and Mrs Harold Smith’s. Mrs Thorne easily managed to send Emily Dunstable and Bernard away with her friend, and to tell Siph Dunn that he must manage for himself. In this way it was contrived that no one but Mrs Thorne should be with Lily Dale.

‘My dear,’ said Mrs Thorne, ‘it seemed to me that you were a little put out, and so I thought it best to send them all away.’

‘It was very kind.’

‘He ought to have passed on and not to have stood an instant when he saw you,’ said Mrs Thorne, with indignation. ‘There are moments when it is a man’s duty simply to vanish, to melt into the air, or to sink into the ground–in which he is bound to overcome the difficulties of such sudden self-removal, or must ever after be accounted poor and mean.’

‘I did not want him to vanish;–if only he had not spoken to me.’

‘He should have vanished. A man is sometimes bound in honour to do so, even when he himself has done nothing wrong;–when the sin has been all with the woman. Her femininity has still a right to expect that so much shall be done in its behalf. But when the sin has been all his own, as it was in this case–and such damning sin too–‘

‘Pray do not go on, Mrs Thorne.’

‘He ought to go out and hang himself simply for having allowed himself to be seen. I thought Bernard behaved very well, and I shall tell him so.’

‘I wish you could manage to forget it all, and say no word more about it.’

‘I won’t trouble you with it, my dear; I will promise you that. But, Lily, I can hardly understand you. This man who must have been and must ever be a brute–‘

‘Mrs Thorne, you promised me this instant that you would not talk of him.’

‘After this I will not; but you must let me have my way now for one moment. I have so often longed to speak to you, but have not done so from fear of offending you. Now the matter has come up by chance, and it was impossible that what has occurred should pass by without a word. I cannot conceive why the memory of that bad man should be allowed to destroy your whole life.’

‘My life is not destroyed. My life is anything but destroyed. It is a very happy life.’

‘But, my dear, if all that I hear is true, there is a most estimable young man whom everybody likes, and particularly all your own family, and whom you like very much yourself; and you will have nothing to say to him, though his constancy is like the constancy of an old Paladin–and all because of this wretch who just now came in your way.’

‘Mrs Thorne, it is impossible to explain it all.’

‘I do not want you to explain it all. Of course I would not ask any young woman to marry any man whom she did not love. Such marriages are abominable to me. But I think that a young woman ought to get married if the thing fairly comes in her way, and if her friends approve, and if she is fond of the man who is fond of her. It may be that some memory of what has gone before is allowed to stand in your way, and that it should not be so allowed. It sometimes happens that a horrid morbid sentiment will destroy a life. Excuse me, then, Lily, if I say too much to you in my hope that you may not suffer after this fashion.’

‘I know how kind you are, Mrs Thorne.’

‘Here we are at home, and perhaps you would like to go in. I have some calls which I must make.’ Then the conversation was ended, and Lily was alone.

As if she had not thought of it all before! As if here was anything new in this counsel which Mrs Thorne had given her! She had received the same advice from her mother, from her sister, from her uncle, and from Lady Julia, till she was sick of it. How had it come to pass that matters which with others are so private, should with her have become the public property of so large a circle? Any other girl would receive advice on such a subject from her mother alone, and there the secret would rest. But her secret had been published, as it were, by the town-crier in the High Street! Everybody knew that she had been jilted by Adolphus Crosbie, and that it was intended that she should be consoled by John Eames. And people seemed to think that they had a right to rebuke her if she expressed an unwillingness to carry out this intention which the public had so kindly arranged for her.

Morbid sentiment! Why should she be accused of morbid sentiment because she was unable to transfer her affections to a man who had been fixed on as her future husband by the large circle of acquaintances who had interested themselves in her affairs? There was nothing morbid in either her desires or her regrets. So she assured herself, with something very like anger at the accusation made against her. She had been contented, and was contented, to live at home as her mother had lived, asking for no excitement beyond that given by the daily routine of her duties. There could be nothing morbid in that. She would go back to Allington as soon as might be, and have done with this London life, which only made her wretched. This seeing of Crosbie had been terrible to her. She did not tell herself that his image had been shattered. Her idea was that all her misery had come from the untowardness of the meeting. But there was the fact that she had seen the man and heard his voice, and that the seeing him and hearing him had made her miserable. She certainly desired that it might never be her lot either to see him or to hear him again.

And as for John Eames–in those bitter moments of her reflection she almost wished the same in regard to him. If he would only cease to be her lover, he might be very well; but he was not very well to her as long as his pretensions were dinned into her ear by everybody who knew her. And then she told herself that John would have a better chance if he had been content to plead for himself. In this, I think, she was hard upon her lover. He had pleaded for himself as well as he knew how, and as often as the occasion had been given to him. It had hardly been his fault that his case had been taken in hand by other advocates. He had given no commission to Mrs Thorne to plead for him.

Poor Johnny. He had stood in much better favour before that lady had presented her compliments to Miss L D. It was that odious letter, and the thoughts which it had forced upon Lily’s mind, which were now most inimical to his interests. Whether Lily loved him or not, she did not love him well enough to be jealous of him. Had nay such letter reached her respecting Crosbie in the happy days of her young love, she would have simply have laughed at it. It would have been nothing to her. But now she was sore and unhappy, and any trifle was powerful enough to irritate her. ‘Is Miss L D engaged to marry Mr J E?’ ‘No,’ said Lily, out loud. ‘Lily Dale is not engaged to marry John Eames, and never will be so engaged.’ She was almost tempted to sit down and write the required answer to Miss M D. Though the letter had been destroyed, she well remembered the number of the post-office in the Edgware Road. Poor John Eames.

That evening she told Emily Dunstable that she thought she would like to return to Allington before the day that had been appointed for her. ‘But why,’ said Emily, ‘should you be worse than your word?’

‘I daresay it will seem silly, but the fact is I am homesick. I’m not accustomed to be away from mama for so long.’

‘I hope it is not what occurred today at the picture-gallery.’

‘I won’t deny that it is that in part.’

‘That was a strange accident, you know, that might never occur again.’

‘It has occurred twice already, Emily.’

‘I don’t call the affair in the park anything. Anybody may see anybody else in the Park, of course. He was not brought near you that he could annoy you there. You ought certainly to wait till Mr Eames has come back from Italy.’

Then Lily decided that she must and would go back to Allington on the next Monday, and she actually did write a letter to her mother that night to say that such was her intention. But on the morrow her heart was less sore, and the letter was not sent.

CHAPTER LX

THE END OF JAEL AND SISERA

There was to be one more sitting for the picture, as the reader will remember, and the day for that sitting had arrived. Conway Dalrymple had in the meantime called at Mrs Van Siever’s house, hoping that he might be able to see Clara, and make his offer there. But he had failed in his attempt to reach her. He had found it impossible to say all that he had to say in the painting-room during the very short intervals which Mrs Broughton left to him. A man should be allowed to be alone more than fifteen minutes with a young lady on the occasion in which he offers her his hand and his heart; but hitherto he had never had more than fifteen minutes at his command; and then there had been the turban! He had also in the meantime called in Mrs Broughton with the intention of explaining to her that if she really intended to favour his views in respect to Miss Van Siever, she ought to give him a little more liberty for expressing himself. Mrs Broughton found it necessary during this meeting to talk almost exclusively about herself and her own affairs. ‘Conway,’ she had said, directly she saw him, ‘I am so glad you have come. I think I should have gone mad if I had not seen someone who cares for me.’ This was early in the morning, not much after eleven, and Mrs Broughton, hearing first his knock at the door, and then his voice, had met him in the hall and taken him into the dining-room.

‘Is anything the matter?’ he asked.

‘Oh, Conway!’

‘What is it? Has anything gone wrong with Dobbs?’

‘Everything has gone wrong with him. He is ruined.’

‘Heaven and earth! What do you mean?’

‘Simply what I say. But you must not speak a word of it. I do not know it from himself.’

‘How do you know it?’

‘Wait a moment. Sit down there, will you?–and I will sit by you. No, Conway; do not take my hand. It is not right. There;–so. Yesterday Mrs Van Siever was here. I need not tell you all that she said to me, even if I could. She was very harsh and cruel, saying all manner of things about Dobbs. How can I help it, if he drinks? I have not encouraged him. And as for expensive living, I have been as ignorant as a child. I have never asked for anything. When we were married somebody told me how much we should have to spend. It was either two thousand, or three thousand, or four thousand, or something like that. You know, Conway, how ignorant I am about money;–that I am like a child. Is it not true?’ She waited for an answer and Dalrymple was obliged to acknowledge that it was true. And yet he had known the times in which his dear friend had been very sharp in her memory with reference to a few pounds. ‘And now she says that Dobbs owes her money which he cannot pay her, and that everything must be sold. She says that Musselboro must have the business, and Dobbs must shift for himself elsewhere.’

‘Do you believe that she has the power to decide that things shall go this way or that–as she pleases?’

‘How am I to know? She says so, and she says it is because he drinks. He does drink. That at least is true; but how can I help it? Oh, Conway, what am I to do? Dobbs did not come home at all last night, but sent for his things–saying that he must stay in the City. What am I to do if they come and take the house, and sell the furniture, and turn me out into the street?’ Then the poor creature began to cry in earnest, and Dalrymple had to console her as best he might. ‘How I wish I had known you first,’ she said. To this Dalrymple was able to make no direct answer. He was wise enough to know that a direct answer might possible lead him into terrible trouble. He was by no means anxious to find himself ‘protecting’ Mrs Dobbs Broughton from the ruin which her husband had brought upon her.

Before he left her she had told him a long story, partly of matters of which he had known something before, and partly made up of that which she had heard from the old woman. It was settled, Mrs Broughton said, that Mr Musselboro was to marry Clara Van Siever. But it appeared, as far as Dalrymple could learn, that this was a settlement made simply between Mrs Van Siever and Musselboro. Clara, as he thought, was not a girl likely to fall into such a settlement without having an opinion of her own. Musselboro was to have the business, and Dobbs Broughton was to be ‘sold up’ and then look for employment in the City. From her husband the wife had not heard a word on the matter, and the above story was simply what had been told to Mrs Broughton by Mrs Van Siever. ‘For myself it seems that there can be but one fate,’ said Mrs Broughton. Dalrymple, in his tenderest voice, asked what that one fate must be. ‘Never mind,’ said Mrs Broughton. ‘There are some things which one cannot tell even to such a friend as you.’ He was sitting near her and had all but got his arm behind her waist. He was, however, able to be prudent. ‘Maria,’ he said, getting up on his feet, ‘if it should really come about that you should want anything, you will send to me. You will promise me that, at any rate?’ She rubbed a tear from her eye and said that she did not know. ‘There are moments in which a man must speak plainly,’ said Conway Dalrymple;–‘in which it would be unmanly not to do so, however prosaic it may seem. I need hardly tell you that my purse shall be yours if you want it.’ But just at that moment she did not want his purse, nor must it be supposed that she wanted to run away with him and to leave her husband to fight the battle with Mrs Van Siever. The truth was that she did not know what she wanted, over and beyond an assurance from Conway Dalrymple that she was the most ill-used, the most interesting, and the most beautiful woman ever heard of, either in history or romance. Had he proposed to her to pack up a bundle and go off with him in a cab to the London Chatham, and Dover railway station, I do not for a moment think that she would have packed up her bundle. She would have received intense gratification from the offer–so much so that she would have been almost consoled for her husband’s ruin; but she would have scolded her lover, and would have explained to him the great iniquity of which he was guilty. It was clear to him that at this present time he could not make any special terms with her as to Clara Van Siever. At such a moment as this he could hardly ask her to keep out of the way, in order that he might have his opportunity. But when he suggested that probably it might be better, in the present emergency, to give up the idea of any further sitting in her room, and proposed to send for his canvas, colour-box, and easel, she told him that, as far as she was concerned, he was welcome to have that one other sitting for which they had all bargained. ‘You had better come tomorrow, as we had agreed,’ she said; ‘and unless I shall have been turned out into the street by the creditors, you may have the room as you did before. And you must remember, Conway, that though Mrs Van Siever says that Musselboro is to have Clara, it doesn’t follow that Clara should give way.’ When we consider everything, we must acknowledge that this was, at any rate, good-natured. Then there was a tender parting, with many tears, and Conway Dalrymple escaped from the house.

He did not for a moment doubt the truth of the story which Mrs Broughton had told, as far, at least, as it referred to the ruin of Dobbs Broughton. He had heard something of this before, and for some weeks had expected that a crash was coming. Broughton’s rise had been very sudden, and Dalrymple had never regarded his friend as firmly placed in the commercial world. Dobbs was one of those men who seem born to surprise the world by a spurt of prosperity, and might, perhaps, have a second spurt, or even a third, could he have kept himself from drinking in the morning. But Dalrymple, though he was hardly astonished by the story, as it regarded Broughton, was put out by that part of it which had reference to Musselboro. He had known that Musselboro had been introduced to Broughton by Mrs Van Siever, but, nevertheless, he had regarded the man as being nor more than Broughton’s clerk. And now he was told that Musselboro was to marry Clara Van Siever, and have all Mrs Van Siever’s money. He resolved, at last, that he would run his risk about the money, and take Clara either with or without it, if she would have him. And as for that difficulty in asking her, if Mrs Broughton would give him no opportunity of putting the question behind her back, he would put it before her face. He had not much leisure for consideration on these points, as the next day was the day for the last sitting.

On the following morning he found Miss Van Siever already seated in Mrs Broughton’s room when he reached it. And at the moment Mrs Broughton was not there. As he took Clara’s hand he could not prevent himself from asking her whether she had heard anything? ‘Heard what?’ asked Clara. ‘Then you have not,’ said he. ‘Never mind now, as Mrs Broughton is here.’ Then Mrs Broughton had entered the room. She seemed to be quite cheerful, but Dalrymple perfectly understood, from a special glance which she gave to him, that he was to perceive that her cheerfulness was assumed for Clara’s benefit. Mrs Broughton was showing how great a heroine she could be on behalf of her friends. ‘Now, my dear,’ she said, ‘do remember that this is the last day. It may be very well, Conway, and, of course, you know best; but as far as I can see, you have not made half as much progress as you ought to have done.’ ‘We shall do excellently well,’ said Dalrymple. ‘So much the better,’ said Mrs Broughton; ‘and now, Clara, I’ll place you.’ And so Clara was placed on her knees, with the turban on her head.

Dalrymple began his work assiduously, knowing that Mrs Broughton would not leave the room for some minutes. It was certain that she would remain for a quarter of an hour, and it might be as well that he should really use that time on the picture. The peculiar position in which he was placed probably made his word difficult to him. There was something perplexing in the necessity which bound him to look upon the young lady before him both as Jael and as the future Mrs Conway Dalrymple, knowing as he did that she was at present simply Clara Van Siever. A double personification was not difficult to him. He had encountered it with every model that had sat to him, and with every young lady he had attempted to win–if he had ever made such an attempt with one before. But the triple character joined to the necessity of the double work, was distressing to him. ‘The hand a little further back, if you don’t mind,’ he said, ‘and the wrist more turned towards me. That is just it. Lean a little more over him. There–that will do exactly.’ If Mrs Broughton did not go very quickly, he must begin to address his model on a totally different subject, even while she was in the act of slaying Sisera.

‘Have you made up your mind who is to be Sisera?’ asked Mrs Broughton.

‘Not in the least,’ said Clara, speaking without moving her face –almost without moving her lips.

‘That will be excellent,’ said Mrs Broughton. She was still quite cheerful, and really laughed as she spoke. ‘Shall you like the idea, Clara, of striking the nail right through his head?’

‘Oh, yes; as well as his head’s as another’s. I shall seem to be having my revenge for all the trouble he has given me.’

There was a slight pause, and then Dalrymple spoke. ‘You have had that already, in striking me right through the heart.’

‘What a very pretty speech! Was it not, my dear?’ said Mrs Broughton. And then Mrs Broughton laughed. There was something slightly hysterical in her laugh which grated on Dalrymple’s ears–something which seemed to tell him that at the present moment his dear friend was not going to assist him honestly in his effort.

‘Only that I should put him out, I would get up and make a curtsey,’ said Clara. No young lady could ever talk of making a curtsey for such a speech if she supposed it to have been made in earnestness. And Clara, no doubt, understood that a man might make a hundred such speeches in the presence of a third person without any danger that they would be taken as meaning anything. All this Dalrymple knew, and began to think that he had better put down his palette and brush, and do the work which he had before him in the most prosaic language that he could use. He could, at any rate, succeed in making Clara acknowledge his intention in this way. He waited still for a minute or two, and it seemed to him that Mrs Broughton had no intention of piling her fagots on the present occasion. It might be that the remembrance of her husband’s ruin prevented her from sacrificing herself in the other direction also.

‘I am not very good at pretty speeches, but I am good at telling the truth,’ said Dalrymple.

‘Ha, ha, ha!’ laughed Mrs Broughton, still with a touch of hysterical action in her throat. ‘Upon my word, Conway, you know how to praise yourself.’

‘He dispraises himself most unnecessarily in denying the prettiness of his language,’ said Clara. As she spoke she hardly moved her lips, and Dalrymple went on painting from the model. It was clear that Miss Van Siever understood that the painting, and not the pretty speeches, was the important business on hand.

Mrs Broughton had now tucked her feet up on the sofa, and was gazing at the artist as he stood at his work. Dalrymple, remembering how he had offered her his purse–an offer which, in the existing crisis of her affairs, might mean a great deal–felt that she was ill-natured. Had she intended to do him a good turn, she would have gone now; but there she lay, with her feet tucked up, clearly proposing to be present through the whole of the morning’s sitting. His anger against her added something to his spirit, and made him determine that he would carry out his purpose. Suddenly, therefore, he prepared himself for action.

He was in the habit of working with a Turkish cap on his head, and with a short apron tied round him. There was something picturesque about the cap, which might not have been incongruous with love-making. It is easy to suppose that Juan wore a Turkish cap when he sat with Haidee in Lambro’s island. But we may be quite sure that he did not wear an apron. Now Dalrymple had thought of all this, and had made up his mind to work