The Last Chronicle of Barset by Anthony Trollope (page 7)

request. ‘If I have been too sudden,’ he said, ‘you must forgive me for that. I have been sudden and abrupt, but as things are, no other way has been open to me. Can you not bring yourself to give me some answer, Grace?’ His hand had now fallen again to his side, but he was still standing before her.

She had said no word to him as yet, except that one in which she had acknowledged her love for his child, and had expressed no surprise, even in her countenance, at his proposal. And yet the idea that he should do such a thing, since the idea that he certainly would do it had become clear to her, had filled her with a world of surprise. No girl ever lived with any beauty belonging to her who had a smaller knowledge of her own possession than Grace Crawley. Nor had she the slightest pride in her own acquirements. That she had been taught in many things more than had been taught to other girls, had come of her poverty and of the desolation of her home. She had learned to read Greek and Italian because there had been nothing else for her to do in that sad house. And, subsequently, accuracy of knowledge had been necessary for the earning of her bread. I think that Grace had at times been weak enough to envy the idleness and almost envy the ignorance of other girls. Her figure was light, perfect in symmetry, full of grace at all points; but she had thought nothing of her figure, remembering only the poverty of her dress, but remembering also with a brave resolution that she would never be ashamed of it. And as her acquaintance with Major Grantly had begun and had grown, and as she had learned to feel unconsciously that his company was pleasanter to her than that of any other person she knew, she had still told herself that anything like love must be out of the question. But then words had been spoken, and there had been glances in his eye, and a tone in his voice, and a touch upon his fingers, of which she could not altogether refuse to accept the meaning. And others had spoken of it, the two Miss Prettymans and her friend Lily. Yet she would not admit to herself that it could be so, and she would not allow herself to confess to herself that she loved him. Then had come the last killing misery to which her father had been subjected. He had been accused of stealing money, and had been committed to be tried for the theft. From that moment, at any rate, any hope, if there had been a hope, must be crushed. But she swore to herself bravely that there had been no such hope. And she assured herself also that nothing had passed which had entitled her to expect anything beyond ordinary friendship from the man of whom she certainly had thought much. Even if those touches and those tones and those glances had meant anything, all such meaning must be annihilated by this disgrace which had come upon her. She might know that her father was innocent; but the world thought differently, and she, her brothers and sister, and her mother and her poor father, must bend to the world’s opinion. If those dangerous joys had meant anything, they must be taken as meaning nothing more.

Thus she had argued with herself, and, fortified by such self- teachings, she had come down to Allington. Since she had been with her friends there had come upon her from day to day a clear conviction that her arguments had been undoubtedly true–a clear conviction which had been very cold to her heart in spite of all her courage. She had expected nothing, hoped for nothing, and yet when nothing came she was sad. She thought of one special half-hour in which he had said almost all that he might have said–more than he ought to have said;–of a moment during which her hand had remained in his; of a certain pressure with which he had put her shawl upon her shoulders. If he had only written to her one word to tell her that he believed her father was innocent! But no; she had no right to expect anything from him. And then Lily had ceased to talk of him, and she did expect nothing. Now he was there before her, asking her to come to him and be his wife. Yes; she would kiss his shoebuckles, only that the kissing of his shoebuckles would bring upon him that injury which he should never suffer from her hands! He had been generous, and her self-pride was satisfied. But her other pride was touched, and she also would be generous. ‘Can you not bring yourself to give me some answer?’ he had said to her. Of course she must give him an answer, but how would she give it?

‘You are very kind,’ she said.

‘I would be more than kind.’

‘So you are. Kind is a cold word when used to such a friend at such a time.’

‘I would be everything on earth to you that a man can be to a woman.’

‘I know I ought to thank you if I knew how. My heart is full of thanks; it is indeed.’

‘And is there no room for love there?’

‘There is no room for love in our house, Major Grantly. You have not seen papa.’

‘No; but if you wish, I will do so at once.’

‘It would to do no good;–none. I only asked you because you can hardly know how sad is our state at home.’

‘But I cannot see that that need deter you, if you can love me.’

‘Can you not? If you saw him, and the house, and my mother, you would not say so. In the Bible it is said of some season that it is not a time for marrying, or giving in marriage. And so it is with us.’

‘I am not pressing you as to a day. I only ask you to say that you will be engaged to me–so that I may tell my own people, and let it be known.’

‘I understand all that. I know how good you are. But, Major Grantly, you must understand me also when I assure you that it cannot be so.’

‘Do you mean to refuse me altogether?’

‘Yes; altogether.’

‘And why?’

‘Must I answer that question? Ought I to be made to answer it? But I will tell you fairly, without touching on anything else, that I feel that we are all disgraced, and that I will not take that disgrace into another family.’

‘Grace, do you love me?’

‘I love no one now–that is, as you mean. I can love no one. I have no room for any feeling except for my father and mother, and for us all. I should not be here now but that I save my mother the bread that I should eat at home.’

‘Is it as bad as that?’

‘Yes, it is as bad as that. It is much worse than that, if you knew it all. You cannot conceive how low we have fallen. And now they tell me that my father will be found guilty, and will be sent to prison. Putting ourselves out of the question, what would you think of a girl who could engage herself to any man under such circumstances? What would you think of a girl who would allow herself to be in love in such a position? Had I been ten times engaged to you, I would have broken it off.’ And then she got up to leave him.

But he stopped her, holding her by the arm. ‘What you have said will make me say what I certainly should have said without it. I declare that we are engaged.’

‘No, we are not,’ said Grace.

‘You have told me that you loved me.’

‘I never told you so.’

‘There are other ways of speaking than the voice; and I will boast to you, though to no one else, that you have told me so. I believe you love me. I shall hold myself engaged to you, and I shall think you false if I hear that you listen to another man. Now, good-bye, Grace;–my own Grace.’

‘No, I am not your own,’ she said, through her tears.

‘You are my own, my very own. God bless you, dear, dear, dearest Grace. You shall hear from me in a day or two, and shall see me as soon as this horrid trial is over.’ Then he took her in his arms before she could escape from him, and kissed her forehead and her lips, while she struggled in his arms. After that he left the room and the house as quickly as he could, and was seen no more of the Dales upon that occasion.

CHAPTER XXXI

SHOWING HOW MAJOR GRANTLY RETURNED TO GUESTWICK

Grace, when she was left alone, threw herself upon the sofa, and hid her face in her hands. She was weeping almost hysterically, and had been utterly dismayed and frightened by her lover’s impetuosity. Things had gone after a fashion which her imagination had not painted to her as possible. Surely she had the power to refuse the man if she pleased. And yet she felt as she lay there weeping that she did in truth belong to him as part of his goods, and that her generosity had been foiled. She had especially resolved that she would not confess any love to him. She had made no such confession. She had guarded herself against doing so with all the care which she knew how to use. But he assumed the fact, and she had been unable to deny it. Could she have lied to him, and sworn that she did not love him? Could she have so perjured herself, even in support of her generosity? Yes, she would have done so–so she told herself–if a moment had been given to her for thought. She ought to have done so, and she blamed herself for being so little prepared for the occasion. The lie would be useless now. Indeed, she would have no opportunity for telling it; for of course she would not answer–would not even read his letter. Though he might know that she loved him, yet she would not be his wife. He had forced her secret from her, but he could not force her to marry him. She did love him, but he should never be disgraced by her love.

After a while she was able to think of his conduct, and she believed that she ought to be very angry with him. He had taken her roughly in his arms, and had insulted her. He had forced a kiss from her. She had felt his arms warm and close and strong about her, and had not known whether she was in paradise or in purgatory. She was very angry with him. She would send back his letter to him without reading it–without opening it, if that might be possible. He had done that to her which nothing could justify. But yet–yet–yet how dearly she loved him! Was he not the prince of men? He had behaved badly, of course; but had any man ever behaved so badly before in so divine a way? Was it not a thousand pities that she should be driven to deny anything to a lover who so richly deserved everything that could be given to him? He had kissed her hand as he let her go, and now, not knowing what she did, she kissed the spot on which she had felt his lips. His arm had been round her waist, and the old frock which she wore should be kept by her for ever, because it had been so graced.

What was she now to say to Lily and Lily’s mother? Of one thing there was no doubt. She would never tell them of her lover’s wicked audacity. That was a secret never to be imparted to any ears. She would keep her resentment to herself, and not ask the protection of any vicarious wrath. He could never so sin again, that was certain; and she would keep all her knowledge and memory of the sin for her own purposes. But how could it be that such a man as that, one so good though so sinful, so glorious though so great a trespasser, should have come to such a girl as her and have asked for her love? Then she thought of her father’s poverty and the misery of her own condition, and declared to herself that it was very wonderful.

Lily was the first to enter the room, and she, before she did so, learned from the servant that Major Grantly had left the house. ‘I heard the door, miss, and then I saw the top of his hat out of the pantry window.’ Armed with this certain information, Lily entered the drawing-room, and found Grace in the act of rising from the sofa.

‘Am I disturbing you,’ said Lily.

‘No; not at all. I am glad you have come. Kiss me, and be good to me.’ And she twined her arms about Lily and embraced her.

‘Am I not always good to you, you simpleton? Has he been good?’

‘I don’t know what you mean?’

‘And have you been good to him?’

‘As good as I knew how, Lily.’

‘And where is he?’

‘He has gone away. I shall never see him any more, Lily.’

Then she hid her face upon her friend’s shoulder and broke forth again into hysterical tears.

‘But tell me, Grace, what he said;–that is, if you mean to tell me!’

‘I will tell you everything;–that is, everything I can.’ And Grace blushed as she thought of the one secret which she certainly would not tell.

‘Has he–has he done what I said he would do? Come, speak out boldly. Has he asked you to be his wife?’

‘Yes,’ said Grace, barely whispering the word.

‘And you have accepted him?’

‘No, Lily, I have not. Indeed, I have not. I did not know how to speak, because I was surprised;–and he, of course, could say what he liked. But I told him as well as I could, that I would not marry him.’

‘And why;–did you tell him why?’

‘Yes; because of papa!’

‘Then, if he is the man I take him to be, that answer will go for nothing. Of course he knew all that before he came here. He did not think you were an heiress with forty thousand pounds. If he is in earnest, that will go for nothing. And I think he is in earnest.’

‘And so was I in earnest.’

‘Well, Grace;–we shall see.’

‘I suppose I may have a will of my own, Lily.’

‘Do not be sure of that. Women are not allowed to have wills of their own on all occasions. Some man comes in a girl’s way, and she gets to be fond of him, just because he does come in her way. Well; when that has taken place, she has no alternative but to be taken if he chooses to take her; or to be left, if he chooses to leave her.’

‘Lily, don’t say that.’

‘But I do say it. A man may assure himself that he will find for himself a wife who shall be learned, or beautiful, or six feet high, if he wishes it, or who has red hair, or red eyes, or red cheeks–just what he pleases; and he may go about till he finds it, as you can go about and match your worsteds. You are a fool if you buy a colour you don’t want. But we can never match our worsteds for that other piece of work, but are obliged to take any colour that comes–and, therefore, it is that we make such a jumble of it! Here’s mamma. We must not be philosophical before her. Mamma, Major Grantly has–skedaddled.’

‘Oh, Lily, what a word!’

‘But, oh, mamma, what a thing! Fancy his going away and not saying a word to anybody!’

‘If he had anything to say to Grace, I suppose he said it.’

‘He asked her to marry him, of course. We none of us had any doubt about that. He swore to her that she and none but she should be his wife–and all that kind of thing. But he seems to have done it in the most prosaic way;–and now he has gone away without saying a word to any of us. I shall never speak to him again–unless Grace asks me.’

‘Grace, my dear, may I congratulate you?’ said Mrs Dale.

Grace did not answer, as Lily was too quick for her. ‘Oh, she has refused him, of course. But, Major Grantly is a man of too much sense to expect that he should succeed the first time. Let me see; this is the fourteenth. These clocks run fourteen days, and therefore, you may expect him again about the twenty-eighth. For myself, I think you are giving him an immense deal of unnecessary trouble, and that if he left you in the lurch it would only serve you right; but you have the world with you, I’m told. A girl is supposed to tell a man two fibs before she may tell him one truth.’

‘I told him no fib, Lily. I told him that I would not marry him and I will not.’

‘But why not, dear Grace?’ said Mrs Dale.

‘Because the people say that papa is a thief!’ Having said this, Grace walked slowly out of the room, and neither Mrs Dale nor Lily attempted to follow her.

‘She’s as good as gold,’ said Lily, when the door was closed.

‘And he;–what of him?’

‘I think he is good too; but she has told me nothing yet of what he has said to her. He must be good, or he would not have come down here after her. But I don’t wonder at his coming, because she is so beautiful! Once or twice as we were walking back today, I thought her face was the most lovely that I had ever seen. And did you see her just now, as she spoke of her father?’

‘Oh, yes;–I saw her.’

‘Think what she will be in two or three years’ time, when she becomes a woman. She talks French, and Italian, and Hebrew for anything that I know; and she is perfectly beautiful. I never saw a more lovely figure;–and she has spirit enough for a goddess. I don’t think that Major Grantly is such a fool after all.’

‘I never took him for a fool.’

‘I have no doubt all his own people do;–or they will, when they hear of it. But, mamma, she will grow to be big enough to walk atop all the Lady Hartletops in England. It will all come right at last.’

‘You think it will?’

‘Oh, yes. Why should it not? If he is worth having, it will;–and I think he is worth having. He must wait till this horrid trial is over. It is clear to me that Grace thinks her father will be convicted.’

‘But he cannot have taken the money.’

‘I think he took it, and I think it wasn’t his. But I don’t think he stole it. I don’t know whether you can understand the difference.’

‘I am afraid a jury won’t understand it.’

‘A jury of men will not. I wish they could put you and me on it, mamma. I would take my best boots and eat them down to the heels, for Grace’s sake, and for Major Grantly’s. What a good-looking man he is!’

‘Yes, he is.’

‘And so like a gentleman! I’ll tell you what, mamma; we won’t say anything to her about him for the present. Her heart will be so full she will be driven to talk, and we can comfort her better in that way.’ The mother and daughter agreed to act upon these tactics and nothing more was said to Grace about her lover on that evening.

Major Grantly walked from Mrs Dale’s house to the inn and ordered his gig, and drove himself out of Allington, almost without remembering where he was or whither he was going. He was thinking solely of what had just occurred, and of what, on his part, should follow as the result of that meeting. Half at least of the noble deeds done in this world are due to emulation, rather than to the native nobility of the actors. A young man leads a forlorn hope because another young man has offered to do so. Jones in the hunting-field rides at an impracticable fence because he is told Smith took it three years ago. And Walker puts his name down for ten guineas at a charitable dinner when he hears Thompson’s read out for five. And in this case the generosity and self-denial shown by Grace warmed and cherished similar virtues within her lover’s breast. Some few weeks ago Major Grantly had been in doubt as to what his duty required of him in reference to Grace Crawley; but he had no doubt whatsoever now. In the fervour of his admiration he would have gone straight to the archdeacon, had it been possible, and have told him what he had done and what he intended to do. Nothing now should stop him;–no consideration, that is, either as regarded money or position. He had pledged himself solemnly, and he was very glad that he had pledged himself. He would write to Grace and explain to her that he trusted altogether in her father’s honour and innocence, but that no consideration as to that ought to influence either him or her in any way. If, independently of her father, she could bring herself to come to him and be his wife, she was bound to do so now, let the position of her father be what it might. And thus, as he drove his gig back towards Guestwick, he composed a very pretty letter to the lady of his love.

And as he went, at the corner of the lane which led from the main road up to Guestwick cottage, he again came upon John Eames, who was also returning to Guestwick. There had been a few words spoken between Lady Julia and Johnny respecting Major Grantly after the girls had left the cottage, and Johnny had been persuaded that the strange visitor to Allington could have no connexion with his arch-enemy. ‘And why has he gone to Allington,’ John demanded, somewhat sternly, of his hostess.

‘Well; if you ask me, I think he has gone there to see your cousin, Grace Crawley.’

‘He told me that he knew Grace,’ said John, looking as though he were conscious of his own ingenuity in putting two and two together very cleverly.

‘Your cousin Grace is a very pretty girl,’ said Lady Julia.

‘It’s a long time since I’ve seen her,’ said Johnny.

‘Why, you saw her just this last minute,’ said Lady Julia.

‘I didn’t look at her,’ said Johnny. Therefore, when he again met Major Grantly, having continued to put two and two together with great ingenuity, he felt quite sure that the man had nothing to do with the arch-enemy, and he determined to be gracious. ‘Did you find them at home at Allington,’ he said, raising his hat.

‘How do you do again?’ said the major. ‘Yes, I found your friend Mrs Dale at home.’

‘But not her daughter, or my cousin? They were up there;–where I’ve come from. But, perhaps, they had got back before you left.’

‘I saw them both. They found me on the road with Mr Dale.’

‘What–the squire? Then you have seen everybody.’

‘Everybody I wished to see at Allington.’

‘But you wouldn’t stay at the “Red Lion”?’

‘Well, no. I remembered that I wanted to get back to London; and as I had seen my friends, I thought I might as well hurry away.’

‘You knew Mrs Dale before, then?’

‘No, I didn’t. I never saw her in my life before. But I knew the old squire when I was a boy. However, I should have said friend. I went to see one friend, and I saw her.’

John Eames perceived that his companion put a strong emphasis on the word ‘her’, as though he were determined to declare boldly that he had gone to Allington solely to see Grace Crawley. He had not the slightest objection to recognising in Major Grantly a suitor for his cousin’s hand. He could only reflect what an unusually fortunate girl Grace must be if such a thing could be true. Of those poor Crawleys he had only heard from time to time that their misfortunes were as numerous as the sands on the sea-shore, and as unsusceptible of any fixed and permanent arrangement. But, as regarded Grace, there would be a very permanent arrangement. Tidings had reached him that Grace was a great scholar, but he had never heard much of her beauty. It must probably be the case that Major Grantly was fond of Greek. There was, he reminded himself, no accounting for tastes; but as nothing could be more respectable than such an alliance, he thought that it would become him to be civil to the major.

‘I hope you found her quite well. I had barely time to speak to her myself.’

‘Yes, she was very well. This is a sad thing about her father.’

‘Very sad,’ said Johnny. Perhaps the major had heard about the accusation for the first time today, and was going to find an escape on that plea. If such was the case, it would not be so well to be particularly civil.

‘I believe Mr Crawley is a cousin of yours?’ said the major.

‘His wife is my mother’s first-cousin. Their mothers were sisters.’

‘She is an excellent woman.’

‘I believe so. I don’t know much about them myself–that is, personally. Of course I have heard of this charge that has been made against him. It seems to me to be a great shame.’

‘Well, I can’t exactly say that it is a shame. I do not know that there has been anything done with a feeling of persecution or of cruelty. It is a great mystery, and we must have it cleared up if we can.’

‘I don’t suppose he can have been guilty,’ said John.

‘Certainly not in the ordinary sense of the word. I heard all the evidence against him.’

‘Oh, you did?’

‘Yes,’ said the major. ‘I live near them in Barsetshire, and I am one of his bailsmen.’

‘Then you are an old friend, I suppose?’

‘Not exactly that; but circumstances made me very much interested about them. I fancy that the cheque was left in his house by accident, and that it got into his hands he didn’t know how, and that when he used it he thought it was his.’

‘That’s queer,’ said Johnny.

‘He is very odd, you know.’

‘But it’s a kind of oddity that they don’t like at assizes.’

‘The great cruelty is,’ said the major, ‘that whatever may be the result, the punishment will fall so heavily upon his wife and daughters. I think the whole county ought to come forward and take them by the hand. Well, good-bye. I’ll drive on, as I’m a little in a hurry.’

‘Good-bye,’ said Johnny. ‘I’m very glad to have had the pleasure of meeting you.’ ‘He’s a good sort of fellow after all,’ he said to himself when the gig had passed on. ‘He wouldn’t have talked in that way if he meant to hang back.’

CHAPTER XXXII

MR TOOGOOD

Mr Crawley had declared to Mr Robarts, that he would summon no legal aid to his assistance at the coming trial. The reader may, perhaps, remember the impetuosity with which he rejected the advice on this subject which was conveyed to him by Mr Robarts with all the authority of Archdeacon Grantly’s name. ‘Tell the archdeacon,’ he had said, ‘that I will have none of his advice.’ And then Mr Robarts had left him, fully convinced that any further interference on his part could be of no avail. Nevertheless, the words which had then been spoken were not without effect. This coming trial was ever present to Mr Crawley’s mind, and though, when driven to discuss the subject, he would speak of it with high spirit, as he had done both to the bishop and to Mr Robarts, yet in his long hours of privacy, or when alone with his wife, his spirit was anything but high. ‘It will kill me,’ he would say to her. ‘I shall get salvation thus. Death will relieve me, and I shall never be called upon to stand before those cruel eager eyes.’ Then she would try to say words of comfort, sometimes soothing him, as though he were a child, and at others bidding him to be a man, and remember that as a man he should have sufficient endurance to bear the eyes of any crowd that might be there to look at him.

‘I think I will go up to London,’ he said to her one evening, very soon after the day of Mr Robarts’s visit.

‘Go up to London, Josiah!’ Mr Crawley had not been up to London once since they had been settled at Hogglestock, and this sudden resolution on his part frightened his wife. ‘Go up to London, dearest! And why?’

‘I will tell you why. They all say that I should speak to some man of the law whom I may trust about this coming trial. I trust no one in these parts. Not, mark you, that I say that they are untrustworthy. God forbid that I should so speak or even so think of men whom I know not. But the matter has become common in men’s mouths at Barchester and at Silverbridge, that I cannot endure to go among them and to talk of it. I will go up to London, and I will see your cousin, Mr John Toogood, of Gray’s Inn.’ Now in this scheme there was an amount of everyday prudence which startled Mrs Crawley almost as much as did the prospect of the difficulties to be overcome if the journey were to be made. Her husband in the first place, had never once seen Mr John Toogood; and in days very long back, when he and she were making their first gallant struggle–for in those days it had been gallant–down in their Cornish curacy, he had reprobated certain Toogood civilities–professional civilities–which had been proffered, perhaps, with too plain an intimation that on the score of relationship the professional work should be done without payment. The Mr Toogood of those days, who had been Mrs Crawley’s uncle, and the father of Mrs Eames and grandfather or our friend Johnny Eames, had been much angered by some correspondence which had grown up between him and Mr Crawley, and from that day there had been a cessation of all intercourse between the families. Since those days that Toogood had been gathered to the ancient Toogoods of old, and the son reigned on the family throne in Raymond Buildings. The present Toogood was therefore first cousin to Mrs Crawley. But there had been no intimacy between them. Mrs Crawley had not seen her cousin since her marriage–as indeed she had seen none of her relations, having been estranged from them by the singular bearing of her husband. She knew that her cousin stood high in his profession, the firm of Toogood and Crump–Crump and Toogood it should have been properly called in these days–having always held its head up high above all dirty work; and she felt that her husband could look for advice from no better source. But how would such a one as he manage to tell his story to a stranger? Nay, how would he find his way alone into the lawyer’s room, to tell his story at all–so strange was he to the world? And then the expense! ‘If you do not wish me to apply to your cousin, say so, and there shall be an end of it,’ said Mr Crawley in an angry tone.

‘Of course I would wish it. I believe him to be an excellent man, and a good lawyer.’

‘Then why should I not go to his chambers? In forma pauperis I must go to him, and must tell him so. I cannot pay him for the labour of his counsel, nor for such minutes of his time as I shall use.’

‘Oh, Josiah, you need not speak of that.’

‘But I must speak of it. Can I go to a professional man; who keeps as it were his shop open for those who may think fit to come, and purchase of him, and take of his goods, and afterwards, when the goods have been used, tell him that I have not the price in my hand? I will not do that, Mary. You think that I am mad, that I know not what I do. Yes–I see it in your eyes; and you are sometimes partly right. But I am not so mad but that I know what is honest. I will tell your cousin that I am sore straitened, and brought down into the very dust by misfortune. And I will beseech him, for what of ancient feeling of family he may bear to you, to listen to me for a while. And I will be very short, and, if need be, will bide his time patiently, and perhaps he may say a word to me that may be of use.’

There was certainly very much in this to provoke Mrs Crawley. It was not only that she knew well that her cousin would give ample and immediate attention, and lend himself thoroughly to the matter without any idea of payment–but that she could not quite believe that her husband’s humility was true humility. She strove to believe it, but she knew that she failed. After all it was only a feeling on her part. There was no argument within herself about it. An unpleasant taste came across the palate of her mind, as such a savour will sometimes, from some unexpected source, come across the palate of the mouth. Well; she could only gulp at it, and swallow it and excuse it. Among the salad that comes from your garden a bitter leaf will now and then make its way into your salad-bowl. Alas, there were so many bitter leaves ever making their way into her bowl! ‘What I mean is, Josiah, that no long explanation will be needed. I think from what I remember of him, that he would do for us anything that he could do.’

‘Then I will go to the man, and will humble myself before him. Even that, hard as it is to me, may be a duty that I owe.’ Mr Crawley as he said this was remembering the fact that he was a clergyman of the Church of England, and that he had a rank of his own in the country, which, did he ever do such a thing as go out for dinner in company, would establish for him a certain right of precedence; whereas this attorney, of whom he was speaking, was, so to say, nobody in the eyes of the world.

‘There need be no humbling, Josiah, other than that which is due from a man to man in all circumstances. But never mind; we will not talk about that. If it seems good to you, go to Mr Toogood. I think that it is good. May I write to him and say that you will go?’

‘I will write to him myself.’

Then the wife paused before she asked the next question–paused for some minute or two, and than asked it with anxious doubt–‘And may I go with you, Josiah?’

‘Why should two go when one can do the work?’ he answered sharply. ‘Have we money so much to command?’

‘Indeed, no.’

‘You should go and do it all, for you are wiser in these things than I am, were it not that I may not dare to show–that I submit myself to my wife.’

‘Nay, my dear!’

‘But it is ay, my dear. It is so. This is a thing such as men do; not such as women do, unless they be forlorn and unaided of men. I know that I am weak where you are strong; that I am crazed where you are clear-witted.’

‘I meant not that, Josiah. It was of your health that I thought.’

‘Nevertheless it is as I say; but, for all that, it may not be that you should do my work. There are those watching me who would say, “Lo! He confesses himself incapable.” And then someone would whisper something of a madhouse. Mary, I fear that worse than a prison.’

‘May God in His mercy forbid such cruelty!’

‘But I must look to it, my dear. Do you think that that woman, who sits at Barchester in high places, disgracing herself and that puny ecclesiastical lord who is her husband–do you think that she would not immure me if she could? She is a she-wolf–only less reasonable than the dumb brute as she sharpens her teeth in malice coming from anger, and not in malice coming from hunger as do the outer wolves of the forest. I tell you, Mary, that if she had a colourable ground for her action, she would swear tomorrow that I am mad.’

‘You shall go alone to London.’

‘Yes, I will go alone. They shall not say that I cannot yet do my own work as a man should do. I stood up before him, the puny man who is called a bishop, and before her who makes herself great by his littleness, and I scorned them both to their faces. Though the shoes which I had on were broken, as I myself could not but see when I stood, yet I was greater than they were with all their purple and fine linen.’

‘But, Josiah, my cousin will not be harsh to you.’

‘Well–and if he be not?’

‘Ill-usage you can bear; and violent ill-usage, such as that which Mrs Proudie allowed herself to exhibit, you can repay with interest; but kindness seems to be too heavy a burden for you.’

‘I will struggle. I will endeavour. I will speak but little, and, if possible, I will listen much. Now, my dear, I will write to this man, and you shall give me the address that is proper for him.’ Then he wrote the letter, not accepting a word in the way of dictation from his wife, but ‘craving great kindness of a short interview, for which he ventured to become a solicitor, urged thereto by his wife’s assurance that one with whom he was connected by family ties would do as much as this for the possible preservation of the honour of the family.’ In answer to this Mr Toogood wrote back as follows:–‘Dear Mr Crawley, I will be at my office all Thursday morning next from ten to two, and will take care that you shan’t be kept waiting for me above ten minutes. You parsons never like waiting. But hadn’t you better come and breakfast with me and Maria at nine? Then we’d have a talk as we walked to the office. Yours always, THOMAS TOOGOOD.’ And the letter was dated from the attorney’s private house in Tavistock Square.

‘I am sure he means to be kind,’ said Mrs Crawley.

‘Doubtless he means to be kind. But kindness is rough;–I will not say unmannerly, as the word would be harsh. I have never even seen the lady whom he calls Maria.’

‘She is his wife!’

‘So I would venture to suppose; but she is unknown to me. I will write again, and thank him, and say that I will be with him at ten to the moment.’

There were still many things to be settled before the journey could be made. Mr Crawley, in his first plan, proposed that he should go up by night mail train, travelling in the third class, having walked over to Silverbridge to meet it; that he should then walk about London from 5am to 10am, and afterwards come down by an afternoon train to which a third class was also attached. But at last his wife persuaded him that such a task as that, performed in the middle of winter, would be enough to kill any man, and that, if attempted, it would certainly kill him; and he consented at last to sleep the night in town–being specially moved thereto by discovering that he could, in conformity with this scheme, get in and out of the train at a station considerably nearer to him than Silverbridge, and that he could get a return-ticket at a third-class fare. The whole journey, he found, could be done for a pound, allowing him seven shillings for his night’s expenses in London; and out of the resources of the family there were produced two sovereigns, so that in the event of accident he would not utterly be a castaway from want of funds.

So he started on his journey after an early dinner, almost hopeful through the new excitement of a journey to London, and his wife walked with him nearly as far as the station. ‘Do not reject my cousin’s kindness,’ were the last words she spoke.

‘For his professional kindness, if he will extend it to me, I will be most thankful,’ he replied. She did not dare to say more; nor had she dared to write privately to her cousin, asking for any special help, lest by doing so she should seem to impugn the sufficiency and stability of her husband’s judgment. He got up to town late at night, and having made inquiry of one of the porters, he hired a bed for himself in the neighbourhood of the railway station. Here he had a cup of tea and a morsel of bread-and-butter, and in the morning he breakfasted again on the same fare. ‘No I have no luggage,’ he had said to the girl at the public-house, who had asked him as to his travelling gear. ‘If luggage be needed as a certificate of respectability, I will pass on elsewhere,’ said he. The girl stared, and assured him that she did not doubt his respectability. ‘I am a clergyman of the Church of England,’ he had said, ‘but my circumstances prevent me from seeking a more expensive lodging.’ They did their best to make him comfortable, and, I think, almost disappointed him in not heaping further misfortunes on his head.

He was in Raymond’s Buildings at half-past nine, and for half an hour walked up and down the umbrageous pavement–it used to be umbrageous, but perhaps the trees have gone now–before the doors of the various chambers. He could hear the clock strike from Gray’s Inn; and the moment that it had struck he was turning in, but was encountered in the passage by Mr Toogood, who was equally punctual with himself. Strange stories about Mr Crawley had reached Mr Toogood’s household, and that Maria, the mention of whose Christian name had been so offensive to the clergyman, had begged her husband not to be a moment late. Poor Mr Toogood, who on ordinary days did perhaps take a few minutes’ grace, was thus hurried away almost with his breakfast in his throat, and, as we have seen, just saved himself. ‘Perhaps, sir, you are Mr Crawley?’ he said, in a good-humoured, cheery voice. He was a good-humoured, cheery-looking man, about fifty years of age, with grizzled hair and sunburnt face, and large whiskers. Nobody would have taken him to be a partner in any of those great houses of which we have read in history–the Quirk, Gammon and Snaps of the profession, or the Dodson and Foggs, who are immortal.

‘That is my name, sir,’ said Mr Crawley, taking off his hat and bowing low, ‘and I am here by appointment to meet Mr Toogood, the solicitor, whose name I see affixed upon the door-post.’

‘I am Mr Toogood, the solicitor, and I hope to see you quite well, Mr Crawley.’ Then the attorney shook hands with the clergyman and preceded him upstairs to the front room on the first floor. ‘Here we are, Mr Crawley, and pray take a chair. I wish you could have made it convenient to come and see us at home. We are rather long, as my wife says–long in family, she means, and therefore are not very well off for spare beds–‘

‘Oh, sir.’

‘I’ve twelve of ’em living, Mr Crawley–from eighteen years, the eldest–a girl, down to eighteen months the youngest–a boy, and they go in and out, boy and girl, boy and girl, like the cogs of a wheel. They ain’t such far away distant cousins from your own young ones–only first, once, as we call it.’

‘I am aware that there is a family tie, or I should not have ventured to trouble you.’

‘Blood is thicker than water, isn’t it? I often say that. I heard of one of your girls only yesterday. She is staying somewhere down in the country, not far from where my sister lives–Mrs Eames, the widow of poor John Eames, who never did any good in this world. I daresay you’ve heard of her?’

‘The name is familiar to me, Mr Toogood.’

‘Of course it is. I’ve a nephew down there just now, and he saw your girl the other day;–very highly spoke of her too. Let me see;–how many do you have?’

‘Three living, Mr Toogood.’

‘I’ve just four times three;–that’s the difference. But I comfort myself with the text about the quiver you know; and I tell them that when they’ve eat up all the butter, they’ll have to take their bread dry.’

‘I trust the young people take your teaching in the proper spirit.’

‘I don’t know much about spirit. There’s spirit enough. My second girl, Lucy, told me that if I came here today without tickets for the pantomime I shouldn’t have any dinner allowed me. That’s the way they treat me. But we understand each other at home. We’re all pretty good friends there, thank God. And there isn’t a sick chick among the boiling.’

‘You have many mercies for which you should indeed be thankful,’ said Mr Crawley, gravely.

‘Yes, yes, yes; that’s true. I think of that sometimes, though perhaps not so much as I ought to do. But the best way to be thankful is to use the goods the gods provide you. “The lovely Thais sits beside you. Take the goods the gods provide you.” I often say that to my wife, till the children have got calling her Thais. The children have it pretty much their own way with us, Mr Crawley.’

By this time Mr Crawley was almost beside himself, and was altogether at a loss how to bring in the matter on which he wished to speak. He had expected to find a man who in the hurry of London business might perhaps just manage to spare him five minutes–who would grapple instantly with the subject that was to be discussed between them, would speak to him half-a-dozen hard words of wisdom, and would then dismiss him and turn on the instant to other matters of important business;–but here was an easy familiar fellow, who seemed to have nothing on earth to do, and who at this first meeting had taken advantage of a distant family connexion to tell him everything about the affairs of his own household. And then how peculiar were the domestic affairs which he told! What was Mr Crawley to say to a man who had taught his own children to call their mother Thais? Of Thais Mr Crawley did know something, and he forgot to remember that perhaps Mr Toogood knew less. He felt it, however, to be very difficult to submit the details of his case to a gentleman who talked in such a strain about his own wife and children.

But something must be done. Mr Crawley, in his present frame of mind, could not sit and talk about Thais all day. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘the picture of your home is very pleasant, and I presume that plenty abounds there.’

‘Well, you know, pretty toll-loll for that. With twelve of ’em, Mr Crawley, I needn’t tell you they are not all going to have castles and parks of their own, unless they can get ’em off their own bats. But I pay upwards of a hundred a year each for my eldest three boys’ schooling, and I’ve been paying eighty for the girls. Put that together and see what it comes to. Educate, educate, educate; that’s my word.’

‘No better word can be spoken, sir.’

‘I don’t think there’s a girl in Tavistock Square that can beat Polly–she’s the eldest, called after her mother, you know–that can beat her at the piano. And Lucy has read Lord Byron and Tom Moore all through, every word of ’em. By Jove, I believe she knows most of Tom Moore by heart. And the young uns a coming on just as well.’

‘Perhaps, sir, as your time is, no doubt, precious–‘

‘We’ll tackle to? Very well; so be it. Now, Mr Crawley, let me hear what it is I can do for you.’ Of a sudden, as Mr Toogood spoke these last words, the whole tone of his voice seemed to change, and even the position of his body became so much altered as to indicate a different kind of man. ‘You just tell your story in your own way, and I won’t interrupt you till you’ve done. That’s always the best.’

‘I must first crave your attention to an unfortunate preliminary,’ said Mr Crawley.

‘And what is that?’

‘I come before you in forma pauperis.’ Here Mr Crawley paused and stood up before the attorney with his hands crossed one upon the other, bending low, as though calling attention to the poorness of his raiment. ‘I know that I have no justification for my conduct. I have nothing of reason to offer why I should trespass upon your time. I am a poor man, and cannot pay you for your services.’

‘Oh, bother!’ said Mr Toogood, jumping from his chair.

‘I do not know whether your charity will grant me that which I ask–‘

‘Don’t let us have any more of this,’ said the attorney. ‘We none of us like that kind of thing at all. If I can be of any service to you, you’re as welcome as flowers in May; and as for billing my first-cousin, which your wife is, I should as soon think of sending an account to my own.’

‘But, Mr Toogood–‘

‘Do you go on now with your story; I’ll put the rest all right.’

‘I was bound to be explicit, Mr Toogood.’

‘Very well; now you have been explicit with a vengeance, and you may heave ahead. Let’s hear the story, and if I can help you I will. When I’ve said that, you may be sure I mean it. I’ve heard something of it before; but let me hear it all from you.’

Then Mr Crawley began and told his story. Mr Toogood was actually true to his promise and let the narrator go on with his narrative without interruption. When Mr Crawley came to his own statement that the cheque had been paid to him by Mr Soames, and went on to say that that statement had been false–‘I told him that, but I told him so wrongly,’ and then paused, thinking that the lawyer would ask some question, Mr Toogood simply said, ‘Go on; go on. I’ll come back to all that when you’ve done.’ And he merely nodded his head when Mr Crawley spoke of his second statement, that the money had come from the dean. ‘We had been bound together by close ties of early familiarity,’ said Mr Crawley, ‘and in former years our estates in life were the same. But he has prospered and I have failed. And when creditors were importunate, I consented to accept relief in money which had previously been often offered. And I must acknowledge, Mr Toogood, while saying this, that I have known–have known with heartfelt agony–that at former times my wife has taken that from my friend Mr Arabin, with hand half-hidden from me, which I have refused. Whether it be better to eat–the bread of charity–or not to eat bread at all, I, for myself, have no doubt,’ he said; ‘but when the want strikes one’s wife and children, and the charity strikes only oneself, then there is a doubt.’ When he spoke thus, Mr Toogood got up, and thrusting his hands in his waistcoat pockets walked about the room, exclaiming, ‘By George, by George, by George!’ But he still let the man go on with his story, and heard him out at last to the end.

‘And they committed you for trial at the next Barchester assizes?’ said the lawyer.

‘They did.’

‘And you employed no lawyer before the magistrates?’

‘None;–I refused to employ anyone.’

‘You were wrong there, Mr Crawley. I must be allowed to say that you were wrong there.’

‘I may possibly have been so from your point of view, Mr Toogood; but permit me to explain. I–‘

‘It’s no good explaining now. Of course you must employ a lawyer for your defence–an attorney who will put the case into the hands of counsel.’

‘But that I cannot do, Mr Toogood.’

‘You must do it. If you don’t do it, your friends should do it for you. If you don’t do it, everybody will say you’re mad. There isn’t a single solicitor you could find within a half a mile of you at this moment who wouldn’t give you the same advice–not a single man, either, who had got a head on his shoulders worth a trump.’

When Mr Crawley was told that madness would be laid at his charge if he did not do as he was bid, his face became very black, and assumed something of that look of determined obstinacy which it had worn when he was standing in the presence of the bishop and Mrs Proudie. ‘It may be so,’ he said. ‘It may be as you say, Mr Toogood. But these neighbours of yours, as to whose collected wisdom you speak with so much certainty, would hardly recommend me to indulge in a luxury for which I have no means of paying.’

‘Who thinks about paying under such circumstances as these?’

‘I do, Mr Toogood.’

‘The wretched costermonger that comes to grief has a barrister in a wig and gown to give him his chance of escape.’

‘But I am not a costermonger, Mr Toogood–though more wretched perhaps than any costermonger now in existence. It is my lot to have to endure the sufferings of poverty, and at the same time not be exempt from those feelings of honour to which poverty is seldom subject. I cannot afford to call in legal assistance for which I cannot pay–and I will not do it.’

‘I’ll carry the case through for you. It certainly is not just my line of business–but I’ll see it carried through for you.’

‘Out of your own pocket?’

‘Never mind; when I say I’ll do a thing, I’ll do it.’

‘No, Mr Toogood; this thing you can not do. But do not suppose I am the less grateful.’

‘What is it that I can do then? Why do you come to me if you won’t take my advice?’

After this the conversation went on for a considerable time without touching on any point which need be brought palpably before the reader’s eye. The attorney continued to beg the clergyman to have his case managed in the usual way, and went so far as to tell him that he would be ill-treating his wife and family if he continued to be obstinate. But the clergyman was not shaken from his resolve, and was at last able to ask Mr Toogood what he had better do–how he had better attempt to defend himself–on the understanding that no legal aid was to be employed. When this question was at last asked in such a way as to demand an answer, Mr Toogood sat for a moment or two in silence. He felt that an answer was not only demanded, but almost enforced; and yet there might be much difficulty in giving it.

‘Mr Toogood,’ said Mr Crawley, seeing the attorney’s hesitation, ‘I declare to you before God, that my only object will be to enable the jury to know about this sad matter all that I know myself. If I could open my breast to them I should be satisfied. But then a prisoner can say nothing; and what he does so is ever accounted false.’

‘That is why you should have legal assistance.’

‘We had already come to a conclusion on that matter, as I thought,’ said Mr Crawley.

Mr Toogood paused for a another moment or two, and then dashed at his answer; or rather, dashed at a counter question. ‘Mr Crawley, where did you get the cheque? You must pardon me, you know; or, if you wish it, I will not press the question. But so much hangs on that, you know.’

‘Everything would hang on it–if I only knew.’

‘You mean that you forget?’

‘Absolutely; totally. I wish, Mr Toogood, I could explain to you the toilsome perseverance with which I have cudgelled my poor brains, endeavouring to extract from them some scintilla of memory that would aid me.’

‘Could you have picked it up at the house?’

‘No;–no; that I did not do. Dull as I am, I know so much. It was mine of right, from whatever source it came to me. I know myself as no one else can know me, in spite of the wise man’s motto. Had I picked up a cheque in my house, or on the road, I should not have slept till I had taken steps to restore it to the seeming owner. So much I can say. But, otherwise, I am in such matter so shandy-pated, that I can trust myself to be sure of nothing. I thought;–I certainly thought–‘

‘You thought what?’

‘I thought that it had been given to me by my friend the dean. I remember well that I was in his library at Barchester, and I was somewhat provoked in spirit. There were lying on the floor hundreds of volumes, all glittering with gold, and reeking with new leather from binders. He asked me to look at his toys. Why should I look at them? There was a time, but the other day it seemed, when he had been glad to borrow from me such treasures as I had. And it seemed to me that he was heartless in showing me these things. Well; I need not trouble you with all that.’

‘Go on;–go on. Let me hear it all, and I shall learn something.’

‘I know now how vain, how vile I was. I always know afterwards how low the spirit has grovelled. I had gone to him then because I had resolved to humble myself, and, for my wife’s sake, to ask my friend–for money. With words which were very awkward–which no doubt were ungracious–I had asked him, and he had bid me follow him from his hall into his library. There he left me awhile, and on returning told me with a smile that he had sent for money–and, if I can remember, the sum he named was fifty pounds.’

‘But it has turned out, as you say, that you have paid fifty pounds with his money–besides the cheque.’

‘That is true;–that is quite true. There is no doubt of that. But as I was saying–then he fell to talking about the books, and I was angered. I was very sore in my heart. From the moment in which the words of beggary had passed from my lips, I had repented. And he had laughed and had taken it gaily. I turned upon him and told him that I had changed my mind. I was grateful, but I would not have his money. And so I prepared to go. But he argued with me, and would not let me go–telling me of my wife and of my children, and while he argued there came a knock on the door, and something was handed in, and I knew that it was the hand of his wife.’

‘It was the money, I suppose?’

‘Yes, Mr Toogood; it was the money. And I became the more uneasy, because she herself is rich. I liked it the less because it seemed to come from her hand. But I took it. What could I do when he reminded me that I could not keep my parish unless certain sums were paid? He gave me a little parcel in a cover, and I took it–and left him sorrowing. I had never before come quite to that;–though, indeed, it had in fact been often so before. What was the difference whether the alms were given into my hands or into my wife’s?’

‘You are too touchy about it all, Mr Crawley.’

‘Of course I am. Do you try it, and see whether you will be touchy. You have worked hard at your profession, I daresay.’

‘Well, yes; pretty well. To tell the truth, I have worked hard. By George, yes! It’s not so bad now as it used to be.’

‘But you have always earned your bread; bread for yourself, and bread for your wife and little ones. You can buy tickets for the play.’

‘I couldn’t always buy tickets, mind you.’

‘I have worked as hard, and yet I cannot get bread. I am older than you, and I cannot earn my bare bread. Look at my clothes. If you had to go and beg from Mr Crump, would you not be touchy?’

‘As it happens, Crump isn’t so well off as I am.’

‘Never mind. But I took it, and went home, and for two days I did not look at it. And then there came an illness upon me, and I know not what passed. But two men who had been hard on me came to the house when I was out, and my wife was in a terrible state; and I gave her the money, and she went into Silverbridge and paid them.’

‘And this cheque was with what you gave her?’

‘No; I gave her money in notes–just fifty pounds. When I gave it her, I thought I gave it all; and yet afterwards I thought I remembered that in my illness I had found the cheque with the dean’s money. But it was not so.’

‘You are sure of that?’

‘He has said that he put fives notes of ten pounds each into the cover, and such notes I certainly gave to my wife.’

‘Where then did you get the cheque?’ Mr Crawley again paused before he answered. ‘Surely, if you will exert your mind, you will remember,’ said the lawyer. ‘Where did you get the cheque?’

‘I do not know.’

Mr Toogood threw himself back in his chair, took his knee up into his lap to nurse it, and began to think of it. He sat thinking of it for some minutes without a word–perhaps for five minutes, though the time seemed to be much longer to Mr Crawley, who was, however, determined that he would not interrupt him. And Mr Toogood’s thoughts were at variance with Mr Toogood’s former words. Perhaps, after all, this scheme of Mr Crawley’s–or rather the mode of defence on which he had resolved without any scheme–might be the best of which the case admitted. It might be well that he should go into court without a lawyer. ‘He has convinced me of his innocence,’ Mr Toogood said to himself, ‘and why should he not convince a jury? He has convinced me, not because I am specially soft, or because I love the man–for as to that I dislike him rather than otherwise;–but because there is either real truth in his words, or else so well-feigned a show a truth that no jury can tell the difference. I think it is true. By George, I think he did get the twenty pounds honestly, and that he does not this moment know where he got it. He may have put his finger into my eye; but, if so, why not also into the eyes of a jury?’ Then he released his leg, and spoke something of his thoughts aloud. ‘It’s a sad story,’ he said; ‘a very sad story.’

‘Well, yes, it’s sad enough. If you could see my house, you’d say so.’

‘I haven’t a doubt but what you’re as innocent as I am.’ Mr Toogood, as he said this, felt a little tinge of conscience. He did believe Mr Crawley to be innocent, but he was not so sure of it as his words would seem to imply. Nevertheless he repeated the words again–‘as innocent as I am.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Mr Crawley. ‘I don’t know. I think I am; but I don’t know.’

‘I believe you are. But you see the case is a very distressing one. A jury has a right to say that the man in possession of a cheque for twenty pounds should account for his possession of it. If I understand the story aright, Mr Soames will be able to prove that he brought the cheque into your house, and, as far as he knows, never took it out again.’

‘I suppose so; all the same, if he brought it in, then did he take it out again.’

‘I am saying what he will prove–or, in other words, what he will state upon oath. You can’t contradict him. You can’t get into the box to do it–even if that would be of any avail; and I am glad that you cannot, as it would be of no avail. And you can put no one else into the box who can do so.’

‘No; no.’

‘That is to say, we think you cannot do so. People can do so many things that they don’t think they can do; and can’t do so many things that they think that they can do! When will the dean be home?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Before the trial?’

‘I don’t know. I have no idea.’

‘It’s almost a toss-up whether he’d do more harm or good if he were there.’

‘I wish he might be there if he has anything to say, whether it might be for harm or good.’

‘And Mrs Arabin;–she is with him?’

‘They tell me she is not. She is in Europe. He is in Palestine.’

‘In Palestine, is he?’

‘So they tell me. A dean can go where he likes. He has no cure of souls to stand in the way of his pleasures.’

‘He hasn’t–hasn’t he? I wish I were a dean; that is, if I were not a lawyer. Might I write a line to the dean–and to Mrs Dean if it seemed fit? You wouldn’t mind that? As you have come to see your cousin at last–and very glad I am that you have–you must leave him a little discretion. I won’t say anything I oughtn’t to say.’ Mr Crawley opposed this scheme for some time, but at last consented to the proposition. ‘And I’ll tell you what, Mr Crawley; I am very fond of cathedrals, I am indeed; and I have long wanted to see Barchester. There’s a very fine what-you-may-call-em; isn’t there? Well; I’ll just run down at the assizes. We have nothing to do in London when the judges are in the country–of course.’ Mr Toogood looked into Mr Crawley’s eyes as he said this, to see if his iniquity were detected, but the perpetual curate was altogether innocent in these matters. ‘Yes; I’ll just run down for a mouthful of fresh air. Of course I shan’t open my mouth in court. But I might say one word to the dean, if he’s there;–and one word to Mr Soames. Who is conducting the prosecution?’ Mr Crawley said that Mr Walker was doing so. ‘Walker, Walker, Walker? oh–yes; Walker and Winthrop, isn’t it? A decent sort of man, I suppose?’

‘I have heard nothing to his discredit, Mr Toogood.’

‘And that’s saying a great deal for a lawyer. Well, Mr Crawley, if nothing else comes out between this and that–nothing, that is, that shall clear your memory about that unfortunate bit of paper, you must simply tell your story to the jury as you’ve told it to me. I don’t think any twelve men in England would convict you;–I don’t indeed.’

‘You think they would not?’

‘Of course I’ve only heard one side, Mr Crawley.’

‘No–no–no, that is true.’

‘But judging as well as I can judge from one side, I don’t think a jury can convict you. At any rate, I’ll see you at Barchester, and I’ll write a line or two before the trial just to find out anything that can be found out. And you’re sure you won’t come and take a bit of mutton with us in the Square? The girls would be delighted to see you, and so would Maria.’ Mr Crawley said that he was quite sure he could not do that, and then having tendered reiterated thanks to his new friend in words which were touching in spite of their old-fashioned gravity, he took his leave, and walked back again to the public-house at Paddington.

He returned home to Hogglestock on the same afternoon, reaching that place at nine in the evening. During the whole of the day after leaving Raymond’s Buildings he was thinking of the lawyer, and of the words which the lawyer had spoken. Although he had been disposed to quarrel with Mr Toogood on many points, although he had been more than once disgusted by the attorney’s bad taste, shocked by his low morality, and almost insulted by his easy familiarity, still, when the interview was over, he liked the attorney. When first Mr Toogood had begun to talk, he regretted very much that he had subjected himself to the necessity of discussing his private affairs with such a windbag of a man; but when he left the chamber he trusted Mr Toogood altogether, and was very glad that he had sought his aid. He was tired and exhausted when he reached home, as he had eaten nothing but a biscuit or two since his breakfast; but his wife got him food and tea, and then asked him as to his success. ‘Was my cousin kind to you?’

‘Very kind–more than kind–perhaps somewhat too pressing in his kindness. But I find no fault. God forbid that I should. He is, I think, a good man, and certainly has been good to me.’

‘And what is to be done?’

‘He will write to the dean.’

‘I am glad of that.’

‘And he will be at Barchester.’

‘Thank God for that.’

‘But not as my lawyer.’

‘Nevertheless, I thank God that someone will be there who will know how to give you assistance and advice.’

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE PLUMSTEAD FOXES

The letters had been brought into the breakfast-parlour at Plumstead Rectory one morning, and the archdeacon had inspected them all, and then thrown over to his wife her share of the spoil–as was the custom of the house. As to most of Mrs Grantly’s letters, he never made any further inquiry. To letters from her sister, the dean’s wife, he was profoundly indifferent, and rarely made any inquiry as to those which were directed in writing with which he was not familiar. But there were others as to which, as Mrs Grantly knew, he would be sure to ask her questions if she did not show them. No note ever reached her from Lady Harteltop as to which he was not curious, and yet Lady Hartletop’s notes very seldom contained much that was of interest. Now, on this morning, there came a letter which, as a matter of course, Mrs Grantly read at breakfast, and which, she knew, would not be allowed to disappear without inquiry. Nor, indeed, did she wish to keep the letter from her husband. It was too important to be so treated. But she would have been glad to gain time to think in what spirit she would discuss the contents of the letter–if only such time might be allowed to her. But the archdeacon would allow her no time. ‘What does Henry say, my dear?’ he asked, before the breakfast things had been taken away.

‘What does he say? Well, he says–I’ll give you his letter to read by-and-by.’

‘And why not now?’

‘I thought I’d read it again myself, first.’

‘But if you have read it, I suppose you know what’s in it?’

‘Not very clearly, as yet. However, there it is.’ She knew very well that when she had once been asked for it, no peace would be allowed her till he had seen it. And, alas! there was not much probability of peace in the house for some time after he had seen it.

The archdeacon read the three or first lines in silence–and then burst out. ‘He has, has he? Then, by heavens–‘

‘Stop, dearest; stop,’ said his wife, rising from her chair and coming over to him; ‘do not say words which you will surely repent.’

‘I will say words which shall make him repent. He shall never have from me a son’s portion.’

‘Do not make threats in anger. Do not! You know that it is wrong. If he has offended you, say nothing about it–even to yourself—as to threatened punishments, till you can judge of the offence in cool blood.’

‘I am cool,’ said the archdeacon.

‘No, my dear; no; you are angry. And you have not even read his letter through.’

‘I will read his letter.’

‘You will see that the marriage is not imminent. It may be that even yet it will never take place. The young lady has refused him.’

‘Psha!’

‘You will see that she has done so. He tells us so himself. And she has behaved very properly.’

‘Why has she refused him?’

‘There can be no doubt about the reason. She feels that, with this charge hanging over her father, she is not in a position to become the wife of any gentleman. You cannot but respect her for that.’

The archdeacon finished his son’s letter, uttering sundry interjections and ejaculations as he did so.

‘Of course; I knew it. I understood it all,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve nothing to do with the girl. I don’t care whether she be good or bad.’

‘Oh, my dear!’

‘I care not at all–with reference to my own concerns. Of course I would wish that the daughter of a neighbouring clergyman–that the daughter of any neighbour–that the daughter of anyone whatsoever–should be good rather than bad. But as regards Henry and me, and our mutual relation, her goodness can make no difference. Let her be another Grizel, and still such a marriage must estrange him from me, and me from him.’

‘But she has refused him.’

‘Yes; and what does he say?–that he has told her that he will not accept her refusal. Of course we know what it all means. The girl I am not judging. The girl I will not judge. But my own son, to whom I have ever done a father’s duty with a father’s affectionate indulgence–him I will judge. I have warned him, and he declares himself to be careless of my warning. I shall take no notice of this letter. I shall neither write to him about it or speak to him about it. But I charge you to write to him and tell him that if he does this thing he shall not have a child’s portion from me. It is not that I will shorten that which would have been his; but he shall have–nothing!’ Then, having spoken these words with a solemnity which for the moment silenced his wife, he got up and left the room. He left the room and closed the door, but, before he had gone half the length of the hall towards his own study, he returned and addressed his wife again. ‘You understand my instructions, I hope?’

‘What instructions?’

‘That you write to Henry and tell him what I say.’

‘I will speak again to you about it by-and-by.’

‘I will speak no more about it–not a word more. Let there be not a word more said, but oblige me by doing as I ask you.’

Then he was again about to leave the room, but she stopped him. ‘Wait a moment, my dear.’

‘Why should I wait?’

‘That you may listen to me. Surely you will do that, when I ask you. I will write to Henry, of course, if you bid me; and I will give him your message, whatever it may be; but not today, my dear.’

‘Why not today?’

‘Because the sun shall go down on your wrath before I become its messenger. If you choose to write that yourself, I cannot help it. I cannot hinder you. If I am to write to him on your behalf I will take my instructions from you tomorrow morning. When tomorrow morning comes you will not be angry with me because of the delay.’

The archdeacon was by no means satisfied; but he knew his wife too well, and himself too well, and the world too well, to insist on the immediate gratification of his passion. Over his bosom’s mistress he did exercise a certain marital control–which was, for instance, quite sufficiently fixed to enable him to look down with thorough contempt on such a one a Bishop Proudie; but he was not a despot who could exact a passive obedience to every fantasy. His wife would not have written the letter for him on that day, and he knew very well that she would not do so. He knew also that she was right;–and yet he regretted his want of power. His anger at the present moment was very hot–so hot that he wished to wreak it. He knew that it would cool before the morrow;–and, no doubt, knew also theoretically, that it would be most fitting that it should be cool. But not the less was it a matter of regret to him that so much good hot anger should be wasted, and that he could not have his will of his disobedient son while it lasted. He might, no doubt, have written himself, but to have done so would not have suited him. Even in his anger he could not have written to his son without using the ordinary terms of affection, and in his anger he could not bring himself to use those terms. ‘You will find that I shall be of the same mind tomorrow–exactly,’ he said to his wife. ‘I have resolved about it long since; and it is not likely that I shall change in a day.’ Then he went out, about his parish, intending to continue to think of his son’s iniquity, so that he might keep his anger hot–red hot. Then he remembered that the evening would come, and that he would say his prayers; and he shook his head in regret–in a regret of which he was only half conscious, though it was very keen, and which he did not attempt to analyse–as he reflected that his rage would hardly be able to survive that ordeal. How common with us it is to repine that the devil is not stronger over us than he is.

The archdeacon, who was a very wealthy man, had purchased a property at Plumstead, contiguous to the glebe-land, and had thus come to exercise in the parish the double duty of rector and squire. And of this estate in Barsetshire, which extended beyond the confines of Plumstead into the neighbouring parish of Stogpingum–Stoke Pinguium would have been the proper name had not the barbarous Saxon tongues clipped it of its proper proportions–he had always intended that his son Charles should enjoy the inheritance. There was other property, both in land and in money, for his elder son, and other again for the maintenance of his wife, for the archdeacon’s father had been for many years Bishop of Barchester, and such a bishopric as that of Barchester had been in those days worth money. Of his intention in this respect he had never spoken in plain language to either of his sons; but the major had for the last year or two enjoyed the shooting of the Barsetshire covers, giving what orders he pleased about the game; and the father had encouraged him to take something like the management of the property into his hands. There might have been some fifteen hundred acres of it altogether, and the archdeacon had rejoiced over it with his wife scores of times, saying that there was many a squire in the county whose elder son would never find himself so well placed as would his own younger son. Now there was a string of narrow woods called Plumstead Coppices which ran from a point near the church right across the parish, dividing the archdeacon’s land from the Ullathorne estate, and these coppices, or belts of woodland, belonged to the archdeacon. On the morning of which we are speaking, the archdeacon mounted on his cob, still thinking of his son’s iniquity and of his own fixed resolve to punish him as he had said that he would punish him, opened with his whip a woodland gate, from which a green muddy lane led through the trees up to the house of the gamekeeper. The man’s wife was ill, and in his ordinary way of business the archdeacon was about to call and ask after her health. At the door of the cottage he found the man, who was woodman as well as gamekeeper, and was responsible for fences and faggots, as well as for the foxes and pheasants’ eggs.

‘How’s Martha, Flurry?’ said the archdeacon.

‘Thanking your reverence, she be a deal improved since the mistress was here–last Tuesday it was, I think.’

‘I’m glad of that. It was only rheumatism, I suppose?’

‘Just a tich of fever with it, your reverence, the doctor said,’

‘Tell her I was asking after it. I won’t mind getting down today, as I am rather busy. She has had what she wanted from the house?’

‘The mistress has been very good in that way. She always is, God bless her!’

‘Good-day to you, Flurry. I’ll ask Mr Sims to come and read to her a bit this afternoon, or tomorrow morning.’ The archdeacon kept two curates, and Mr Sims was one of them.’

‘She’ll take it very kindly, your reverence. But while you are here, sir, there’s just a word I’d like to say. I didn’t happen to catch Mr Henry when he was here the other day.’

‘Never mind Mr Henry–what is it you have to say?’

‘I do think, I do indeed, sire, that Mr Thorne’s man ain’t dealing fairly along of the foxes. I wouldn’t say a word about it, only that Mr Henry is so particular.’

‘What about the foxes? What is he doing with the foxes?’

‘Well, sire, he’s a trapping on ’em. He is, indeed, your reverence. I wouldn’t speak if I warn’t well nigh mortal sure.’

Now the archdeacon had never been a hunting man, though in his early days many a clergyman had been in the habit of hunting without losing his clerical character by doing so; but he had lived all his life among gentlemen in a hunting county, and had his own very strong ideas about the trapping of foxes. Foxes first, and pheasants afterwards, had always been the rule with him as to any land of which he himself had the management. And no man understood better than he did how to deal with keepers as to this matter of fox-preserving, or knew better that keepers will in truth obey not the words of their employers, but their sympathies. ‘Wish them to have foxes, and pay them, and they will have them.’ Mr Sowerby of Chaldicotes used to say, and he in his day was reckoned to be the best preserver of foxes in Barsetshire. ‘Tell them to have them, and don’t wish it, and pay them well, and you won’t have a fox to interfere with your game. I don’t care what a man says to me, I can read it all like a book when I see his covers drawn.’ That was what poor Mr Sowerby of Chaldicotes used to say, and the archdeacon had heard him say it a score of time, and had learned the lesson. But now his heart was not with the foxes–and especially not with the foxes on behalf of his son Henry. ‘I can’t have any meddling with Mr Thorne,’ he said; ‘I can’t; and I won’t.’

‘But I don’t suppose it can be Mr Thorne’s order, your reverence; and Mr Henry is so particular.’

‘Of course it isn’t Mr Thorne’s order. Mr Thorne has been a hunting man all his life.’

‘But he have guv’ up now, your reverence. He ain’t hunted these two years.’

‘I’m sure he wouldn’t have the foxes trapped.’

‘Not if he knowed it, he wouldn’t, your reverence. A gentleman of the likes of him, who’s been a hunting over fifty year, wouldn’t do the likes of that; but the foxes is trapped, and Mr Henry’ll be a putting it on me if I don’t speak out. They is Plumstead foxes, too; and a vixen was trapped just across the field yonder, in Goshall Springs, no later than yesterday morning.’ Flurry was now thoroughly in earnest; and, indeed, the trapping of a vixen in February is a serious thing.

‘Goshall Springs don’t belong to me,’ said the archdeacon.

‘No, your reverence; they’re on the Ullathorne property. But a word from your reverence would do it. Mr Henry thinks more of the foxes than anything. The last word he told me was that it would break his heart if he saw the coppices drawn blank.’

‘Then he must break his heart.’ The words were pronounced, but the archdeacon had so much command over himself as to speak them in such a voice that the man should not hear them. But it was incumbent on him to say something that the man should hear. ‘I will have no meddling in the matter, Flurry. Whether there are foxes or whether there are not, is a matter of no great moment. I will not have a word said to annoy Mr Thorne.’ Then he rode away, back through the wood and out on to the road, and the horse walked with him leisurely on, whither the archdeacon hardly knew–for he was thinking, thinking, thinking. ‘Well;–if that ain’t the darn’dest thing that ever was,’ said Flurry; ‘but I’ll tell the squire about Thorne’s man–darned if I don’t.’ now, ‘the squire’ was young Squire Gresham, the master of the East Barsetshire hounds.

But the archdeacon went on thinking, thinking, thinking. He could have heard nothing of his son to stir him more in his favour than this strong evidence of his partiality for foxes. I do not mean it to be understood that the archdeacon regarded foxes as better than active charity, of a contented mind, or a meek spirit, or than self-denying temperance. No doubt all these virtues did hold in his mind their proper places, altogether beyond contamination of foxes. But he had prided himself on thinking that his son should be a country gentleman, and probably nothing doubting as to the major’s active charity and other virtues, was delighted to receive evidence of those tastes which he had ever wished to encourage in his son’s character. Or rather, such evidence would have delighted him at any other time than the present. Now it only added more gall to his cup. ‘Why should he teach himself to care for such things, when he has not the spirit to enjoy them,’ said the archdeacon to himself. ‘He is a fool–a fool. A man that has been married once, to go crazy after a little girl, that has hardly a dress to her back, and who never was in a drawing-room in her life! Charles is the eldest, and he shall be the eldest. It will be better to keep it together. It is the way in which the country has become what it is.’ He was out nearly all day, and did not see his wife till dinner-time. Her father, Mr Harding, was still with them, but had breakfasted in his own room. Not a word, therefore, was said about Henry Grantly between the father and mother on that evening.

Mrs Grantly was determined that, unless provoked, she would say nothing to him till the following morning. He should sleep upon his wrath before she spoke to him again. And he was equally unwilling to recur to the subject. Had she permitted, the next morning would have passed away, and no word would have been spoken. But this would not have suited her. She had his orders to write, and she had undertaken to obey these orders–with the delay of one day. Were she not to write at all–or in writing to send no message from the father, there would be cause for further anger. And yet this, I think, was what the archdeacon wished.

‘Archdeacon,’ she said, ‘I shall write to Henry today.’

‘Very well.’

‘And what am I to say from you?’

‘I told you yesterday what are my intentions.’

‘I am not asking about that now. We hope there will be years and years to come, in which you may change them, and shape them as you will. What shall I tell him now from you?’

‘I have nothing to say to him–nothing; not a word. He knows what he has to expect from me, for I have told him. He is acting with his eyes open, and so am I. If he married Miss Crawley, he must live on his own means. I told him that so plainly, that he can want no further intimation.’ Then Mrs Grantly knew that she was absolved from the burden of yesterday’s message, and she plumed herself on the prudence of her conduct. On the same morning the archdeacon wrote the following note:–

‘DEAR THORNE,–
‘My man tells me that foxes have been trapped on Darvell’s farm, just outside the coppices. I know nothing of it myself, but I am sure you’ll look to it.

‘Yours always,
‘T. GRANTLY.’

CHAPTER XXXIV

MRS PROUDIE SENDS FOR HER LAWYER

There was great dismay in Barchester Palace after the visit paid to the bishop and Mrs Proudie by that terrible clerical offender, Mr Crawley. It will be remembered, perhaps, how he had defied the bishop with spoken words, and how he had defied the bishop’s wife by speaking words to her. For the moment, no doubt, Mr Crawley had the best of it. Mrs Proudie acknowledged to herself that this was the case; but as she was a woman who had never yet succumbed to an enemy, who had never–if on such an occasion I may be allowed to use a schoolboy’s slang–taken a licking from anyone, it was not likely that Mr Crawley would be allowed to enjoy his triumph in peace. It would be odd if all the weight of the palace would not be able to silence a wretch of a perpetual curate who had already been committed to take his trial for thieving;–and Mrs Proudie was determined that all the weight of the palace should be used. As for the bishop, though he was not as angry as his wife, he was quite unhappy, and therefore quite as hostile to Mr Crawley; and was fully conscious that there could be no peace for him now until Mr Crawley should be crushed. If only the assizes would come at once, and get him condemned out of the way, what a blessed thing it would be! But unluckily it still wanted three months to the assizes, and during those three months Mr Crawley would be at large and subject only to the episcopal authority. During that time he could not be silenced by the arm of the civil law. His wife was not long in expressing her opinion after Mr Crawley had left the palace. ‘You must proceed against him in the Court of Arches–and that at once,’ said Mrs Proudie. ‘You can do that, of course? I know that it will be expensive. Of course it will be expensive. I suppose it may cost us some three hundred pounds; but duty is duty, my lord, and in such a case as this your duty as a bishop is paramount.’

The poor bishop knew that it was useless to explain to her the various mistakes which she made–which she was ever making–as to the extent of his powers and the modes of procedure which were open to him. When he would do so she would only rail at him for being lukewarm in his office, poor in spirit, and afraid of dealing roundly with those below him. On the present occasion he did say a word, but she would not even hear him to the end. ‘Don’t tell me about rural deans, as if I didn’t know. The rural dean has nothing to do with such a case. The man has been committed for trial. Send for Mr Chadwick at once, and let steps be taken before you are an hour older.’

‘But, my dear, Mr Chadwick can do nothing.’

‘Then I will see Mr Chadwick.’ And in her anger she did sit down and write a note to Mr Chadwick, begging him to come over to her at the palace.

Mr Chadwick was a lawyer, living in Barchester, who earned his bread from ecclesiastical business. His father, and his uncle, and his grandfather and granduncles, had all been concerned in the affairs of the diocese of Barchester. His uncle had been bailiff to the episcopal estates, or steward as he had been called, in Bishop Grantly’s time, and still contrived to draw his income in some shape from the property of the see. The nephew had also been the legal assistant of the bishop in his latter days, and had been continued in that position by Bishop Proudie, not from love, but from expediency. Mr John Chadwick was one of those gentlemen, two or three of whom are to be seen in connexion with every see–who seem to be hybrids–half-lay, half-cleric. They dress like clergymen, and affect that mixture of clerical solemnity and clerical waggishness which is generally to be found among minor canons and vicars choral of a cathedral. They live, or at least have their offices, half in the Close and half out of it–dwelling as it were just on the borders of holy orders. They always wear white neck-handkerchiefs and black gloves; and would be altogether clerical in their appearance, were it not that as regards the outward man they impinge somewhat on the characteristics of the undertaker. They savour of the church but the savour is of the church’s exterior. Any stranger thrown into chance contact with one of them would, from instinct, begin to talk about things ecclesiastical without any reference to things theological or things religious. They are always most worthy men, much respected in the society of the Close, and I never heard of one of them whose wife was not comfortable or whose children were left without provision.

Such a one was Mr John Chadwick, and as it was a portion of his duties to accompany the bishop to consecrations and ordinations, he knew Dr Proudie very well. Having been brought up, as it were, under the very wing of Bishop Grantly, it could not well be that he should love Bishop Grantly’s successor. The old bishop and the new bishop had been so different that no man could like, or even esteem, them both. But Mr Chadwick was a prudent man, who knew well the source from which he earned his bread, and he had never quarrelled with Bishop Proudie. He knew Mrs Proudie also–of necessity–and when I say of him that he had hitherto avoided any open quarrel with her, it will I think be allowed that he was a man of prudence and sagacity.

But he had sometimes been sorely tried, and he felt when he got her note that he was now about to encounter a very sore trial. He muttered something which might have been taken for an oath, were it not that the outwards signs of the man gave warranty that no oath could proceed from such a one. Then he wrote a short note presenting his compliments to Mrs Proudie, and saying that he would call at the palace at eleven o’clock on the following morning.

But, in the meantime, Mrs Proudie, who could not be silent on the subject for a moment, did learn something of the truth from her husband. The information did not come to her in the way of instruction, but was teased out of the unfortunate man. ‘I know that you can proceed against him in the Court of Arches, under the “Church Discipline Act”,’ she said.

‘No, my dear; no,’ said the bishop, shaking his head in his misery.

‘Or in the Consistorial Court. It’s all the same thing.’

‘There must be an inquiry first–by his brother clergy. There must indeed. It’s the only way of proceeding.’

‘But there has been an inquiry, and he has been committed.’

‘That doesn’t signify, my dear. That’s the Civil Law.’

‘And if the Civil Law condemns him, and locks him up in prison–as it most certainly will do?’

‘But it hasn’t done so yet, my dear. I really think that as it has gone so far, it will be best to leave it as it is till he has taken his trial.’

‘What! Leave him there after what has occurred this morning in this palace?’ The palace with Mrs Proudie was always a palace, and never a house. ‘No; no; ten thousand times no. Are you not aware that he insulted you, and grossly, most grossly insulted me? Since I first came to this palace;–never, never. And we know the man to be a thief;–we absolutely know it. Think, my lord, of the souls of his people!’

‘Oh, dear; oh, dear; oh, dear,’ said the bishop.

‘Why do you fret yourself in that way?’

‘Because you will get me into trouble. I tell you the only thing to be done is to issue a commission with the rural dean at the head of it.’

‘Then issue a commission.’

‘And they will take three months.’

‘Why should they take three months? Why should they take more than three days–or three hours? It is all plain sailing.’

‘More shame for them who make it so.’

‘But it is so. If I were to take legal proceedings against him, it would cost–oh dear–more than a thousand pounds, I should say.’

‘If it costs two, you must do it,’ Mrs Proudie’s anger was still very hot, or she would not have spoken of an unremunerative outlay of money in such language as that.

In this manner she did not come to understand, before the arrival of Mr Chadwick, that her husband could take no legal steps towards silencing Mr Crawley until a commission of clergymen had been appointed to inquire into the matter, and that the commission should be headed by the rural dean within the limits of whose rural deanery the parish of Hogglestock was situated, or by some beneficed parochial clergyman of repute in the neighbourhood. Now the rural dean was Dr Tempest of Silverbridge–who had held that position before the coming of Dr Proudie to the diocese; and there had grown up in the bosom of Mrs Proudie a strong feeling that undue mercy had been shown to Mr Crawley by the magistrates of Silverbridge, of whom Dr Tempest had been one. ‘These magistrates had taken bail for his appearance at the assizes, instead of committing him to prison at once–as they were bound to do, when such an offence as that had been committed by a clergyman. But, no;–even though there was a clergymen among them, they had thought nothing of the souls of the poor people!’ In such language, Mrs Proudie had spoken of the affair at Silverbridge, and having once committed herself to such an opinion, of course she thought that Dr Tempest would go through fire and water and would omit no stretch of what little judicial power might be committed to his hands–with the view of opposing his bishop, and maintaining the culprit in is position. ‘In such a case as this, can not you name an acting rural dean yourself? Dr Tempest, you know, is very old.’ ‘No, my dear; no; I cannot.’ ‘You can ask Mr Chadwick, at any rate, and then you could name Mr Thumble.’ ‘But Mr Thumble doesn’t even hold a living in the diocese. Oh, dear; oh, dear; oh, dear!’ And so the matter rested till Mr Chadwick came.

Mrs Proudie had no doubt intended to have Mr Chadwick all to herself–at any rate so as to encounter him in the first instance. But having been at length convinced that the inquiry by the rural dean was really necessary as a preliminary, and having also slept upon the question of expenditure, she gave direction that the lawyer should be shown into the bishop’s study, and she took care to be absent at the moment of his arrival. Of course she did not intend that Mr Chadwick should leave the palace without having heard what she had to say, but she thought that it would be well that he should be made to conceive that though the summons had been written by her, it had really been intended on the part of the bishop. ‘Mr Chadwick will be with you at eleven, bishop,’ she said, as she got up from the breakfast-table, at which she left his lordship with two of his daughters and with a married son-in-law, a clergyman who was staying in the house. ‘Very well, my dear,’ said the bishop, with a smile–for he was anxious not to betray any vexation at his wife’s interference before his daughters or the Rev Mr Tickler. But he understood it all. Mr Chadwick had been sent for with reference to Mr Crawley, and he was driven–absolutely driven, to propose to his lawyer that this commission of inquiry should be issued.

Punctually at eleven Mr Chadwick came, wearing a very long face as he entered the palace door–for he felt that he would in all probability be now compelled to quarrel with Mrs Proudie. Much he could bear, but there was a limit to his endurance. She had never absolutely sent for him before, though she had often interfered with him. ‘I shall have to tell her a bit of my mind,’ he said, as he stepped across the Close, habited in his best suit of black, with most exact white cravat, and yet looking not quite like a clergyman–with some touch of the undertaker in his gait. When he found that he was shown into the bishop’s room, and that the bishop was there–the bishop only–his mind was relieved. It would have been better that the bishop should have written himself, or that the chaplain should have written in his lordship’s name; that, however, was a trifle.

But the bishop did not know what to say to him. If he intended to direct an inquiry to be made by the rural dean, it would be by no means becoming that he should consult Mr Chadwick as to doing so. It might be well, or if not well at any rate not improper, that he should make application to Dr Tempest through Mr Chadwick; but in that case he must give the order at once, and he still wished to avoid it if it were possible. Since he had been in the diocese no case so grave as this had been pushed upon him. The intervention of the rural dean in an ordinary way he had used–had been made to use–more than once, by his wife. A vicar had been absent a little too long from one parish, and there had been rumours about brandy-and-water in another. Once he had been very nearly in deep water because Mrs Proudie had taken it in dudgeon that a certain young rector, who had been left a widower, had a pretty governess for his children; and there had been that case, sadly notorious in the diocese at the time, of our excellent friend Mr Robarts of Framley, when the bailiffs were in the house because he couldn’t pay his debts–or rather, the debts of his friend for whom he had signed bills. But in all these cases some good fortune had intervened, and he had been saved from the terrible necessity of any ulterior process. But now–now he was being driven beyond himself, and all to no purpose. If Mrs Proudie would only wait three months the civil law would do it all for him. But here was Mr Chadwick in the room, and he knew that it would be useless for him to attempt to talk to Mr Chadwich about other matters, and so dismiss him. The wife of his bosom would be down upon them before Chadwick could be out of the room.

‘H-m-ha. How d’ye do, Mr Chadwick–won’t you sit down?’ Mr Chadwick thanked his lordship, and sat down. ‘It’s very cold, isn’t it, Mr Chadwick?’

‘A hard frost, my lord, but a beautiful day.’

‘Won’t you come near the fire?’ The bishop knew that Mrs Proudie was on the road, and had an eye to the proper strategical position of his forces. Mrs Proudie would certainly take up her position in a certain chair from whence the light enabled her to rake her husband thoroughly. What advantage she might have from this he could not prevent;–but he could so place Mr Chadwick, that the lawyer should be more than within reach of his eye than that of his wife. So the bishop pointed to an arm-chair opposite to himself and near the fire, and Mr Chadwick seated himself accordingly.

‘This is a very sad affair about Mr Crawley,’ said the bishop.

‘Very said indeed,’ said the lawyer. ‘I never pitied a man so much in my life, my lord.’

This was not exactly the line which the bishop was desirous of taking. ‘Of course he is to be pitied;–of course he is. But from all I hear, Mr Chadwick, I am afraid–I am afraid we must not acquit him.’

‘As to that, my lord, he has to stand his trial, of course.’

‘But, you see, Mr Chadwick, regarding him as a beneficed clergyman–with a cure of souls–the question is whether I should be justified in leaving him where he is till his trial shall come on.’

‘Of course your lordship knows best about that, but–‘

‘I know there is a difficulty. I know that. But I am inclined to think that in the interests of the parish I am bound to issue a commission of inquiry.’

‘I believer your lordship has attempted to silence him, and that he has refused to comply.’

‘I thought it better for everybody’s sake–especially for his own, that he should for a while be relieved from his duties; but he is an obstinate man, a very obstinate man. I made the attempt with all consideration for his feelings.’

‘He is hard put to it, my lord. I know the man and his pride. The dean has spoken of him to me more than once, and nobody knows him so well as the dean. If I might venture to offer an opinion–‘

‘Good morning, Mr Chadwick,’ said Mrs Proudie, coming into the room and taking her accustomed seat. ‘No thank you, no; I will stay away from the fire, if you please. His lordship has spoken to you no doubt about this unfortunate wretched man.’

‘We are speaking of him now, my dear.’

‘Something must of course be done to put a stop to the crying disgrace of having such a man preaching from a pulpit in this diocese. When I think of the souls of the people in that poor village, my hair literally stands on end. And then he is disobedient!’

‘That is the worst of it,’ said the bishop. ‘It would have been so much better for himself if he would have allowed me to provide quietly for the services till the trial be over.’

‘I could have told you that, my lord, that he would not do that, from what I knew of him,’ said Mr Chadwick.

‘But he must do it,’ said Mrs Proudie. ‘He must be made to do it.’

‘His lordship will find it difficult,’ said Mr Chadwick.

‘I can issue a commission, you know, to the rural dean,’ said the bishop mildly.

‘Yes, you can do that. And Dr Tempest in two months’ time will have named his assessors–‘

‘Dr Tempest must not name them; the bishop must name them,’ said Mrs Proudie.

‘It is customary to leave that to the rural dean,’ said Mr Chadwick. ‘The bishop no doubt can object to anyone named.’

‘And can specially select any clergyman he pleases from the archdeaconry,’ said the bishop. ‘I have known it done.’

‘The rural dean in such a case has probably been an old man, and not active,’ said the lawyer.

‘And Dr Tempest is a very old man,’ said Mrs Proudie, ‘and in such a matter not at all trustworthy. He was one of the magistrates who took bail.’

‘His lordship could hardly set him aside,’ said the lawyer. ‘At any rate I would not recommend him to try. I think you might suggest a commission of five, and propose two of the number yourself. I do not think that in such a case Dr Tempest would raise any question.’

At last it was settled in this way. Mr Chadwick was to prepare a letter