The Last Chronicle of Barset by Anthony Trollope (page 4)

be too independent to obey my orders. Here are two most important letters that have been lying here all day, instead of being sent up to me at the Treasury.’

‘Of course they have been lying there. I thought you went to the club.’

‘I told you that I should go to the Treasury. I have been there all morning with the chancellor’–when Sir Raffle spoke officially of the chancellor he was not supposed to mean the Lord Chancellor–‘and here I find letters which I particularly wanted lying upon my desk now. I must put an end to this kind of thing. I must, indeed. If you like the outer office better say so at once, and you can go.’

‘I’ll think about it, Sir Raffle.’

‘Think about it! What do you mean by thinking about it? But I can’t talk about that now. I’m very busy, and shall be here till past seven. I suppose you can stay?’

‘All night, if you wish it, sir.’

‘Very well. That will do for the present–I wouldn’t have had these letters delayed for twenty pounds.’

‘I don’t suppose it would have mattered one straw if both of them remained unopened till next week.’ This last little speech, however, was not made aloud to Sir Raffle, but by Johnny to himself in the solitude of his own room.

Very soon after that he went away, Sir Raffle having discovered that one of the letters in question required immediate return to the West End. ‘I’ve changed my mind about staying. I shan’t stay now. I should have done if these letters had reached me as they ought.’

‘Then I suppose I can go?’

‘You can do as you like about that,’ said Sir Raffle.

Eames did do as he liked, and went home, or to his club; and as he went he resolved that he would put an end, and at once, to the present trouble of his life. Lily Dale should accept him or reject him; and, taking either the one or other alternative, she should hear a bit of his mind plainly spoken.

CHAPTER XVI

DOWN AT ALLINGTON

It was Christmas-time down at Allington, and at three o’clock on Christmas Eve, just as the darkness of the early winter evening was coming on, Lily Dale and Grace Crawley were seated together, one above the other, on the steps leading up to the pulpit at Allington Church. They had been working all day at the decorations of the church, and they were now looking round them at the result of their handiwork. To an eye unused to the gloom the place would have been nearly dark; but they could see every corner turned by the ivy sprigs, and every line on which the holly-leaves were shining. And the greeneries of the winter had not been stuck up in the old-fashioned, idle way, a bough just fastened up here and a twig inserted there; but everything had been done with some meaning, with some thought towards the original architecture of the building. The Gothic lines had been followed, and all the lower arches which it had been possible to reach with an ordinary ladder had been turned as truly with the laurel cuttings as they had been turned originally with the stone.

‘I wouldn’t tie another twig,’ said the elder girl, ‘for all the Christmas puddings that was ever boiled.’

‘It’s lucky then that there isn’t another twig to tie.’

‘I don’t know about that. I see a score of places where the work has been scamped. This is the sixth time I have done the church, and I don’t think I’ll ever do it again. When we first began it, Bell and I, you know–before Bell was married–Mrs Boyce, and the Boycian establishment generally, used to come and help. Or rather we used to help her. Now she hardly ever looks after it at all.’

‘She is older, I suppose.’

‘She’s a little older, and a deal idler. How idle people do get! Look at him. Since he has had a curate he hardly ever stirs round the parish. And he is getting so fat that–H–sh! Here she is herself–come to give her judgment upon us.’ Then a stout lady, the wife of the vicar, walked slowly up the aisle. ‘Well, girls,’ she said, ‘you have worked hard, and I am sure Mr Boyce will be very much obliged to you.’

‘Mr Boyce, indeed!’ said Lily Dale. ‘We shall expect the whole parish to rise from their seats and thank us. Why didn’t Jane and Betsy come and help us?’

‘They were so tired when they came in from the coal club. Besides, they don’t care for this kind of thing–not as you do.’

‘Jane is utilitarian to the backbone, I know,’ said Lily, ‘and Betsy doesn’t like getting up ladders.’

‘As for ladders,’ said Mrs Boyce, defending her daughter, ‘I am not quite sure that Betsy isn’t right. You don’t mean to say that you did all those capitals yourself?’

‘Every twig, with Hopkins to hold the ladder and cut the sticks; and as Hopkins is just a hundred and one years old, we could have done it pretty nearly as well alone.’

‘I do not think that,’ said Grace.

‘He has been grumbling all the time,’ said Lily, ‘and swears he never will have the laurels robbed again. Five or six years ago he used to declare that death would certainly save him from the pain of such another desecration before next Christmas; but he has given up that foolish notion now, and talks as though he meant to protect the Allington shrubs at any rate to the end of this century.’

‘I am sure we gave our share from the parsonage,’ said Mrs Boyce, who never understood a joke.

‘All the best came from the parsonage, as of course they ought,’ said Lily. ‘But Hopkins had to make up the deficiency. And as my uncle told him to take the haycart for them instead of the hand-barrow, he is broken-hearted.’

‘I am sure he was very good-natured,’ said Grace.

‘Nevertheless he is broken-hearted; and I am very good-natured too, and I am broken-backed. Who is going to preach tomorrow morning, Mrs Boyce?’

‘Mr Swanton will preach in the morning.’

‘Tell him not to be too long because of the children’s pudding. Tell Mr Boyce if he is long, we won’t any of us come next Sunday.’

‘My dear, how can you say such wicked things! I shall not tell him anything of the kind.’

‘That’s not wicked, Mrs Boyce. If I were to say I had eaten so much lunch that I didn’t want any dinner, you’d understand that. If Mr Swanton will preach for three-quarters of an hour–‘

‘He only preached for three-quarters of an hour once, Lily.’

‘He has been over the half-hour every Sunday since he has been here. His average is over forty minutes, and I say it’s a shame.’

‘It is not a shame at all, Lily,’ said Mrs Boyce, becoming very serious.

‘Look at my uncle; he doesn’t like to go to sleep, and he has to suffer a purgatory in keeping himself awake.’

‘If your uncle is heavy now, how can Mr Swanton help it? If Mr Dale’s mind were on the subject he would not sleep.’

‘Come, Mrs Boyce; there’s somebody else asleep sometimes besides my uncle. When Mr Boyce puts up his finger and just touches his nose, I know as well as possible why he does it.’

‘Lily Dale, you have no business to say so. It is not true. I don’t know how you can bring yourself to talk in that way of your own clergyman. If I were to tell your mamma, she would be shocked.’

‘You won’t be so ill-natured, Mrs Boyce–after all that I’ve done for the church.’

‘If you think more about the clergymen, Lily, and less about the church,’ said Mrs Boyce very sententiously, ‘more about the matter and less about the manner, more of the reality and less of the form, I think you would find that your religion would go further with you. Miss Crawley is the daughter of a clergyman, and I am sure she will agree with me.’

‘If she agrees with anybody in scolding me I’ll quarrel with her.’

‘I didn’t mean to scold you, Lily.’

‘I don’t mind it from you, Mrs Boyce. Indeed, I rather like it. It is a sort of pastoral visitation; and as Mr Boyce never scolds me himself I take it from him by attorney.’ Then there was silence for a minute or two, during which Mrs Boyce was endeavouring to discover whether Miss Dale was laughing at her or not. As she was not quite certain, she thought at last she would let the suspected fault pass unobserved. ‘Don’t wait for us, Mrs Boyce,’ said Lily. ‘We must remain till Hopkins has sent Gregory to sweep the church out and take away the rubbish. We’ll see that the key is left at Mrs Giles’s.’

‘Thank you, my dear. Then I may as well go. I thought I’d come in and see that it was all right. I’m sure Mr Boyce will be very much obliged to you and Miss Crawley. Good-night, my dear.’

‘Good-night, Mrs Boyce; and be sure you don’t let Mr Swanton be long tomorrow.’ To this parting shot Mrs Boyce made no rejoinder; but she hurried out of the church somewhat the quicker for it, and closed the door after her with something of a slam.

Of all persons clergymen are the most irreverent in the handling of things supposed to be sacred, and next to them clergyman’s wives, and after them those other ladies, old or young, who take upon themselves semi-clerical duties. And it is natural that it should be so; for is it not said that familiarity does breed contempt? When a parson takes his lay friend over his church on a week day, how much less of the spirit of genuflexion and head-uncovering the clergyman will display to the layman! The parson pulls about the woodwork and knocks about the stonework, as though it were mere wood and stone; and talks aloud in the aisle, and treats even the reading-desk as a common thing; whereas the visitor whispers gently, and carries himself as though even in looking at a church he was bound to regard himself as performing some service that was half divine. Now Lily Dale and Grace Crawley were both accustomed to churches, and had been so long at work in this church for the last two days, that the building had lost to them much of its sacredness, and they were almost as irreverent as though they were two curates.

‘I am so glad she has gone,’ said Lily. ‘We shall have to stop here for the next hour, as Gregory won’t know what to take away and what to leave. I was so afraid she was going to stop and see us off the premises.’

‘I don’t know why you should dislike her.’

‘I don’t dislike her. I like her very well,’ said Lily Dale. ‘But don’t you feel that there are people whom one knows very intimately, who are really friends–for whom if they were dying one would grieve, whom if they were in misfortune one would go far to help, but with whom for all that one can have no sympathy. And yet they are so near to one that they know all the events of one’s life, and are justified by unquestioned friendship in talking about things which should never be mentioned except where sympathy exists.’

‘Yes; I understand that.’

‘Everybody understands it who has been unhappy. That woman sometimes says things to me that make me wish–wish that they’d make him bishop of Patagonia. And yet does it all in friendship, and mamma says that she is quite right.’

‘I liked her for standing up for her husband.’

‘But he does go to sleep–and then he scratches his nose to show that he’s awake. I shouldn’t have said it, only she is always hinting at uncle Christopher. Uncle Christopher certainly does go to sleep when Mr Boyce preaches, and he hasn’t studied any scientific little movement during his slumbers to make the people believe that he’s all alive. I gave him a hint one day, and he got angry with me!’

‘I shouldn’t have thought he could have been angry with you. It seems to me from what you say that you may do whatever you please with him.’

‘He is very good to me. If you knew it all–if you could understand how good he has been! I’ll try and tell you one day. It is not what he has done that makes me love him so–but what he has thoroughly understood, and what, so understanding, he has not done, and what he has not said. It is a case of sympathy. If ever there was a gentleman uncle Christopher is one. And I used to dislike him so, at one time!’

‘And why?’

‘Chiefly because he would make me wear brown frocks when I wanted to have them pink or green. And he kept me for six months from having them long, and up to this day he scolds me if there is half an inch on the ground for him to tread upon.’

‘I shouldn’t mind that if I were you.’

‘I don’t–not now. But it used to be serious when I was a young girl. And we thought, Bell and I, that he was cross to mamma. He and mamma didn’t agree at first, you know, as they do now. It is quite true that he did dislike mamma when we first came.’

‘I can’t think how anybody could ever dislike Mrs Dale.’

‘But he did. And then he wanted to make up a marriage between Bell and my cousin Bernard. But neither of them cared a bit for each other, and then he used to scold them–and then–and then–and then–Oh, he was so good to me! Here’s Gregory at last. Gregory, we’ve been waiting this hour and a half.’

‘It ain’t ten minutes since Hopkins let me come with the barrows, miss.’

‘Then Hopkins is a traitor. Never mind. You’d better begin now–up there at the steps. It’ll be quite dark in a few minutes. Here’s Mrs Giles with her broom. Come, Mrs Giles; we shall have to pass the night here if you don’t make haste. Are you cold, Grace?’

‘No; I’m not cold. I’m thinking what they are doing now in the church at Hogglestock.’

‘The Hogglestock church is not pretty, like this?’

‘Oh, no. It is a very plain brick building, with something like a pigeon-house for a belfry. And the pulpit is over the reading-desk, and the reading-desk over the clerk, so that papa, when he preaches, is nearly up to the ceiling. And the whole place is divided into pews, in which the farmers hide themselves when they come to church.’

‘So that nobody can see whether they go to sleep or not. Oh, Mrs Giles, you mustn’t pull that down. That’s what we have been putting up all day.’

‘But it be in the way, miss; so that minister can’t budge in or out o’ the door.’

‘Never mind. Then he must stay one side or the other. That would be too much after all our trouble!’ And Miss Dale hurried across the chancel to save some pretty arching boughs, which, in the judgment of Mrs Giles, encroached too much on the vestry door. ‘As if it signified which side he was,’ she said in a whisper to Grace.

‘I don’t suppose they’ll have anything in the church at home.’

‘Somebody will stick up a wreath or two, I daresay.’

‘Nobody will. There never is anybody at Hogglestock to stick up wreaths or do anything for the prettiness of life. And now there will be less than ever. How can mamma look after holly-leaves in her present state? And yet she will miss them, too. Poor mamma sees very little that is pretty; but she has not forgotten how pleasant pretty things are.’

‘I wish I knew your mother, Grace.’

‘I think it would be impossible for anyone to know mamma now–for anyone who had not known her before. She never makes even a new acquaintance. She seems to think that there’s nothing left for her in the world but to try to keep papa out of his misery. And she does not succeed in that. Poor papa!’

‘Is he unhappy about this wicked situation?’

‘Yes; he is very unhappy. But, Lily, I don’t know about its being wicked.’

‘But you know it’s untrue.’

‘Of course I know that papa did not mean to take anything that was not his own. But, you see, nobody knows where it came from; and nobody except mamma and Jane and I understand how very absent papa can be. I’m sure he doesn’t know the least in the world how he came by it himself, or he would tell mamma. Do you know, Lily, I think I have been wrong to come away.’

‘Don’t say that, dear. Remember how anxious Mrs Crawley was that you should come.’

‘But I cannot bear to be comfortable here while they are so wretched at home. It seems such a mockery. Every time I find myself smiling at what you say to me, I think I must be the most heartless creature in the world.’

‘Is it so very bad with them, Grace?’

‘Indeed it is bad. I don’t think you can imagine what mamma has to go through. She has to cook all that is eaten in the house, and then, very often, there is no money in the house to buy anything. If you were to see the clothes she wears, even that would make your heart bleed. I who have been used to being poor all my life–even I, when I am at home, am dismayed by what she has to endure.’

‘What can we do for her, Grace?’

‘You can do nothing, Lily. But when things are like that at home, you can understand what I feel in being here.’

Mrs Giles and Gregory had now completed their task, or had so nearly done so as to make Miss Dale think that she might safely leave the church. ‘We will go in now,’ she said; ‘for it is dark and cold, and what I call creepy. Do you ever fancy that perhaps you will see a ghost some day?’

‘I don’t think I shall ever see a ghost; but all the same I should be half afraid to be here alone in the dark.’

‘I am often here alone in the dark, but I am beginning to think I shall never see a ghost now. I am losing all my romance, and getting to be an old woman. Do you know, Grace, I do so hate myself for being such an old maid.’

‘But who says you’re an old maid, Lily?’

‘I see it in people’s eyes, and hear it in their voices. And they all talk to me as if I were steady, and altogether removed from anything like fun and frolic. It seems to be admitted that if a girl does not want to fall in love, she ought not to care for any other fun in the world. If anybody made out a list of the old ladies in these parts, they’d put down Lady Julia, and mamma, and Mrs Boyce, and me, and old Mrs Hearne. The very children have an awful respect for me, and give over playing directly they see me. Well, mamma, we’ve done at last, and I have had such a scolding from Mrs Boyce.’

‘I daresay you deserved it, my dear.’

‘No, I did not, mamma. Ask Grace if I did.’

‘Was she not saucy to Mrs Boyce, Miss Crawley?’

‘She said Mr Boyce scratches his nose in church,’ said Grace.

‘So he does; and goes to sleep, too.’

‘If you told Mrs Boyce that, Lily, I think she was quite right to scold you.’

Such was Miss Lily Dale, with whom Grace Crawley was staying;–Lily Dale with whom Mr John Eames, of the Income-tax Office, had been so long and so steadily in love, that he was regarded among his fellow-clerks as a miracle of constancy–who had, herself, in former days been so unfortunate in love as to have been regarded among her friends in the country as the most ill-used of women. As John Eames had been able to be comfortable in life–that is to say, not utterly a wretch–in spite of his love, so had she managed to hold up her head, and live as other young women live, in spite of her fortune. But as it may be said also that his constancy was true constancy, although he knew how to enjoy the good things of the world, so also had her misfortune been a true misfortune, although she had been able to bear it without much outer show of shipwreck. For a few days–for a week or two, when the blow first struck her, she had been knocked down, and the friends who were nearest to her had thought that she would never again stand erect upon her feet. But she had been very strong, stout at heart, of a fixed purpose, and capable of resistance against oppression. Even her own mother had been astonished, and sometimes almost dismayed, by the strength of her will. Her mother knew well how it was with her now; but they who saw her frequently, and who did not know her as her mother knew her–the Mrs Boyce’s of her acquaintance–whispered among themselves that Lily Dale was not so soft of heart as people used to think.

On the next day, Christmas Day, as the reader will remember, Grace Crawley was taken up to dine at the big house with the old squire. Mrs Dale’s eldest daughter, with her husband, Dr Crofts, was to be there; and also Lily’s old friend, who was also especially the old friend of Johnny Eames, Lady Julia De Guest. Grace had endeavoured to be excused from the party, pleading many pleas. But the upshot of all her pleas was this–that while her father’s position was so painful she ought not to go out anywhere. In answer to this, Lily Dale, corroborated by her mother, assured her that for her father’s sake she ought not to exhibit any such feeling; that in doing so, she would seem to express a doubt as to her father’s innocence. Then she allowed herself to be persuaded, telling her friend, however, that she knew the day would be very miserable to her. ‘It will be very humdrum, if you please,’ said Lily. ‘Nothing can be more humdrum than Christmas at the Great House. Nevertheless, you must go.’

Coming out of the church, Grace was introduced to the old squire. He was a thin, old man, with grey hair, and the smallest possible grey whiskers, with a dry, solemn face; not carrying in his outward gait much of the customary jollity for Christmas. He took his hat off to Grace, and said some word to her as to hoping to have the pleasure of seeing her at dinner. It sounded very cold to her, and she became at once afraid of him. ‘I wish I was not going,’ she said to Lily, again. ‘I know he thinks I ought not to go. I shall be so thankful if you will but let me stay.’

‘Don’t be foolish, Grace. It all comes from your not knowing him, or understanding him. And how should you understand him? I give you my word that I would tell you if I did not know that he wishes you to go.’

She had to go. ‘Of course I haven’t a dress fit. How should I?’ she said to Lily. ‘How wrong it is of me to put myself up in such a thing as this.’

‘Your dress is beautiful, child. We are none of us going in evening dresses. Pray believe me that I will not make you do wrong. If you won’t trust me, can’t you trust mamma?’

Of course she went. When the three ladies entered the drawing-room of the Great House, they found that Lady Julia had arrived just before them. Lady Julia immediately took hold of Lily, and had her apart, having a word or two to say about the clerk at the Income-tax Office. I am not sure but what the dear old woman sometimes said a few more words than were expedient, with a view to the object which she had so closely at heart. ‘John is to be with us the first week in February,’ she said. ‘I suppose you’ll see him before that, as he’ll probably be with his mother a few days before he comes to me.”

‘I daresay we shall see him quite in time, Lady Julia,’ said Lily.

‘Now, Lily, don’t be ill-natured.’

‘I’m the most good-natured young woman alive, Lady Julia; and as for Johnny, he is always as welcome at the Small House as violets in March. Mamma purrs about him when he comes, asking all manner of flattering questions as though he were a cabinet minister at least, and I always admire some little knickknack that he has got, a new ring, or a stud, or a button. There isn’t another man in all the world whose buttons I’d look at.’

‘It isn’t his buttons, Lily.’

‘Ah, that’s just it. I can go as far as his buttons. But, come, Lady Julia, this is Christmas-time, and Christmas should be a holiday.’

In the meantime Mrs Dale was occupied with her married daughter and her son-in-law, and the squire had attached himself to poor Grace. ‘You have never been in this part of the country before, Miss Crawley,’ he said.

‘No, sir.’

‘It is rather pretty just about here, and Guestwick Manor is a fine place in its way, but we have not so much natural beauty as you have in Barsetshire. Chaldicote Chase is, I think, as pretty as anything in England.’

‘I never saw Chaldicote Chase, sir. It isn’t pretty at all at Hogglestock, where we live.’

‘Ah, I forgot. No; it is not very pretty at Hogglestock. That’s where the bricks come from.’

‘Papa is clergyman at Hogglestock.’

‘Yes, yes; I remember. Your father is a great scholar. I have often heard of him. I am sorry he should be distressed by this charge they have made. But it will all come right in the assizes. They always get at the truth there. I used to be intimate with a clergyman in Barsetshire of the name of Grantly’–Grace felt that her ears were tingling, and that her face was red–‘Archdeacon Grantly. His father was bishop of the diocese.’

‘Yes, sir. Archdeacon Grantly lives at Plumstead.’

‘I was staying once with an old friend of mine, Mr Thorne of Ullathorne, who lives close to Plumstead, and saw a good deal of them. I remember thinking Henry Grantly was a very nice lad. He married afterwards.’

‘Yes sir; but his wife is dead now, and he has got a little girl–Edith Grantly.’

‘Is there no other child?’

‘No sir; only Edith.’

‘You know him, then?’

‘Yes sir; I know Major Grantly–and Edith. I never saw Archdeacon Grantly.’

‘Then, my dear, you never saw a very famous pillar of the Church. I remember when people used to talk a great deal about Archdeacon Grantly; but when his time came to be made a bishop, he was not sufficiently new-fangled; and so he got passed by. He is much better off as he is, I should say. Bishops have to work very hard, my dear.’

‘Do they, sir?’

‘So they tell me. And the archdeacon is a wealthy man. So Henry Grantly has got an only daughter? I hope she is a nice child, for I remember liking him well.’

‘She is a very nice child, indeed Mr Dale. She could not be nicer. And she is so lovely.’ Then Mr Dale looked into his young companion’s face, struck by the sudden animation of her words, and perceived for the first time that she was very pretty.

After this Grace became accustomed to the strangeness of the faces round her, and managed to eat her dinner without much perturbation of spirit. When after dinner the squire proposed to her that they should drink the health of her papa and mamma, she was almost reduced to tears, and yet she liked him for doing it. It was terrible to her to have them mentioned, knowing as she did that everyone who mentioned them must be aware of their misery–for the misfortune of her father had become notorious in the country; but it was almost terrible to her that no allusion should be made to them; for then she would be driven to think that her father was regarded as a man whom the world could not afford to mention. ‘Papa and mamma,’ she just murmured, raising her glass to her lips. ‘Grace, dear,’ said Lily from across the table, ‘here’s papa and mamma, and the young man at Malborough who is carrying everything before him.’ ‘Yes; and we won’t forget the young man at Malborough,’ said the squire. Grace felt this to be good-natured, because her brother at Malborough was the one bright spot in her family–and she was comforted.

‘And we will drink the health of my friend, John Eames,’ said Lady Julia.

‘John Eames’s health,’ said the squire, in a low voice.

‘Johnny’s health,’ said Mrs Dale; but Mrs Dale’s voice was not very brisk.

‘John’s health,’ said Dr Crofts and Mrs Crofts, in a breath.

‘Here’s the health of John Eames,’ said Lily; and her voice was the clearest and boldest of them all. But she made up her mind that if Lady Julia could not be induced to spare her for the future, she and Lady Julia must quarrel. ‘No one can understand,’ she said to her mother that evening, ‘how dreadful it is–this being constantly told before one’s family and friends that one ought to marry a certain young man.’

‘She didn’t say that, my dear.’

‘I should much prefer that she should, then I could get up on my legs and answer her off the reel.’ Of course everybody there understood what she meant–including old John Bates, who stood at the sideboard and coolly drank the toast himself.

‘He always does that to all the family toasts on Christmas Day. Your uncle likes it.’

‘That wasn’t a family toast, and John Bates had no right to drink it.’

After dinner they all played cards–a round game–and the squire put in the stakes. ‘Now, Grace,’ said Lily, ‘you are the visitor and you must win, or else Uncle Christopher won’t be happy. He always likes a young lady visitor to win.’

‘But I never played a game of cards in my life.’

‘Go and sit next to him, and he’ll teach you. Uncle Christopher, won’t you teach Grace Crawley? She never saw a Pope Joan board in her life before.’

‘Come here, my dear, and sit next to me. Dear, dear, dear; fancy Henry Grantly having a little girl. What a handsome lad he was. And it seems only yesterday.’ If it was so that Lily had said a word to her uncle about Grace and the major, the old squire had become on a sudden very sly. Be that as it may, Grace Crawley thought he was a pleasant old man; and though, while talking to him about Edith, she persisted in not learning to play Pope Joan, so that he could not contrive that she should win, nevertheless the squire took to her very kindly, and told her to come up with Lily and see him sometimes while she was staying at the Small House. The squire in speaking of his sister-in-law’s cottage always called it the Small House.

‘Only think of winning,’ said Lady Julia, drawing together her wealth. ‘Well, I’m sure I want it bad enough, for I don’t at all know whether I’ve got any income of my own. It’s all John Eames’s fault, my dear, for he won’t go and make those people settle it in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.’ Poor Lily, who was standing on the hearth-rug, touched her mother’s arms. She knew Johnny’s name was lugged in with reference to Lady Julia’s money altogether for her benefit. ‘I wonder whether she had a Johnny of her own,’ she said to her mother, ‘and if so, whether she liked it when her friends sent the town-crier round to talk about him.’

‘She means to be good-natured,’ said Mrs Dale.

‘Of course she does. But it is such a pity when people won’t understand.’

‘My uncle didn’t bite you after all, Grace,’ said Lily to her friend as they were going home at night, by the pathway which led from the garden of one house to the garden of the other.

‘I like Mr Dale very much,’ said Grace. ‘He was very kind to me.’

‘There is some queer-looking animal of whom they say that he is better than he looks, and I always think of that saying when I think of my uncle.’

‘For shame, Lily,’ said her mother. ‘Your uncle, for his age, is as good looking a man as I know. And he always looks like just what he is–an English gentleman.’

‘I didn’t mean to say a word against his dear old face and figure, mamma; but his heart and mind, and general disposition, as they come out in experience and days of trial, are so much better than the samples of them which he puts out on the counter for men and women to judge by. He wears well, and he washes well–if you know what I mean, Grace.’

‘Yes; I think I know what you mean.’

‘The Apollos of the world–I don’t mean in outward looks, mamma–but the Apollos in heart, the men–and the women too–who are so full of feeling, so soft-natured, so kind, who never say a cross word, who never get out of bed on the wrong side in the morning–it so often turns out that they won’t wash.’

Such was the expression of Miss Dale’s experience.

CHAPTER XVII

MR CRAWLEY IS SUMMONED TO BARCHESTER

The scene which occurred in Hogglestock church on the Sunday after Mr Thumble’s first visit to the parish had not been described with accuracy either by the archdeacon in his letter to his son, or by Mrs Thorne. There had been no footman from the palace in attendance on Mr Thumble, nor had there been a battle with the brickmakers; neither had Mr Thumble been put under the pump. But Mr Thumble had gone over, taking his gown and surplice with him, on the Sunday morning, and had intimated to Mr Crawley his intention of performing the service. Mr Crawley, in answer to this, had assured Mr Thumble that he would not be allowed to open his mouth in the church; and Mr Thumble, not seeing his way to any further successful action, had contented himself with attending the services in his surplice, making thereby a silent protest that he, and not Mr Crawley, ought to have been in the reading-desk and the pulpit.

When Mr Trumble reported himself and his failure to the palace, he strove hard to avoid seeing Mrs Proudie, but not successfully. He knew something of the palace habits, and did manage to reach the bishop alone on the Sunday evening, justifying himself to his lordship for such an interview by the remarkable circumstances of the case and the importance of his late mission. Mrs Proudie always went to church on Sunday evenings, making a point of hearing three services and three sermons every Sunday of her life. On week-days she seldom heard any, having an idea that week-day services were an invention of the High Church enemy, and that they should therefore be vehemently discouraged. Services on saints’ days she regarded as rank papacy, and had been known to accuse a clergyman’s wife to her face, of idolatry because the poor lady had dated a letter, St John’s Eve. Mr Thumble, on this Sunday evening, was successful in finding the bishop at home, and alone, but he was not lucky enough to get away before Mrs Proudie returned. The bishop, perhaps, thought that the story of the failure had better reach his wife’s ears from Mr Thumble’s lips than from his own.

‘Well, Mr Thumble?’ said Mrs Proudie, walking into the study, armed in her full Sunday-evening winter panoply, in which she had just descended from her carriage. The church which Mrs Proudie attended in the evening was nearly half a mile from the palace, and the coachman and groom never got a holiday on Sunday night. She was gorgeous in a dark brown silk dress of awful stiffness and terrible dimensions; and on her shoulders she wore a short cloak of velvet and fur, very handsome withal, but so swelling in its proportions on all sides as necessarily to create more of dismay than of admiration in the mind of any ordinary man. And her bonnet was a monstrous helmet with the beaver up, displaying the awful face of the warrior, always ready for combat, and careless to guard itself from attack. The large contorted bows which she bore were as a grisly crest upon her casque, beautiful doubtless, but majestic and fear-compelling. In her hand she carried her armour all complete, a prayer-book, a Bible, and a book of hymns. These the footman had brought for her to the study door, but she had thought it fit to enter her husband’s room with them in her own custody.

‘Well, Mr Thumble!’ she said.

Mr Thumble did not answer at once, thinking, probably, that the bishop might choose to explain the circumstances. But neither did the bishop say anything.

‘Well, Mr Thumble?’ she said again; and then she stood looking at the man who had failed so disastrously.

‘I have explained to the bishop,’ said he. ‘Mr Crawley has been contumacious–very contumacious indeed.’

‘But you preached at Hogglestock?’

‘No, indeed, Mrs Proudie. Nor would it have been possible, unless I had the police to assist me.’

‘Then you should have had the police. I never heard of anything so mismanaged in all my life–never in all my life.’ And she put her books down on the study table, and turned herself round from Mr Thumble towards the bishop. ‘If things go on like this, my lord,’ she said, ‘your authority in the diocese will very soon be worth nothing at all.’ It was not often that Mrs Proudie called her husband my lord, but when she did so, it was a sign that terrible times had come;–times so terrible that the bishop would know that he must either fight or fly. He would almost endure anything rather than descend into the arena for the purpose of doing battle with his wife, but occasions would come now and again when even the alternatives of flight were hardly left to him.

‘But, my dear–‘ began the bishop.

‘Am I to understand that this man has professed himself to be altogether indifferent to the bishop’s prohibition?’ said Mrs Proudie, interrupting her husband and addressing Mr Thumble.

‘Quite so. He seemed to think that the bishop had no lawful power in the matter at all,’ said Mr Thumble.

‘Do you hear that, my lord?’ said Mrs Proudie.

‘Nor have I any,’ said the bishop, almost weeping as he spoke.

‘No authority in your own diocese!’

‘None to silence a man merely by my own judgment. I thought, and still think, that it was for this gentleman’s own interest, as well as for the credit of the Church, that some provision should be made for his duties during the present–present–difficulties.’

‘Difficulties indeed! Everybody knows that the man has been a thief.’

‘No, my dear; I do not know it.’

‘You never know anything, bishop.’

‘I mean to say I do not know it officially. Of course, I have heard the sad story; and though I hope it may not be–‘

‘There is no doubt about its truth. All the world knows it. He has stolen twenty pounds, and yet he is to be allowed to desecrate the Church, and imperil the souls of the people!’ The bishop got up from his chair and began to walk backwards and forwards through the room with short quick steps. ‘It only wants five days to Christmas Day,’ continued Mrs Proudie, ‘and something must be done at once. I say nothing as to the propriety or impropriety of his being out on bail, as it is no affair of ours. When I heard that he had been bailed by a beneficed clergyman of this diocese, of course I knew where to look for the man who would act with so much impropriety. Of course I was not surprised, when I found that that person belonged to Framley. But, as I have said before, that is no business of ours. I hope, Mr Thumble, that the bishop will never be found interfering with the ordinary laws of the land. I am very sure that he will never do so by my advice. But when there comes a question of inhibiting a clergyman who has committed himself as that clergyman unfortunately has done, then I say that that clergyman ought to be inhibited.’ The bishop walked up and down the room throughout the whole of this speech, but gradually his steps became quicker, and his turns became shorter. ‘And now here is Christmas Day upon us, and what is to be done?’ With these words Mrs Proudie finished her speech.

‘Mr Thumble,’ said the bishop, ‘perhaps you had better now retire. I am very sorry that you should have had so thankless and so disagreeable a task.’

‘Why should Mr Thumble retire?’ asked Mrs Proudie.

‘I think it better,’ said the bishop. ‘Mr Thumble, good-night.’ Then Mr Thumble did retire, and Mrs Proudie stood forth in her full panoply of armour, silent and awful, with her helmet erect, and vouchsafed no recognition whatever of the parting salutation which Mr Thumble greeted her. ‘My dear, the truth is, you do not understand the matter,’ said the bishop, as soon as the door was closed. ‘You do not know how limited is my power.’

‘Bishop, I understand it a great deal better than some people; and I understand also what is due to myself and the manner in which I ought to be treated by you in the presence of the subordinate clergy of the diocese. I shall not, however, remain here to be insulted in the presence or absence of anyone.’ Then the conquered amazon collected together her weapons which she had laid upon the table, and took her departure with majestic step, and not without the clang of arms. The bishop, when he was left alone, enjoyed for a few moments the triumph of victory.

But then he was left so very much alone! When he looked round about him upon his solitude after the departure of his wife, and remembered that he should not see her again till he should encounter on ground that was all her own, he regretted his own success, and was tempted to follow her and to apologise. He was unable to do anything alone. He would not even know how to get his tea, as the very servants would ask questions, if he were to do so unaccustomed a thing as to order it to be brought up to him in his solitude. They would tell him that Mrs Proudie was having tea in her little sitting-room upstairs, or else that the things were laid in the drawing-room. He did wander forth to the latter apartment, hoping that he might find his wife there; but the drawing-room was dark and deserted, and so he wandered back again. It was a grand thing certainly to have triumphed over his wife, and there was a crumb of comfort in the thought that he had vindicated himself before Mr Thumble; but the general result was not comforting, and he knew from old how short-lived his triumph would be.

But wretched as he was during that evening he did employ himself with some energy. After much thought he resolved that he would again write to Mr Crawley, and summon him to appear at the palace. In doing this he would at any rate be doing something. There would be action. And though Mr Crawley would, as he thought, decline to obey the order, something would be gained even by that disobedience. So he wrote his summons–sitting very fortless and all alone on that Sunday evening–dating his letter, however, for the following day:–

‘PALACE, December 20, 186-
‘REVEREND SIR,

‘I have just heard from Mr Thumble that you have declined to accede to the advice which I thought it my duty to tender to you as the bishop who has been set over you by the Church, and that you yesterday insisted on what you believed to be your right, to administer the services of the parish church of Hogglestock. This has occasioned me the deepest regret. It is, I think, unavailing that I should further write to you my mind upon the subject, as I possess such strong evidence that my written word will not be respected by you. I have therefore no alternative now but to invite you to come to me here; and this I do, hoping that I may induce you to listen to the authority which I cannot but suppose you acknowledge to be vested in the office which I hold.

‘I shall be glad to see you tomorrow, Tuesday, as near the hour of two as you can make it convenient to yourself to be here, and I will take care to order that refreshment will be provided for yourself and your horse.–I am, Reverend Sir, &c, &c, &c.

‘THOS. BARNUM’

‘My dear,’ he said, when he did again encounter his wife that night, ‘I have written to Mr Crawley, and I thought I might as well bring up the copy of my letter.’

‘I wash my hands of the whole affair,’ said Mrs Proudie–‘of the whole affair.’

‘But you will look at the letter?’

‘Certainly not. Why should I look at the letter? My word goes for nothing. I have done what I could, but in vain. Now let us see how you manage it yourself.’

The bishop did not pass a comfortable night; but in the morning his wife did read the letter, and after that things went a little smoother with him. She was pleased to say that, considering all things; seeing, as she could not help seeing, that the matter had been dreadfully mismanaged, and that great weakness had been displayed;–seeing that these faults had already been committed, perhaps no better step could now be taken than that proposed in the letter.

‘I suppose he will not come,’ said the bishop.

‘I think he will,’ said Mrs Proudie, ‘and I trust that we may be able to convince him that obedience will be the best course. He will be more humble-minded here than at Hogglestock.’ In saying this the lady showed some knowledge of the general nature of clergymen and of the world at large. She understood how much louder a cock can crow in his own farmyard than elsewhere, and knew that episcopal authority, backed by all the solemn awe of palatial grandeur, goes much further than it will do when sent under the folds of an ordinary envelope. But though she understood ordinary human nature, it may be that she did not understand Mr Crawley’s nature.

But she was at any rate right in her idea as to Mr Crawley’s immediate reply. The palace groom who rode over to Hogglestock returned with an immediate answer.

‘MY LORD’–said Mr Crawley,

‘I will obey your lordship’s summons, and, unless impediments should arise, I will wait upon your lordship at the hour you name tomorrow. I will not trespass on your hospitality. For myself, I rarely break bread in any house but my own; and as to the horse, I have none–I have the honour to by, My lord, &c, &c,

JOSIAH CRAWLEY’

‘Of course I shall go,’ he had said to his wife as soon as he had time to read the letter, and make known to her the contents. ‘I shall go if it be possible for me to get there. I think that I am bound to comply with the bishop’s wishes in so much as that.’

‘But how will you get there, Josiah?’

‘I will walk–with the Lord’s aid.’

Now Hogglestock was fifteen miles from Barchester, and Mr Crawley was, as his wife well knew, by no means fitted in his present state for great physical exertion. But from the tone in which he had replied to her, she well knew that it would not avail for her to remonstrate at the moment. He had walked more than thirty miles in a day since he had been living at Hogglestock, and she did not doubt but that it might be possible for him to do it again. Any scheme, which she might be able to devise for saving him from so terrible a journey in the middle of winter, must be pondered over silently, and brought to bear, if not slyly, at least deftly, and without discussion. She made no reply therefore when he declared on the following day he would walk to Barchester and back–with the Lord’s aid; nor did she see, or ask to see the note which he sent to the bishop. When the messenger was gone, Mr Crawley was all alert, looking forward with evident glee to his encounter with the bishop–snorting like a racehorse at the expected triumph of the coming struggle. And he read much Greek with Jane on that afternoon, pouring into her young ears, almost with joyous rapture, his appreciation of the glory and the pathos and the humanity also, of the awful tragedy of the story of Oedipus. His very soul was on fire at the idea of clutching the weak bishop in his hand, and crushing him with his strong grasp.

In the afternoon Mrs Crawley slipped out to a neighbouring farmer’s wife, and returned in an hour’s time with a little story which she did not tell with any appearance of satisfaction. She had learned well what were the little tricks necessary to the carrying of such a matter as she now had in hand. Mr Mangle, the farmer, as it happened, was going tomorrow morning in his tax-cart as far as Framley Mill, and would be delighted if Mr Crawley would take a seat. He must remain at Framley the best part of the afternoon, and hoped that Mr Crawley would take a seat back again. Now Framley Mill was only a half mile off the direct road to Barchester, and was almost half way from Hogglestock parsonage to the city. This would, at any rate, bring the walk within a practicable distance. Mr Crawley was instantly placed upon his guard, like an animal that sees the bait and suspects the trap. Had he been told that farmer Mangle was going all the way to Barchester, nothing would have induced him to get into the cart. He would have felt sure that farmer Mangle had been persuaded to pity him in his poverty and his strait, and he would sooner have started to walk to London than have put a foot upon the step of the cart. But this lift half way did look to him as if it were really fortuitous. His wife could hardly have been cunning enough to persuade the farmer to go to Framley, conscious that the trap would have been suspected had the bait been more full. But I fear–I fear the dear good woman had been thus cunning–had understood how far the trap might be baited, and had thus succeeded in catching her prey.

On the following morning he consented to get into farmer Mangle’s cart, and was driven as far as Framley Mill. ‘I wouldn’t think nowt, your reverence, of running you over to Barchester–that I wouldn’t. The powny is so mortal good.,’ said farmer Mangle in his foolish good-nature.

‘And how about your business here?’ said Mr Crawley. The farmer scratched his head, remembering Mrs Crawley’s injunctions, and awkwardly acknowledged that to be sure his own business with the miller was very pressing. Then Mr Crawley descended, terribly suspicious, and went on his journey.

‘Anyways, your reverence will call for me coming back?’ said the farmer Mangle. But Mr Crawley would make no promise. He bade the farmer not wait for him. If they chanced to meet together on the road he might get up again. If the man really had business at Framley, how could he have offered to go on to Barchester? Were they deceiving him? The wife of his bosom had deceived him in such matters before now. But his trouble in this respect was soon dissipated by the pride of his anticipated triumph over the bishop. He took great glory from the thought that he would go before the bishop with dirty boots–with boots necessarily dirty–with rusty pantaloons, that he would be hot and mud-stained with his walk, hungry, and an object to be wondered at by all who should see him, because the misfortunes which had been unworthily heaped upon his head; whereas the bishop would be sleek and clean and well-fed–pretty with all the prettinesses that are becoming to a bishop’s outward man. And he, Mr Crawley, would be humble, whereas the bishop would be proud. And the bishop would be in his own armchair–the cock in his own farmyard, while he, Mr Crawley, would be seated afar off, in the cold extremity of the room, with nothing of outward circumstances to assist him–a man called thither to undergo censure. And yet he would take the bishop in his grasp and crush him–crush him–crush him! As he thought of this he walked quickly through the mud, and put out his long arm and his great hand, far before him into the air, and there and then, he crushed the bishop in his imagination. Yes, indeed! He thought it very doubtful whether the bishop would ever send for him a second time. And as this passed through his mind, he forgot his wife’s cunning, and farmer Mangle’s sin, and for the moment he was happy.

As he turned a corner round by Lord Lufton’s park paling, who should he meet but his old friend Mr Robarts, the parson of Framley–the parson who had committed the sin of being bail for him–the sin, that is, according to Mrs Proudie’s view of the matter. He was walking with his hand still stretched out–still crushing the bishop, when Mr Robarts was close upon him.

‘What, Crawley! upon my word I am very glad to see you; you are coming to me, of course?’

‘Thank you, Mr Robarts; no, not today. The bishop has summoned me to his presence, and I am on my road to Barchester.’

‘But how are you going?’

‘I shall walk.

‘Walk to Barchester. Impossible!’

‘I hope not quite impossible, Mr Robarts. I trust I shall get as far before two o’clock; but to do so I must be on my road.’ Then he showed signs of a desire to go upon his way without further parley.

‘But, Crawley, do let me send you over. There is the horse and gig doing nothing.’

‘Thank you, Mr Robarts; no. I should prefer to walk today.’

‘And you have walked from Hogglestock?’

‘No;–not so. A neighbour coming hither, who happened to have business at your mill–he brought me so far in his cart. The walk home will be nothing–nothing. I shall enjoy it. Good morning, Mr Robarts.’

But Mr Robarts thought of the dirty road and of the bishop’s presence, and of his own ideas of what would be becoming for a clergyman–and persevered. ‘You will find the lanes so very muddy; and our bishop, you know, is apt to notice such things. Do be persuaded.’

‘Notice what things?’ demanded Mr Crawley, in an indignant tone.

‘He, or perhaps she rather, will say how dirty your shoes were when you came to the palace.’

‘If he, or she, can find nothing unclean about me but my shoes, let them say their worst. I shall be very indifferent. I have long ceased, Mr Robarts, to care much what any man or woman may say about my shoes. Good morning.’ Then he stalked on, clutching and crushing in his hand the bishop, and the bishop’s wife, and the whole diocese–and all the Church of England. Dirty shoes, indeed! Whose was the fault that there were in the church so many feet soiled by unmerited poverty, and so many hands soiled by undeserved wealth? If the bishop did not like his shoes, let the bishop dare tell him so! So he walked on through the thick of the mud, by no means picking his way.

He walked fast, and he found himself in the close half an hour before the time named by the bishop. But on no account would he have rung the palace bell one minute before two o’clock. So he walked up and down under the towers of the cathedral, and cooled himself, and looked up at the pleasant plate-glass in the windows of the house of his friend the dean, and told himself how, in their college days, he and the dean had been quite equal–quite equal, except by the voices of all qualified judges in the university, he, Mr Crawley, had been acknowledged the riper scholar. And now the Mr Arabin of those days was Dean of Barchester–travelling abroad luxuriously at the moment for his delight, while he, Crawley, was perpetual curate at Hogglestock, and had now walked into Barchester at the command of the bishop, because he was suspected of having stolen twenty pounds! When he had fully imbued his mind with the injustice of all this, his time was up, and he walked boldly to the bishop’s gate, and boldly rang the bishop’s bell.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER IS CRUSHED

Who inquires why it is that a little greased flour rubbed in among the hair on a footman’s head–just one dab here and another there–gives such a tone of high life to the family? And seeing that the thing is so easily done, why do not more people attempt it? The tax on hair powder is but thirteen shillings a year. It may, indeed, be that the slightest dab in the world justifies the wearer in demanding hot meat three times a day, and wine at any rate on Sundays. I think, however, that a bishop’s wife may enjoy the privilege without such heavy attendant expense; otherwise the man who opened the bishop’s door to Mr Crawley would hardly have been so ornamental.

The man asked for a card. ‘My name is Mr Crawley,’ said our friend. ‘The bishop desired me to come to him at this hour. Will you be pleased to tell him that I am here.’ The man again asked for a card. ‘I am not bound to carry with me my name printed on a ticket,’ said Mr Crawley. ‘If you cannot remember it, give me a pencil and paper, and I will write it.’ The servant, somewhat awed by the stranger’s manner, brought pen and paper, and Mr Crawley wrote his name:–

‘THE REV JOSHUA CRAWLEY, M.A.,
Perpetual Curate of Hogglestock’

He was then ushered into a waiting-room, but, to his disappointment, was not kept there waiting long. Within three minutes he was ushered into the bishop’s study, and into the presence of the two great luminaries of the diocese. He was at first somewhat disconcerted by finding Mrs Proudie in the room. In the imaginary conversation with the bishop which he had been preparing on the road, he had conceived that the bishop would be attended by a chaplain, and he had suited his words to the joint discomfiture of the bishop and of the lower clergyman;–but now the line of his battle must be altered. This was no doubt an injury, but he trusted to his courage and readiness to enable him to surmount it. He had left his hat behind him in the waiting room, but he kept his old short cloak still upon his shoulders; and when he entered the bishop’s room his hands and arms were hid beneath it. There was something lowly in this constrained gait. It showed at least that he had no idea of being asked to shake hands with the august persons he might meet. And his head was somewhat bowed, though his great, bald, broad forehead showed itself so prominent, that neither the bishop nor Mrs Proudie could drop it from their sight during the whole interview. He was a man who when seen could hardly be forgotten. The deep angry remonstrant eyes, the shaggy eyebrows, telling tales of frequent anger–of anger frequent but generally silent–the repressed indignation of the habitual frown, the long nose and large powerful mouth, the deep furrows on the cheek, and the general look of thought and suffering, all combined to make the appearance of the man remarkable, and to describe to the beholders at once his true character. No one ever on seeing Mr Crawley took him to be a happy man, or a weak man, or an ignorant man, or a wise man.

‘You are very punctual, Mr Crawley,’ said the bishop. Mr Crawley simply bowed his head, still keeping his hands beneath his cloak. ‘Will you not take a chair nearer to the fire?’ Mr Crawley had not seated himself, but had placed himself in front of a chair at the extreme end of the room–resolved that he would not use it unless he were duly asked.

‘Thank you, my lord,’ he said. ‘I am warm with walking, and if you please, will avoid the fire.’

‘You have not walked, Mr Crawley?’

‘Yes, my lord; I have been walking.’

‘Not from Hogglestock!’

Now this was a matter which Mr Crawley certainly did not mean to discuss with the bishop. It might be well for the bishop to demand his presence in the palace, but it could be no part of the bishop’s duty to inquire how he got there. ‘That, my lord, is a matter of no moment,’ said he. ‘I am glad at any rate that I have been enable to obey your lordship’s order in coming hither on this morning.’

Hitherto Mrs Proudie had not said a word. She stood back in the room, near the fire–more backward a good deal than she was accustomed to do when clergymen made their ordinary visits. On such occasions she would come forward and shake hands with them graciously–graciously, even if proudly; but she had felt that she must do nothing of that kind now; there must be no shaking hands with a man who had stolen a cheque for twenty pounds! It might probably be necessary to keep Mr Crawley at a distance, and therefore she had remained in the background. But Mr Crawley seemed disposed to keep himself in the background, and therefore she could speak. ‘I hope your wife and children are well, Mr Crawley’ she said.

‘Thank you, madam, my children are quite well, and Mrs Crawley suffers no special ailment at present.’

‘That is much to be thankful for, Mr Crawley.’ Whether he were or were not thankful for such mercies as these was no business of the bishop or of the bishop’s wife. That was between him and his God. So he would not even bow to this civility, but sat with his head erect, and with a great frown on his heavy brow.

Then the bishop rose from his chair to speak, intending to take up a position on the rug. But as he did so Mr Crawley, who had also seated himself on an intimation that he was expected to sit down, rose also, and the bishop found that he would thus lose his expected vantage. ‘Will you not be seated, Mr Crawley?’ said the bishop. Mr Crawley smiled, but stood his ground. Then the bishop returned to his arm-chair, and Mr Crawley also sat down again. ‘Mr Crawley,’ began the bishop, ‘this matter which the other day came before the magistrates at Silverbridge has been a most unfortunate affair. It has given me, I can assure you, the most sincere pain.’

Mr Crawley had made up his mind how far the bishop should be allowed to go without a rebuke. He had told himself that it would only be natural, and would not be unbecoming, that the bishop should allude to a meeting of the magistrates and to the alleged theft, and that therefore such allusions should be endured with patient humility. And, moreover, the more rope he gave the bishop, the more likely the bishop would be to entangle himself. It certainly was Mr Crawley’s wish that the bishop should entangle himself. He, therefore, replied, very meekly. ‘It has been most unfortunate, my lord.’

‘I have felt for Mrs Crawley very deeply,’ said Mrs Proudie. Mr Crawley now made up his mind that as long as it was possible he would ignore the presence of Mrs Proudie altogether; and, therefore, he made no sign that he had heard the latter remark.

‘It has been most unfortunate,’ continued the bishop. ‘I have never before had a clergyman in my diocese placed in so distressing a position.’

‘That is a matter of opinion, my lord,’ said Mr Crawley, who at that moment thought of a crisis that had come in the life of another clergyman in the diocese of Barchester, and the circumstances of which he had by chance become acquainted.

‘Exactly,’ said the bishop. ‘And I am expressing my opinion.’ Mr Crawley, who understood fighting, did not think the time had yet come for striking a blow, so he simply bowed again. ‘A most unfortunate position, Mr Crawley,’ continued the bishop. ‘Far be it from me to express an opinion on the matter, which will have to come before a jury of your countrymen. It is enough for me to know that the magistrates assembled at Silverbridge, gentlemen to whom no doubt you must be known, as most of them live in your neighbourhood, have heard evidence upon the subject–‘

‘Most convincing evidence,’ said Mrs Proudie, interrupting her husband. Mr Crawley’s black brow became a little blacker as he heard the word, but he still ignored the woman. He not only did not speak, but did not turn his eyes upon her.

‘They have heard the evidence on the subject,’ continued the bishop, ‘and they have thought it proper to refer the decision as to your innocence or your guilt to a jury of your countrymen.’

‘And they were right,’ said Mr Crawley.

‘Very possibly. I don’t deny it. Probably,’ said the bishop, whose eloquence was somewhat disturbed by Mr Crawley’s ready acquiescence.

‘Of course they were right,’ said Mrs Proudie.

‘At any rate it is so,’ said the bishop. ‘You are in a position of a man amenable to the criminal laws of the land.’

‘There are no criminal laws, my lord,’ said Mr Crawley; ‘but to such laws as there are we are all amenable–your lordship and I alike.’

‘But you are so in a very particular way. I do not wish to remind you what might be your condition now, but for the interposition of private friends.’

‘I should be in the condition of a man not guilty before the law; –guiltless as far as the law goes–but kept in durance, nor for the faults of his own, but because otherwise, by reason of laches in the police, his presence at the assizes might not be ensured. In such a position a man’s reputation is made to hang for a while on the trust which some friends or neighbours may have in it. I do not say the test is a good one.’

‘You would have been put in prison, Mr Crawley, because the magistrates were of the opinion that you had taken Mr Soames’s cheque,’ said Mrs Proudie. On this occasion he did look at her. He turned one glance upon her from under his eyebrows, but he did not speak.

‘With all that I have nothing to do,’ said the bishop.

‘Nothing whatever, my lord,’ said Mr Crawley.

‘But, bishop, I think you have,’ said Mrs Proudie. ‘The judgment formed by the magistrates as to the conduct of one of your clergymen makes it imperative upon you to act in the matter.’

‘Yes, my dear, yes; I am coming to that. What Mrs Proudie says is perfectly true. I have been constrained most unwillingly to take action in the matter. It is undoubtedly the fact that you must at the next assizes surrender yourself at the court-house yonder, to be tried for this offence against the laws.’

‘That is true. If I be alive, and have strength sufficient, I shall be there.’

‘You must be there,’ said Mrs Proudie. ‘The police will look to that, Mr Crawley.’ She was becoming very angry in that the man would not answer her a word. On this occasion he did not even look at her.

‘Yes; you will be there,’ said the bishop. ‘Now that is, to say the least of it, an unseemly position for a beneficed clergyman.’

‘You said before, my lord, that it was an unfortunate position, and the word, methinks, was better chosen.’

‘It is very unseemly, very unseemly indeed,’ said Mrs Proudie; ‘nothing could possibly be more unseemly. The bishop might very properly have used a much stronger word.’

‘Under these circumstances,’ continued the bishop, ‘looking to the welfare of your parish, to the welfare of the diocese, and allow me to say, Mr Crawley, to the welfare of yourself also–‘

‘And especially the souls of the people,’ said Mrs Proudie.

The bishop shook his head. It is hard to be impressively eloquent when one is interrupted at every best turning period, even by a supporting voice. ‘Yes;–and looking of course to the religious interests of your people, Mr Crawley, I came to the conclusion that it would be expedient that you should cease your ministrations for a while.’ The bishop paused, and Mr Crawley bowed his head. ‘I, therefore, sent over to you a gentleman with whom I am well acquainted, Mr Thumble, with a letter from myself, in which I endeavoured to impress upon you, without the use of any severe language, what my convictions were.’

‘Severe words are often the best mercy,’ said Mrs Proudie. Mr Crawley had raised his hand, with his finger out, preparatory to answering the bishop. But as Mrs Proudie had spoken he dropped his finger and was silent.

‘Mr Thumble brought me back your written reply,’ continued the bishop, ‘by which I was grieved to find that you were not willing to submit yourself to my counsel in the matter.’

‘I was most unwilling, my lord. Submission to authority is at times a duty;–and at times opposition to authority is a duty also.’

‘Opposition to just authority cannot be a duty, Mr Crawley.’

‘Opposition to usurped authority is an imperative duty,’ said Mr Crawley.

‘And who is to be the judge?’ demanded Mrs Proudie. Then there was silence for a while; when, as Mr Crawley made no reply, the lady repeated her question. ‘Will you be pleased to answer my question, sir? Who, in such case, is to be the judge?’ But Mr Crawley did not please to answer the question. ‘The man is obstinate,’ said Mrs Proudie.

‘I had better proceed,’ said the bishop. ‘Mr Thumble brought me back your reply, which grieved me greatly.’

‘It was contumacious and indecent,’ said Mrs Proudie.

The bishop again shook his head and looked so utterly miserable that a smile came across Mr Crawley’s face. After all, others beside himself had their troubles and trials. Mrs Proudie saw and understood the smile, and became more angry than ever. She drew her chair close to the table, and began to fidget with her fingers among the papers. She had never before encountered a clergyman so contumacious, so indecent, so unreverend–so upsetting. She had had to deal with men difficult to manage–the archdeacon for instance; but the archdeacon had never been so impertinent to her as this man. She had quarrelled once openly with a chaplain of her husband’s, a clergyman whom she herself had introduced to her husband, and who had treated her very badly;–but not so badly, not with such unscrupulous violence, as she was now encountering from this ill-clothed beggarly man, this perpetual curate, with his dirty broken boots, this already half-convicted thief! Such was her idea of Mr Crawley’s conduct to her, while she was fingering the papers–simply because Mr Crawley would not speak to her.

‘I forget where I was,’ said the bishop. ‘Oh, Mr Thumble came back, and I received your letter;–of course I received it. And I was surprised to learn from that, that in spite of what had occurred at Silverbridge, you were still anxious to continue the usual Sunday ministrations in your church.’

‘I was determined that I would do my duty at Hogglestock, as long as I might be left there to do it,’ said Mr Crawley.

‘Duty!’ said Mrs Proudie.

‘Just a moment, my dear,’ said the bishop. ‘When Sunday came, I had no alternative but to send Mr Thumble over again to Hogglestock. It occurred to us–to me and to Mrs Proudie–‘

‘I will tell Mr Crawley just now what has occurred to me,’ said Mrs Proudie.

‘Yes;–just so. And I am sure that he will take it in good part. It occurred to me, Mr Crawley, that your first letter might have been written in haste.’

‘It was written in haste, my lord; your messenger was waiting.’

‘Yes;–just so. Well; so I sent him again, hoping that he might be accepted as a messenger of peace. It was a most disagreeable mission for any gentleman, Mr Crawley.’

‘Most disagreeable, my lord.’

‘And you refused him permission to obey the instructions which I had given him. You would not let him read from your desk, or preach from your pulpit.’

‘Had I been Mr Thumble,’ said Mrs Proudie, ‘I would have read from that desk and I would have preached from that pulpit.’

Mr Crawley waited for a moment, thinking that the bishop might perhaps speak again; but as he did not, but sat expectant as though he had finished his discourse, and now expected a reply, Mr Crawley got up from his seat and drew near the table. ‘My lord,’ he began, ‘it has all been just as you said. I did answer your first letter in haste.’

‘The more shame for you,’ said Mrs Proudie.

‘And therefore, for aught I know, my letter to your lordship may be so worded as to need some apology.’

‘Of course it needs an apology,’ said Mrs Proudie.

‘But of the matter of it, my lord, no apology can be made, nor is any needed. I did refuse your messenger permission to perform the services of my church, and if you send twenty more, I shall refuse them all–till the time may come when it will be your lordship’s duty, in accordance with the laws of the Church–as borne out and backed by the laws of the land, to provide during my contstrained absence for the spiritual wants of those poor people at Hogglestock.’

‘Poor people, indeed,’ said Mrs Proudie. ‘Poor wretches!’

‘And, my lord, it may well be, that it shall soon be your lordship’s duty to take due and legal steps for depriving me of my benefice at Hogglestock;–nay, probably, for silencing me altogether as to the exercise of my sacred profession!’

‘Of course it will, sir. Your gown will be taken from you,’ said Mrs Proudie. The bishop was looking with all his eyes on the great forehead and great eyebrows of the man, and was so fascinated by the power that was exercised over him by the other man’s strength that he hardly now noticed his wife.

‘It may well be so, continued Mr Crawley. ‘The circumstances are strong against me; and, though your lordship may have altogether misunderstood the nature of the duty performed by the magistrates in sending my case for trial–although, as it seems to me, you have come to conclusions in this matter in ignorance of the very theory of our laws–‘

‘Sir!’ said Mrs Proudie.

‘Yet I can foresee the probability that a jury will may discover me to have been guilty of theft.’

‘Of course the jury will do,’ said Mrs Proudie.

‘Should such a verdict be given, then, my lord, your interference will be legal, proper, and necessary. And you will find that, even if it be within my power to oppose obstacles to your lordship’s authority, I will oppose no such obstacle. There is, I believe, no appeal in criminal cases.’

‘None at all,’ said Mrs Proudie. ‘There is no appeal against your bishop. You should have learned that before.’

‘But till that time shall come, my lord, I shall hold my own at Hogglestock as you hold your own here at Barchester. Nor have you any more power to turn me out of my pulpit by your mere voice, than I have to turn you out of your throne by mine. If you doubt me, my lord, your lordship’s ecclesiastical court is open to you. Try it there.’

‘You defy us, then?’ said Mrs Proudie.

‘My lord, I grant your authority as bishop is great, but even a bishop can only act as the laws allows him.’

‘God forbid that I should do more,’ said the bishop.

‘Sir, you will find that your wicked threats will fall back upon your own head,’ said Mrs Proudie.

‘Peace, woman,’ Mr Crawley said, addressing her at last. The bishop jumped out of his chair at hearing the wife of his bosom called a woman. But he jumped rather in admiration than in anger. He had already begun to perceive that Mr Crawley was a man who had better be left to take care of the souls at Hogglestock, at any rate till the trial should come on.

‘Woman!’ said Mrs Proudie, rising to her feet as though she really intended some personal encounter.

‘Madam,’ said Mr Crawley, ‘you should not interfere in these matters. You simply debase you husband’s high office. The distaff is more fitted for you. My lord, good morning.’ And before either of them could speak again, he was out of the room, and through the hall, and beyond the gate, and standing beneath the towers of the cathedral. Yes, he had, he thought, in truth crushed the bishop. He had succeeded in crumpling the bishop up within the clutch of his fist.

He started in spirit of triumph to walk back on his road towards Hogglestock. He did not think of the long distance before him for the first hour of his journey. He had had his victory, and the remembrance of that braced his nerves and gave elasticity to his sinews, and he went stalking along to road with rapid strides, muttering to himself from time to time as he went along some word about Mrs Proudie and her distaff. Mr Thumble would not, he thought, come to him again–not, at any rate, till the assizes were drawing near. And he had resolved what he would do then. When the day of his trial was near, he would himself write to the bishop, and beg that provision might be made for his church, in the event of the verdict going against him. His friend, Dean Arabin, was to be home before that time, and the idea had occurred to him of asking the dean to see to this; but now the other would be the more independent course, and the better. And there was a matter as to which he was not altogether well pleased with the dean, although he was so conscious of his own peculiarities as to know that he could hardly trust himself for a judgment. But, at any rate, he would apply to the bishop–to the bishop whom he had just left prostrate in his palace– when the time of his trial should be close at hand.

Full of such thoughts as these he went along almost gaily, nor felt the fatigue of the road till he had covered the first five miles out of Barchester. It was nearly four o’clock, and the thick gloom of the winter evening was making itself felt. And then he began to be fatigued. He had not as yet eaten since he had left his home in the morning, and he now pulled a crust out of his pocket and leaned against a gate as he crunched it. There were still ten miles before him, and he knew that such an addition to the work he had already done would task him very severely. Farmer Mangle had told him that he would not leave Framley Mill by that time. But he had said that he would not return to Framley Mill, and he remembered his suspicion that his wife and the farmer between them had cozened him. No; he would persevere and walk–walk though he should drop upon the road. He was now nearer fifty then forty years of age, and hardships as well as time had told upon him. He knew that the last four miles in the dark would be very sad with him. But still he persevered, endeavouring, as he went, to cherish himself with the remembrance of his triumph.

He passed the turning going down to Framley with courage, but when he came to the further turning, by which the cart would return from Framley to the Hogglestock road, he looked wistfully down the road for farmer Mangle. But farmer Mangle was still at the Mill, waiting in expectation that Mr Crawley might come to him. But the poor traveller paused here barely for a minute, and then went on, stumbling through the mud, striking his ill-covered feet against the rough stones in the dark, sweating in his weakness, almost tottering at times, and calculating whether his remaining strength would serve to carry him home. He had almost forgotten the bishop and his wife before at last he grasped the wicket gate leading to his own door.

‘Oh, mamma, here is papa!’

‘But where is the cart? I did not hear the wheels,’ said Mrs Crawley.

‘Oh, mamma, I think papa is ill.’ Then the wife took her drooping husband by both arms and strove to look him in the face. ‘He has walked all the way, and he is ill,’ said Jane.

‘No, my dear, I am very tired, but not ill. Let me sit down, and give me some bread and tea, and I shall recover myself.’ Then Mrs Crawley, from some secret hoard, got him a small modicum of spirits, and gave him meat and tea, and he was docile; and, obeying her behests, allowed himself to be taken to his bed.

‘I do not think the bishop will send for me again,’ he said, as she tucked the clothes around him.

CHAPTER XIX

WHERE DID IT COME FROM?

When Christmas morning came no emissary from the bishop appeared at Hogglestock to interfere with the ordinary performance of the day’s services. ‘I think we need fear no further disturbance,’ Mr Crawley said to his wife–and there was no further disturbance.

On the day after his walk from Framley to Barchester, and from Barchester back to Hogglestock, Mr Crawley had risen not much the worse for his labour, and had gradually given to his wife a full account of what had taken place. ‘A poor weak man,’ he said, speaking of the bishop. ‘A poor weak creature, and much to be pitied.’

‘I have always heard that she is a violent woman.’

‘Very violent, and very ignorant; and most intrusive withal.’

‘And you did not answer her a word?’

‘At last my forbearance with her broke down, and I bade her mind her distaff.’

‘What;–really? Did you say those words to her?’

‘Nay; as for the exact words I cannot remember them. I was thinking more of the word which it might be fitting that I should answer the bishop. But I certainly told her that she had better mind her distaff.’

‘And how did she behave then?’

‘I did not wait to see. The bishop had spoken, and I had replied; and why should I tarry to behold the woman’s violence? I had told him that he was wrong in law, and that I at least would not submit to usurped authority. There was nothing to keep me longer, and so I went without much ceremony of leave-taking. There had been little ceremony of greeting on their part, and there was less in the making of adieux on mine. They had told me that I was a thief–‘

‘No, Josiah–surely not so? They did not use that very word?’

‘I say they did;–they did use that very word. But stop. I am wrong. I wrong his lordship, and I crave pardon for having done so. If my memory serve me, no expression so harsh escaped from the bishop’s mouth. He gave me, indeed, to understand more than once that the action taken by the magistrates was tantamount to a conviction, and that I must be guilty because they had decided that there was evidence sufficient to justify a trial. But all that arose from my lord’s ignorance of the administration of the laws of his country. He was very ignorant–puzzle-pated, as you may call it–led by the nose by his wife, weak as water, timid and vacillating. But he did not wish, I think, to be insolent. It was Mrs Proudie who told me to my face that I was a–thief.’

‘May she be punished for the cruel word!’ said Mrs Crawley. ‘May the remembrance that she has spoken it come, some day, heavily upon her heart.’

‘”Vengeance is mine. I will repay,” saith the Lord,’ answered Mr Crawley. ‘We may safely leave all that alone, and rid our minds of such wishes, if it be possible. It is well, I think, that violent offences, when committed, should be met by instant rebuke. To turn the other cheek instantly to the smiter can hardly be suitable in these days, when the hands of so many are raised to strike. But the return blow should be given only while the smart remains. She hurt me then; but what is to me now, that she called me a thief to my face? Do I not know that, all the country round, men and woman are calling me the same behind my back?’

‘No, Josiah, you do not know that. They say the thing is very strange–so strange that it requires a trial; but no one thinks you have taken that which was not your own.’

‘I think I did. I myself think I took that which was not my own. My poor head suffers so;–so many grievous thoughts distract me, that I am like a child, and know not what I do.’ As he spoke thus he put both hands up to his head, leaning forward as though in anxious thought–as though he were striving to bring his mind to bear with accuracy on past events. ‘It could not have been mine, and yet–‘ Then he sat silent, and made no effort to continue his speech.

‘And yet?’–said his wife, encouraging him to proceed. If she could only learn the real truth, she thought that she might perhaps yet save him, with assistance from their friends.

‘When I said that I had gotten it from that man I must have been mad.’

‘From which man, love?’

‘From the man Soames–he who accuses me. And yet, as the Lord hears me, I thought so then. The truth is, that there are times when I am not–sane. I am not a thief–not before God; but I am–mad at times.’ These last words were spoken very slowly, in a whisper–without any excitement–indeed with a composure which was horrible to witness. And what he said was the more terrible because she was so well convinced of the truth of his words. Of course he was no thief. She wanted no one to tell her that. As he himself had expressed it, he was no thief before God, however the money might have come into his possession. That there were times when his reason, once so fine and clear, could not act, could not be trusted to guide him right, as she had gradually come to know with fear and trembling. But he himself had never before hinted his own consciousness of this calamity. Indeed he had been so unwilling to speak of himself and his own state, that she had been unable even to ask him a question about the money–lest he should suspect that she suspected him. Now he was speaking–but speaking with such heartrending sadness that she could hardly urge him to go on.

‘You have sometimes been ill, Josiah, as any of us may be,’ she said, ‘and that has been the cause.’

‘There are different kinds of sickness. There is sickness of the body, and sickness of the heart, and sickness of the spirit;–and then there is sickness of the mind, the worst of all.’

‘With you, Josiah, it has chiefly been the first.’

‘With me, Mary, it has been all of them–every one! My spirit is broken, my mind has not been able to keep its even tenor amidst the ruins. But I will strive. I will strive. I will strive still. And if God helps me, I will prevail.’ Then he took up his hat and cloak, and went forth among the lanes; and on this occasion his wife was glad that he should go alone.

This occurred a day or two before Christmas, and Mrs Crawley during those days said nothing more to her husband on the subject which he had so unexpectedly discussed. She asked him no questions about the money, or as to the possibility of his exercising his memory, nor did she counsel him to plead that the false excuses given by him for the possession of the cheque had been occasioned by the sad slip to which sorrow had in those days subjected his memory and his intellect. But the matter had always been on her mind. Might it not be her paramount duty to do something of this at the present moment? Might it not be that his acquittal or conviction would depend on what she might now learn from him? It was clear to her that he was brighter in spirit since his encounter with the Proudies than he had ever been since the accusation had been first made against him. And she knew well that his present mood would not be of long continuance. He would fall again into his moody silent ways, and then the chance of learning aught from him would be past, and perhaps, for ever.

He performed the Christmas services with nothing of special despondency in his tone or manner, and his wife thought that she had never heard him give the sacrament with more impressive dignity. After the service he stood awhile at the churchyard gate, and exchanged a word of courtesy as to the season with such of the families of the farmers as had stayed for the Lord’s Supper.

‘I waited at Framley for your reverence till arter six–so I did,’ said farmer Mangle.

‘I kept the road, and walked the whole way,’ said Mr Crawley, ‘I think I told you that I should not return to the mill. But I am not the less obliged by your great kindness.’

‘Say nowt o’ that,’ said the farmer. ‘No doubt I had business at the mill–lots to do at the mill.’ Nor did he think the fib he was telling was at all incompatible with the Holy Sacrament in which he had just taken part.

The Christmas dinner at the parsonage was not a repast that did much honour to the season, but it was a better dinner than the inhabitants of that house usually had on the board before them. There was roast pork and mince-pies, and a bottle of wine. As Mrs Crawley with her own hand put the meat upon the table, and then, as was her custom in their house, proceeded to cut it up, she looked at husband’s face to see whether he was scrutinising the food with painful eye. It was better that she should tell the truth at once than that she should be made to tell it, in answer to a question. Everything on the table, except the bread and potatoes, had come in a basket from Framley Court. Pork had been sent instead of beef, because people in the country, when they kill their pigs, do sometimes give each other pork–but do not exchange joints of beef, when they slay their oxen. All this was understood by Mrs Crawley, but she almost wished that beef had been sent, because beef would have attracted less attention. He said, however, nothing to the meat; but when his wife proposed to him that he should eat a mince-pie he resented it. ‘The bare food,’ said he, ‘is bitter enough, coming as it does; but that would choke me.’ She did not press it, but ate one herself, as otherwise her girl would have been forced also to refuse the dainty.

That evening, as soon as Jane was in bed, she resolved to ask him some further questions. ‘You will have a lawyer, Josiah–will you not?’

‘Why should I have a lawyer?’

‘Because he will know what questions to ask, and how questions on the other side should be answered.’

‘I have no questions to ask, and there is only one way in which questions should be answered. I have no money to pay a lawyer.’

‘But, Josiah, in such a case as this, where your honour, and our very life depend upon it–‘

‘Depend on what?’

‘On your acquittal.’

‘I shall not be acquitted. It is as well to look it in the face at once. Lawyer or no lawyer, they will say that I took the money. Were I upon the jury, trying the case myself, knowing all that I know now,’–and as he said this he struck forth with his hands into the air–‘I think that I should say so myself. A lawyer will do no good. It is here. It is here.’ And again he put his hands up to his head.

So far she had been successful. At this moment it had in truth been her object to induce him to speak of his own memory, and not of the aid that a lawyer might give. The proposition of the lawyer had been brought in to introduce the subject.

‘But, Josiah–‘

‘Well?’

It was very hard for her to speak. She could not bear to torment him by any allusion to his own deficiencies. She could not endure to make him think that she suspected him of any frailty either in intellect or thought. Wifelike, she desired to worship him, and that he should know that she worshipped him. But if a word might save him! ‘Josiah, where did it come from?’

‘Yes,’ said he; ‘yes; that is the question. Where did it come from?’–and he turned sharp upon her, looking at her with all the power of his eyes. ‘It is because I cannot tell you where it came from that I ought to be–either in Bedlam, as a madman, or in the county gaol as a thief.’ The words were so dreadful to her that she could not utter at the moment another syllable. ‘How is a man–to think himself–fit–for a man’s work, when he cannot answer his wife such a plain question as that?’ Then he paused again. ‘They should take me to Bedlam at once–at once–at once. That would not disgrace the children as the gaol will do.’

Mrs Crawley could ask no further questions on that evening.

CHAPTER XX

WHAT MR WALKER THOUGHT ABOUT IT

It had been suggested to Mr Robarts, that parson at Framley, that he should endeavour to induce his old acquaintance, Mr Crawley, to employ a lawyer to defend him at his trial, and Mr Robarts had not forgotten the commission which he had undertaken. But there were difficulties in the matter of which he was well aware. In the first place Mr Crawley was a man whom it had not at any time been easy to advise on matters private to himself; and in the next place, this was a matter on which it was very hard to speak to the man implicated, let him be who he would. Mr Robarts had come round to the generally accepted idea that Mr Crawley had obtained possession of the cheque illegally–acquitting his friend in his own mind of theft, simply by supposing that he was wool-gathering when the cheque came in his way. But in speaking to Mr Crawley, it would be necessary–so he thought–to pretend a conviction that Mr Crawley was as innocent in fact as in intention.

He had almost made up his mind to dash at the subject when he met Mr Crawley walking through Framley to Barchester, but he had abstained chiefly because Mr Crawley had been too quick for him, and had got away. After that he resolved that it would be almost useless for him to go to work unless he should be provided with a lawyer ready and willing to undertake the task; and as he was not so provided at present, he made up his mind that he would go into Silverbridge, and see Mr Walker, the attorney there. Mr Walker always advised everybody in those parts about everything, and would be sure to know what would be the proper thing to be done in this case. So Mr Robarts got into his gig, and drove himself into Silverbridge, passing very close to Mr Crawley’s house on his road. He drove at once to Mr Walker’s office, and on arriving there found that the attorney was not at that moment within. But Mr Winthrop was within. Would Mr Robarts see Mr Winthrop? Now, seeing Mr Winthrop was a very different thing from seeing Mr Walker, although the two gentlemen were partners. But still Mr Robarts said that he would see Mr Winthrop. Perhaps Mr Walker might return while he was there.

‘Is there anything I can do for you, Mr Robarts?’ asked Mr Winthrop. Mr Robarts said that he had wished to see Mr Walker about that poor fellow Crawley. ‘Ah, yes; very said case! So much sadder being a clergyman, Mr Robarts. We are really quite sorry for him;–we are indeed. We wouldn’t have touched the case ourselves if we could have helped ourselves. We wouldn’t indeed. But we are obliged to take all that business here. At any rate he’ll get nothing but fair usage from us.’

‘I am sure of that. You don’t know whether he has employed any lawyer as yet to defend him?’

‘I can’t say. We don’t know, you know. I should say he had–probably some Barchester attorney. Borleys and Bonstock in Barchester are very good people–very good people indeed;–for that sort of business I mean, Mr Robarts. I don’t suppose they have much county property in their hands.’

Mr Robarts knew that Mr Winthrop was a fool, and that he could get no useful advice from him. So he suggested that he would take his gig down to the inn, and call back again before long. ‘You’ll find that Mr Walker knows no more than I do about it,’ said Mr Winthrop, ‘but of course he’ll be glad to see you if he happens to come in.’ So Mr Robarts went to the inn, put up his horse, and then, as he sauntered back up the street, met Mr Walker coming out of the private door of his house.

‘I’ve been at home all the morning,’ he said; ‘but I’ve had a stiff job of work on hand, and told them to say in the office that I was not in. Seen Winthrop, have you? I don’t suppose he did know that I was here. The clerks often know more than the partners. About Mr Crawley, is it? Come into my dining-room, Mr Robarts, where we shall be alone. Yes;–it is a bad case; a very bad case. The pity is that anybody should have said anything about it. Lord bless me, if I’d been Soames I’d have let him have the twenty pounds. Lord Lufton would never have allowed Soames to lose it.’

‘But Soames wanted to find out the truth.’

‘Yes;–that was just it. Soames couldn’t bear to think that he should be left in the dark, and then, when the poor man said that Soames had paid the cheque to him in the way of business–it was not odd that Soames’s back should have been up, was it? But, Mr Robarts, I should have thought a deal about it before I should have brought such a man as Mr Crawley before a bench of magistrates on that charge.’

‘But between me and you, Mr Walker, did he steal the money?’

‘Well, Mr Robarts, you know how I’m placed.’

‘Mr Crawley is my friend, and of course I want to assist him. I was under a great obligation to Mr Crawley once, and I wish to befriend him, whether he took the money or not. But I could act so much better if I felt sure one way or the other.’

‘If you ask me, I think he did take it.’

‘What!–he stole it?’

‘I think he knew it was not his own when he took it. You see I don’t think he meant to use it when he took it. He perhaps had some queer idea that Soames had been hard on him, or his lordship, and that the money was fairly his due. Then he kept the cheque by him till he was absolutely badgered out of his life by the butcher up the street there. That was about the long and the short of it, Mr Robarts.’

‘I suppose so. And now what had we better do?’

‘Well; if you ask me–He is in very bad health, isn’t he?’

‘No; I should say not. He walked to Barchester and back the other day.’

‘Did he? But he’s very queer, isn’t he?’

‘Very odd-mannered indeed.’

‘And does and says all manner of odd things?’

‘I think you’d find the bishop would say so after that interview.’

‘Well; if it would do any good, you might have the bishop examined.’

‘Examined for what, Mr Walker?’

‘If you could show, you know, that Crawley has got a bee in his bonnet; that the mens sana is not there, in short;–I think you might manage to have the trial postponed.’

‘But then somebody must take charge of his living.’

‘You parsons could manage that among you;–you and the dean and the archdeacon. The archdeacon has always got half-a-dozen curates about somewhere. And then–after the assizes, Mr Crawley might come to his senses; and I think–mind you it’s only an idea–but I think the committal might be quashed. It would have been temporary insanity, and, though mind I don’t give my word for it, I think he might go on and keep his living. I think so, Mr Robarts.’

‘That has never occurred to me.’

‘No;–I daresay not. You see the difficulty is this. He’s so stiff-necked–will do nothing himself. Well, that will do for one proof of temporary insanity. The real truth is, Mr Robarts, he is as mad as a hatter.’

‘Upon my word I’ve often thought so.’

‘And you wouldn’t mind saying so in evidence–would you? Well, you see, there is no helping such a man in any other way. He won’t even employ a lawyer to defend him.’

‘That was what I had come to you about.’

‘I’m told he won’t. Now a man must be mad who won’t employ a lawyer when he wants one. You see, the point we should gain would be this–if we tried to get him through as being a little touched in the upper storey–whatever we could do for him, we could do against his own will. The more he opposed us the stronger our case would be. He would swear he was not mad at all, and we should say that that was the greatest sign of his madness. But when I say we, of course I mean you. I must not appear in it.’

‘I wish you could, Mr Walker.’

‘Of course I can’t; but that won’t make any difference.’

‘I suppose he must see a lawyer?’

‘Yes, he must have a lawyer;–or rather, his friends must.’

‘And who would employ him, ostensibly?’

‘Ah;–there’s the difficulty. His wife wouldn’t do it, I suppose? She couldn’t do him a better turn.’

‘He would never forgive her. And she would never consent against him.’

‘Could you interfere?’

‘If necessary, I will;–but I hardly know him well enough.’

‘Has he no father or mother, or uncles or aunts? He must have somebody belonging to him,’ said Mr Walker.

Then it occurred to Mr Robarts that Dean Arabin would be the proper person to interfere. Dean Arabin and Mr Crawley had been intimate friends in early life, and Dean Arabin knew more of him than did any man, at least in these parts. All this Mr Robarts explained to Mr Walker, and Mr Walker agreed with him that the services of Dean Arabin should if possible be obtained. Mr Robarts would at once write to Dean Arabin and explain at length all the circumstances of the case. ‘The worst of it is, he will hardly be home in time,’ said Mr Walker. ‘Perhaps he would come a little sooner if you were to press it?’

‘But we could act in his name in his absence, I suppose?–of course with his authority?’

‘I wish he could be here a month before the assizes, Mr Robarts. It would be better.’

‘And in the meantime shall I say anything to Mr Crawley, myself, about employing a lawyer?’

‘I think I would. If he turns upon you, as like he may, and abuses you, that will help us in one way. If he should consent, and perhaps he may, that would help us in the other way. I’m told he’s been over and upset the whole coach of the palace.’

‘I shouldn’t think the bishop got much of him,’ said the parson.