made to claim discount on every leg of mutton,’ said the archdeacon. Arguing from which fact–or from which assertion, he came to the conclusion that no Barchester jury would find Mr Crawley guilty.
But it was agreed on all sides that it would not be well to trust to the unassisted friendship of the Barchester tradesmen. Mr Crawley must be provided with legal assistance, and this must be furnished to him whether he should be willing or unwilling to receive it. That there would be a difficulty was acknowledged. Mr Crawley was known to be a man not easy of persuasion, with a will of his own, with a great energy of obstinacy on points which he chose to take as being of importance to his calling, or to his own professional status. He had pleaded his own cause before the magistrates, and it might be that he would insist on doing the same thing before the judge. At last Mr Robarts, the clergyman from Framley, was deputed from the knot of Crawleian advocates assembled at Lady Lufton’s drawing-room, to undertake the duty of seeing Mr Crawley, and of explaining to him that his proper defence was regarded as a matter appertaining to the clergy and gentry generally of that part of the country, and that for the sake of the clergy and gentry the defence must of course be properly conducted. In such circumstances the expense of the defence would of course be borne by the clergy and gentry concerned. It was thought that Mr Robarts could put the matter to Mr Crawley with such a mixture of the strength of manly friendship and the softness of clerical persuasion, as to overcome the recognised difficulties of the task.
CHAPTER XI
THE BISHOP SENDS HIS INHIBITION
Tidings of Mr Crawley’s fate reached the palace at Barchester on the afternoon of the day on which the magistrates had committed him. All such tidings travel very quickly, conveyed by imperceptible wires, and distributed by indefatigable message boys whom Rumour seems to supply for the purpose. Barchester is twenty miles from Silverbridge by road, and more than forty by railway. I doubt whether anyone was commissioned to send the news along the actual telegraph, and yet Mrs Proudie knew it before four o’clock. But she did not know it quite accurately. ‘Bishop,’ she said, standing at her husband’s study door. ‘They have committed that man to gaol. There was no help for them unless they had foresworn themselves.’
‘Not foresworn themselves, my dear,’ said the bishop, striving, as was usual with him, by some meek and ineffectual word to teach his wife that she was occasionally led by her energy into error. He never persisted in the lessons when he found, as was usual, that they were taken amiss.
‘I say foresworn themselves!’ said Mrs Proudie; ‘and now what do you mean to do? This is Thursday, and of course the man must not be allowed to desecrate the church of Hogglestock by performing the Sunday services.’
‘If he has been committed, my dear, and is in prison–‘
‘I said nothing about prison, bishop.’
‘Gaol, my dear.’
‘I said they committed him to gaol. So my informant tells me. But of course all Plumstead and Framley set will move heaven and earth to get him out, so that he may be there as a disgrace to the diocese. I wonder how the dean will feel when he hears of it! I do indeed. For the dean, though he is an idle, useless man, with no church principles, and no real piety, still he has a conscience. I think he has a conscience.’
‘I’m sure he has, my dear.’
‘Well;–let us hope so. And if he has a conscience, what must be his feelings when he hears that this creature whom he has brought into the diocese has been committed to gaol along with common felons.’
‘Not with felons, my dear; at least, I should think not.’
‘I say with common felons! A downright robbery of twenty pounds, just as though he had broken into the bank! And so he did, with sly artifice, which is worse in such hands than a crowbar. And now what are we to do? Here is Thursday, and something must be done before Sunday for the souls of those poor benighted creatures at Hogglestock.’ Mrs Proudie was ready for the battle, and was even now sniffing the blood far off. ‘I believe it’s a hundred and thirty pounds a year,’ she said, before the bishop had collected his thought sufficiently for a reply.
‘I think we must find out, first of all, whether he is really to be shut up in prison,’ said the bishop.
‘And suppose he is not to be shut up. Suppose they have been weak, or untrue to their duty–and from what we know of the magistrates of Barsetshire, there is too much reason to suppose they will have been so; suppose they have let him out, is he to go about like a roaring lion–among the souls of the people?’
The bishop shook in his shoes. When Mrs Proudie began to talk of the souls of the people he always shook in his shoes. She had an eloquent way of raising her voice over the word souls that was qualified to make any ordinary man shake in his shoes. The bishop was a conscientious man, and well knew that poor Mr Crawley, even, would not roar at Hogglestock to the injury of any man’s soul. He was aware that this poor clergyman had done his duty laboriously and efficiently, and he was also aware that though he might have been committed by the magistrates, and then let out upon bail, he should not be regarded now, in these days before trial, as a convicted thief. But to explain all this to Mrs Proudie was beyond his power. He knew well that she would not hear a word in mitigation of Mr Crawley’s presumed offence. Mr Crawley belonged to the other party, and Mrs Proudie was a thorough-going partisan. I know a man–an excellent fellow, who, being himself a strong politician, constantly expressed a belief that all politicians opposed to him are thieves, child-murderers, parricides, lovers of incest, demons upon earth. He is a strong partisan, but not, I think, so strong as Mrs Proudie. He says that he believes all evil of his opponents; but she really believed the evil. The archdeacon had called Mrs Proudie a she- Beelzebub; but that was a simple ebullition of mortal hatred. He believed her to be simply a vulgar, interfering, brazen-faced virago. Mrs Proudie in truth believed that the archdeacon was an actual emanation from Satan, sent to these parts to devour souls–as she would call it–and that she herself was an emanation of another sort, sent from another source expressly to Barchester, to prevent such devouring, as far as it might be prevented by a mortal agency. The bishop knew it all–understood it all. He regarded the archdeacon as a clergyman belonging to a party opposed to his party, and he disliked the man. He knew that from his first coming into the diocese he had been encountered with enmity by the archdeacon and the archdeacon’s friends. If left to himself he could feel and to a certain extent could resent such enmity. But he had no faith in his wife’s doctrine of emanations. He had not faith in many things which she believed religiously;–and yet what could he do? If he attempted to explain, she would stop him before he had got through the first half of his first sentence.
‘If he is out on bail–‘ commenced the bishop.
‘Of course he will be out on bail.’
‘Then I think he should feel–‘
‘Feel! Such men never feel! What feeling can one expect from a convicted thief?’
‘Not convicted yet, my dear,’ said the bishop.
‘A convicted thief,’ repeated Mrs Proudie; and she vociferated the words in such a tone that the bishop resolved that he would for the future let the word convicted pass without notice. After all she was only using the phrase in a peculiar sense given to it by herself.
‘It won’t be proper, certainly, that he should do the services,’ suggested the bishop.
‘Proper! It would be a scandal to the whole diocese. How could he raise his head as he pronounced the eighth commandment? That must be at least prevented.’
The bishop, who was seated, fretted himself in his chair, moving about with little movements. He knew that there was a misery coming upon him; and, as far as he could see, it might become a great misery–a huge blistering sore upon him. When miseries came to him, as they did not unfrequently, he would unconsciously endeavour to fathom them and weigh them, and then, with some gallantry, resolve to bear them, if he could find that their depth and weight were not too great for his powers of endurance. He would let the cold wind whistle by him, putting up the collar of his coat, and would be patient under the winter weather without complaint. And he would be patient under the sun, knowing well that tranquillity is best for those who have to bear tropical heat. But when the storm threatened to knock him off his legs, when the earth beneath him became too hot for his poor tender feet–what could he do then? There had been with him such periods of misery, during which he had wailed inwardly and had confessed to himself that the wife of his bosom was too much for him. Now the storm seemed to be coming very roughly. It would be demanded of him that he should exercise certain episcopal authority which he knew did not belong to him. Now, episcopal authority admits of being stretched or contracted according to the character of the bishop who uses it. It is not always easy for a bishop himself to know what he may do, and what he may not do. He may certainly give advice to any clergyman in his diocese, and he may give it in such form that it will have in it something of authority. Such advice coming from a dominant bishop to a clergyman with a submissive mind, has in it very much of authority. But Bishop Proudie knew that Mr Crawley was not a clergyman with a submissive mind, and he feared that he himself, as regarded from Mr Crawley’s point of view, was not a dominant bishop. And yet he could only act by advice. ‘I will write to him,’ said the bishop ‘and will explain to him that as he is circumstanced he should not appear in the reading-desk.’
‘Of course he must not appear in the reading-desk. That scandal must at any rate be inhibited.’ Now the bishop did not at all like the use of the word inhibited, understanding well that Mrs Proudie intended it to be understood as implying some episcopal command against which there should be no appeal;–but he let it pass.
‘I will write to him, dear, tonight.’
‘And Mr Thumble can go over with the letter first thing in the morning.’
‘Will not the post be better?’
‘No, bishop; certainly not.’
‘He would get it sooner, if I write tonight, dear.’
‘In either case he will get it tomorrow morning. An hour or two will not signify, and if Mr Thumble takes it himself we shall know how it is received. It will be well that Thumble should be there in person as he will want to look for lodgings in the parish.’
‘But, my dear–‘
‘Well, bishop?’
‘About lodgings? I hardly think Mr Thumble, if we decide that Mr Thumble should undertake the duty–‘
‘We have decided that Mr Thumble should undertake the duty. That is decided.’
‘But I do not think he should trouble himself to look for lodgings at Hogglestock. He can go over on the Sundays.’
‘And who is to do the parish work? Would you have that man, a convicted thief, to look after the schools, and visit the sick, and perhaps attend the dying?’
‘There will be a great difficulty; there will indeed,’ said the bishop, becoming very unhappy, and feeling that he was driven by circumstances either assert his own knowledge or teach his wife something of the law with reference to his position as a bishop. ‘Who is to pay Mr Thumble?’
‘The income of the parish must be sequestrated, and he must be paid out of that. Of course he must have the income while he does the work.’
‘But, my dear, I cannot sequestrate the man’s income.’
‘I don’t believe it, bishop. If the bishop cannot sequestrate, who can? But you are always timid in exercising the authority put into your hands for wise purposes. Not sequestrate the income of a man who has been proved to be a thief! You leave that to us, and we will manage it.’ The ‘us’ named comprised Mrs Proudie and the bishop’s managing chaplain.
Then the bishop was left alone for an hour to write the letter which Mr Thumble was to carry over to Mr Crawley–and after a while he did write it. Before he commenced the task, however, he sat for some moments in his arm-chair close by the fire-side, asking himself whether it might not be possible for him to overcome his enemy in this matter. How would it go with him suppose he were to leave the letter unwritten, and send in a message by his chaplain to Mrs Proudie, saying that as Mr Crawley was out on bail, the parish might be left for the present without episcopal interference? She could not make him interfere. She could not force him to write the letter. So, at least, he said to himself. But as he said it, he almost thought that she could do these things. In the last thirty years, or more, she had ever contrived by some power latent in her to have her will effected. But what would happen if now, even now, he were to rebel? That he would personally become very uncomfortable, he was well aware, but he thought he could bear that. The food would become bad–mere ashes, between his teeth, the daily modicum of wine would lose its flavour, the chimneys would all smoke, the wind would come from the east, and the servants would not answer the bell. Little miseries of that kind would crowd upon him. He had arrived at a time in life in which such miseries make such men very miserable; but yet he thought that he could endure them. And what other wretchedness would come to him? She would scold him–frightfully, loudly, scornfully, and worse than all, continually. But of this he had so much habitually, that anything added might be borne also;–if only he could be sure that the scoldings should go on in private, that the world of the palace should not be allowed to hear the revilings to which he would be subjected. But to be scolded publicly was the great evil which he dreaded beyond all evils. He was well aware that the palace would know his misfortune, that it was known, and freely discussed by all, from the examining chaplain down to the palace boot-boy;–nay, that it was known to all the diocese; but yet he could smile upon those around him, and look as though he held his own like other men–unless when open violence was displayed. But when that voice was heard aloud along the corridors of the palace, and when he was summoned imperiously by the woman, calling for the bishop, so that all Barchester heard it, and when he was compelled to creep forth from his study, at the sound of that summons, with distressed face, and shaking hands, and short hurrying steps–a being to be pitied even by a deacon–not venturing to assume an air of masterdom should he chance to meet a housemaid on the stairs–then, at such moments as that, he would feel that any submission was better than the misery which he suffered. And he well knew that should he now rebel, the whole house would be in a turmoil. He would be bishoped here, bishoped there, before the eyes of all palatial men and women, till life would be a burden to him. So he got up from his seat over the fire, and went to his desk and wrote the letter. The letter was as follows:–
THE PALACE, BARCHESTER,–December, 186-‘
‘REVEREND SIR,–
(he left out the dear, because he knew that if he inserted it he would be compelled to write the letter over again).
‘I have heard today with the greatest trouble of spirit, that you have been taken before a bench of magistrates assembled at Silverbridge, having previously been arrested by the police in your parsonage house at Hogglestock, and that the magistrates of Silverbridge have committed you to take your trial at the next assizes at Barchester, on a charge of theft.
‘Far be it from me to prejudge the case. You will understand, reverend sir, that I express no opinion whatever as to your guilt or innocence in this matter. If you have been guilty, may the Lord give you grace to repent of your great sin and to make such amends as may come from immediate acknowledgement and confession, if you are innocent, may He protect you, and make your innocence shine before all men. In either case may the Lord be with you and keep your feet from further stumbling.
‘But I write to you now as your bishop, to explain to you that, circumstanced as you are, you cannot with decency perform the church services of your parish. I have that confidence in you that I doubt not that you will agree with me in this, and will be grateful to me for relieving you from the immediate perplexities of your position. I have, therefore, appointed Rev Caleb Thumble to perform the duties of incumbent of Hogglestock till such time as a jury shall have decided upon your case at Barchester; and in order that you may at once become acquainted with Mr Thumble, as will be most convenient that you should do, I will commission him to deliver this letter into your hand personally tomorrow, trusting that you will receive him with that brotherly spirit in which he is sent on this painful mission.
‘Touching the remuneration to which Mr Thumble will become entitled for his temporary ministration in the parish of Hogglestock, I do not at present lay down any strict injunction. He must, at any rate, be paid at a rate not less than that ordinarily afforded for a curate.
‘I will once again express my fervent hope that the Lord may bring you to see the true state of your own soul, and that He may fill you with the grace of repentance, so that the bitter waves of the present hour may not pass over your head and destroy you.
‘I have the honour to be,
Reverend Sir,
‘Your faithful servant in Christ,
‘T. BARNUM’
(Baronum Castrum having been the old Roman name from which the modern Barchester is derived, the bishops of the diocese have always signed themselves Barnum.)
The bishop had hardly finished his letter when Mrs Proudie returned to the study, followed by the Rev Caleb Thumble. Mr Thumble was a little man, about forty years of age, who had a wife and children living in Barchester, and who existed on such chance clerical crumbs as might fall from the table of the bishop’s patronage. People in Barchester said that Mrs Thumble was a cousin of Mrs Proudie’s; but as Mrs Proudie stoutly denied the connexion, it may be supposed that the people of Barchester were wrong. And, had Mr Thumble’s wife in truth been a cousin, Mrs Proudie would surely have provided for him during the many years in which the diocese had been in her hands. No such provision had been made, and Mr Thumble, who had not been living in the diocese for three years, had received nothing else from the bishop than such chance employment as this which he was about to undertake at Hogglestock. He was a humble, mild-voiced man, when within the palace precincts, and had so far succeeded in making his way among his brethren in the cathedral city as to be employed not unfrequently for absent minor canons in chanting the week-day services, being remunerated for his work at the rate of about two shillings and sixpence a service.
The bishop handed the letter to his wife, observing in an off-hand kind of way that she might as well see what he said. ‘Of course I shall read it,’ said Mrs Proudie. And the bishop winced, visibly, because Mr Thumble was present. ‘Quite right,’ said Mrs Proudie, ‘quite right to let him know that you knew he had been arrested–actually arrested by the police.’
‘I thought it proper to mention that, because of the scandal,’ said the bishop.
‘Oh, it has been terrible in the city,’ said Mr Thumble.
‘Never mind, Mr Thumble,’ said Mrs Proudie. ‘Never mind that at present.’ Then she continued to read the letter. ‘What’s this? Confession! That must come out, bishop. It will never do that you should recommend confession to anybody, under any circumstances.’
‘But, my dea–‘
‘It must come out, bishop.’
‘My lord has not meant auricular confession,’ suggested Mr Thumble. Then Mrs Proudie turned around and looked at Mr Thumble, and Mr Thumble nearly sank amidst the tables and chairs. ‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Proudie,’ he said, ‘I didn’t mean to intrude.’
‘The word must come out, bishop,’ repeated Mrs Proudie. ‘There should be no stumbling blocks prepared for feet that are only too ready to fall.’ And the word did come out.
‘Now, Mr Thumble,’ said the lady, as she gave the letter to her satellite, ‘the bishop and I wish you to be at Hogglestock early tomorrow. You should be there not later than ten, certainly.’ Then she paused until Mr Thumble had given the required promise. ‘And we request that you will be very firm in the mission which is confided to you, a mission which, as of course, you see, is of a very delicate and important nature. You must be firm.’
‘I will endeavour,’ said Mr Thumble.
‘The bishop and I both feel that this most unfortunate man must not under any circumstances be allowed to perform the services of the Church while this charge is hanging over him–a charge as to the truth of which no sane man can entertain a doubt.’
‘I’m afraid not, Mrs Proudie,’ said Mr Thumble.
‘The bishop and I therefore are most anxious that you should make Mr Crawley understand at once–at once,’ and the lady, as she spoke, lifted up her hand with an eloquent violence which had its effect on Mr Thumble, ‘that he is inhibited,’–the bishop shook in his shoes–‘inhibited from the performance of any of his sacred duties.’ Thereupon, Mr Thumble promised obedience and went his way.
CHAPTER XII
MR CRAWLEY SEEKS FOR SYMPATHY
Matters went very badly indeed in the parsonage at Hogglestock. On the Friday morning, the morning of the day after his committal, Mr Crawley got up very early, long before the daylight, and dressing himself in the dark, groped his way downstairs. His wife having vainly striven to persuade him to remain where he was, followed him into the cold room below with a lighted candle. She found him standing with his hat on and with his old cloak, as though he were prepared to go out. ‘Why do you do this?’ she said. ‘You will make yourself ill with the cold and the night air; and then you, and I too, will be worse than we now are.’
‘We cannot be worse. You cannot be worse, and for me it does not signify. Let it pass.’
‘I will not let you pass, Josiah. Be a man and bear it. Ask God for strength, instead of seeking it in an over-indulgence of your own sorrow.’
‘Indulgence!’
‘Yes, love;–indulgence. It is indulgence. You will allow your mind to dwell on nothing for a moment but your own wrongs.’
‘What else have I that I can think of? Is not all the world against me?’
‘Am I against you?’
‘Sometimes I think you are. When you accuse me of self-indulgence you are against me–me, who for myself have desired nothing but to be allowed to do my duty, and to have bread enough to keep me alive, and clothes to make me decent.’
‘Is it not self-indulgence, this giving way to grief? Who would know so well as you how to teach the lesson of endurance to others? Come, love. Lay down your hat. It cannot be fitting that you should go out into the wet and cold of the raw morning.’
For a moment he hesitated, but as she raised her hand to take his cloak from him he drew back from her, and would not permit it. ‘I shall find those up whom I want to see,’ he said. ‘I must visit my flock, and I dare not go through the parish by daylight lest they hoot after me as a thief.’
‘Not one in Hogglestock would say a word to insult you.’
‘Would they not? The very children in the school whisper at me. Let me pass, I say. It has not yet come to that, that I should be stopped in my egress and ingress. They have–bailed me; and while their bail lasts, I may go where I will.’
‘Oh, Josiah, what words to me! Have I ever stopped your liberty? Would I not give my life to secure it?’
‘Let me go, then, now. I tell you that I have business in hand.’
‘But I will go with you. I well be ready in an instant.’
‘You go! Why should you go? Are there not the children for you to mind?’
‘There is only Jane.’
‘Stay with her, then. Why should you go about the parish?’ She still held him by the cloak, and looked anxiously up into his face. ‘Woman,’ he said, raising his voice, ‘what is that you dread? I command you to tell me what it is you fear?’ He had now taken hold of her by the shoulder, slightly thrusting her from him, so that he might see her face, by the dim light of the single candle. ‘Speak, I say. What is it that you think I shall do?’
‘Dearest, I know that you will be better at home, better with me, than you can be on such a morning as this out in the cold damp air.’
‘And is that all?’ He looked hard at her, while she returned his gaze with beseeching loving eyes. ‘It there nothing behind, that you will not tell me?’
She paused for a moment before she replied. She had never lied to him. She could not lie to him. ‘I wish you knew my heart towards you,’ she said, ‘with all and everything in it.’
‘I know your heart well, but I want to know your mind. Why would you persuade me not to go out among my poor?’
‘Because it will be bad for you to be out alone in the dark lanes, in the mud and wet, thinking of your sorrow. You will brood over it till you will lose your senses through the intensity of your grief. You will stand out in the cold air, forgetful of everything around you, till your limbs will be numbed, and your blood chilled–‘
‘And then–?’
‘Oh, Josiah, do not hold me like that, and look at me so angrily.’
‘And even then I will bear my burden till the Lord in His mercy shall see fit to relieve me. Even then I will endure, though a bare bodkin or leaf of hemlock would put an end to it. Let me pass on; you need fear nothing.’
She did let him pass without another word, and he went out of the house, shutting the door after him noiselessly, and closing the wicket gate of the garden. For a while she sat herself down on the nearest chair, and tried to make up her mind how she might best treat him in his present state of mind. As regarded the present morning her heart was at ease. She new that he would do now nothing of that which she had apprehended. She could trust him not to be false in his word to her, though she could not before have trusted him not to commit so much heavier a sin. If he would really employ himself from morning till night among the poor, he would be better so–his trouble would be easier of endurance–than with any other employment which he could adopt. What she most dreaded was that he should sit idle over the fire and do nothing. When he was so seated she could read his mind, as though it was open to her as a book. She had been quite right when she had accused him of over-indulgence in his grief. He did give way to it till it became a luxury to him–a luxury which she would not have had the heart to deny him, had she not felt it to be of all luxuries the most pernicious. During these long hours, in which he would sit speechless, doing nothing, he was telling himself from minute to minute that of all God’s creatures, he was the most heavily afflicted, and was revelling in the sense of the injustice done to him. He was recalling all the facts of life, his education, which had been costly, and, as regarded knowledge, successful; his vocation to the Church, when in his youth he had determined to devote himself to the service of his Saviour, disregarding promotion or the favour of men; the short, sweet days of his early love, in which he had devoted himself again–thinking nothing of self, but everything of her; his diligent working, in which he had ever done his very utmost for the parish in which he was placed, and always his best for the poorest; the success of other men who had been his compeers, and, as he too often told himself, intellectually his inferiors; then of his children, who had been carried off from his love to the churchyard–over whose graves he himself had stood, reading out the pathetic words of the funeral service with unswerving voice and a bleeding heart; and then of his children still living, who loved their mother so much better than they loved him. And he would recall the circumstances of their poverty–how he had been driven to accept alms, to fly from creditors, to hide himself, to see his chairs and tables seized before the eyes of those over whom he had been set as their spiritual pastor. And in it all, I think, there was nothing so bitter to the man as the derogation from the spiritual grandeur of his position as priest among men, which came as one necessary result from his poverty. St Paul could go forth without money in his purse or shoes on his feet or two suits to his back, and his poverty never stood in the way of his preaching, or hindered the veneration of the faithful. St Paul, indeed, was called upon to bear stripes, was flung into prison, encountered terrible dangers. But Mr Crawley–so he told himself–could have encountered all that without flinching. The stripes and scorn of the unfaithful would have been nothing to him, if only the faithful would have believed in him, poor as he was, as they would have believed in him had he been rich! Even they whom he had most loved and treated him almost with derision, because he was now different from them. Dean Arabin had laughed at him because he had persisted in walking ten miles through the mud instead of being conveyed in the dean’s carriage; and yet, after that, he had been driven to accept the dean’s charity! No one respected him. No one! His very wife thought that he was a lunatic. And now he had been publicly branded as a thief; and in all likelihood would end his days in a gaol! Such were always his thoughts as he sat idle, silent, moody, over the fire; and his wife knew well their currents. It would certainly be better that he should drive himself to some employment, if any employment could be found possible for him.
When she had been alone for a few minutes, Mrs Crawley got up from her chair, and going into the kitchen, lighted the fire there, and put the kettle over it, and began to prepare such breakfast for her husband as the means in the house afforded. Then she called the sleeping servant-girl, who was little more than a child, and went into her own girl’s room, and then she got into bed with her daughter.
‘I have been up with your papa, dear, and I am cold.’
‘Oh, mamma, poor mamma! Why is papa up so early?’
‘He has gone out to visit some of the brickmakers, before they go to their work. It is better for him to be employed.’
‘But, mamma, it is pitch dark.’
‘Yes, dear, it is still dark. Sleep again for a while, and I will sleep too. I think Grace will be here tonight, and then there will be no room for me here.’
Mr Crawley went forth and made his way with rapid steps to a portion of this parish nearly two miles from his house, through which was carried a canal, affording water communication in some intricate way both to London and Bristol. And on the brink of this canal there had sprung up a colony of brickmakers, the nature of the earth in those parts combining with the canal to make brickmaking a suitable trade. The workmen there assembled were not, for the most part, native-born Hogglestockians, or folk descended from Hogglestockian parents. They had come thither from unknown regions, as labourers of that class do come when they are needed. Some young men from that and neighbouring parishes had joined themselves to the colony, allured by wages, and disregarding the menaces of the neighbouring farmers; but they were all in appearance and manners nearer akin to the race of navvies than to ordinary rural labourers. They had a bad name in the country; but it may be that their name was worse than their deserts. The farmers hated them, and consequently they hated the farmers. They had a beershop, and a grocer’s shop, and a huxter’s shop for their own accommodation, and were consequently vilified by the small old-established tradesmen around them. They got drunk occasionally, but I doubt whether they drank more than did the farmers themselves on market-day. They fought among themselves sometimes, but they forgave each other freely, and seemed to have no objection to black eyes. I fear that they were not always good to their wives, nor were their wives always good to them; but it should be remembered that among the poor, especially when they live in clusters, such misfortunes cannot be hidden as they may amidst the decent belongings of more wealthy people. That they worked very hard was certain; and it was certain also that very few of their number ever came upon the poor rates. What became of the old brickmakers no one knew. Who ever sees a worn-out navvy?
Mr Crawley, ever since first coming into Hogglestock, had been very busy among these brickmakers, and by no means without success. Indeed the farmers had quarrelled with him because the brickmakers had so crowded the parish church, as to leave but scant room for decent people. ‘Doo they folk pay tithes? That’s what I want’un to tell me?’ argued one farmer–not altogether unnaturally, believing as he did that Mr Crawley was paid by tithes out of his own pocket. But Mr Crawley had done his best to make the brickmaker welcome at the church, scandalising the farmers by causing them to sit or stand in any portion of the church which was hitherto unappropriated. He had been constant in his personal visits to them, and had felt himself to more a St Paul with them than with any other of his neighbours around him.
It was a cold morning, but the rain of the preceding evening had given way to frost, and the air, though sharp, was dry. The ground under the feet was crisp, having felt the wind and frost, and was no longer clogged with mud. In his present state of mind the walk was good for our poor pastor, and exhilarated him; but still, as he went, he thought always of his injuries. His own wife believed that he was about to commit suicide, and for so believing he was very angry with her; and yet, as he well knew, the idea of making away with himself had flitted through his own mind a dozen times. Not from his own wife could he get real sympathy. He would see what he could do with a certain brickmaker of his acquaintance.
‘Are you here, Dan?’ he said, knocking at the door of a cottage which stood alone, close to the towing path of the canal, and close also to a forlorn corner of the muddy, watery, ugly, disordered brick-field. It was now just past six o’clock, and the men would be rising, as in midwinter they commenced their work at seven. The cottage was an unalluring, straight brick-built tenement, seeming as though intended to be one of a row which had never progressed beyond Number One. A voice answered from the interior, inquiring who was the visitor, to which Mr Crawley replied by giving his name. Then the key was turned in the lock, and Dan Morris, the brickmaker, appeared with a candle in his hand. He had been engaged in lighting the fire, with a view to his own breakfast. ‘Where is your wife, Dan?’ asked Mr Crawley. The man answered by pointing with a short poker, which he held in his hand, to the bed, which was half-screened from the room by a ragged curtain, which hung from the ceiling half-way down to the floor. ‘And are the Darvels here?’ asked Mr Crawley. Then Morris, again using the poker, pointed upwards, showing that the Darvels were still in their allotted abode upstairs.
‘You’re early out, Muster Crawley,’ said Morris, and then he went on with his fire. ‘Drat the sticks, if they bean’t as wet as the old ‘un hisself. Get up, old woman, and do you do it, for I can’t. They wun’t kindle for me, nohow.’ But the old woman, having well noted the presence of Mr Crawley, thought it better to remain where she was.
Mr Crawley sat himself down by the obstinate fire, and began to arrange the sticks. ‘Dan, Dan,’ said a voice from the bed, ‘sure you wouldn’t let his reverence trouble himself with the fire.’
‘How be I to keep him from it, if he chooses? I didn’t ax him.’ Then Morris stood by and watched, and after a while Mr Crawley succeeded in his attempt.
‘How could it burn when you had not given the small spark a current of air to help it?’ said Mr Crawley.
‘In course not,’ said the woman, ‘but he be such stupid.’
The husband said no word in acknowledgement of this compliment, nor did he thank Mr Crawley for what he had done, nor appear as though he intended to take any notice of him. He was going on with his work when Mr Crawley again interrupted him.
‘How did you get back from Silverbridge yesterday, Dan?’
‘Footed it–all the blessed way.’
‘It’s only eight miles.’
‘And I footed it there, and that’s sixteen. And I paid one-and- sixpence for beer and grub;–s’help me I did.’
‘Dan!’ said a voice from the bed, rebuking him for the impropriety of his language.
‘Well; I beg pardon, but I did. And they guv’me two bob;–just two plain shillings by–‘
‘Dan!’
‘And I’d ‘ve arned three-and-six here at brickmaking easy; that’s what I wuld. How’s a poor man to live that way? They’ll not cotch me at Barchester ‘Sizes at that price; they may be sure of that. Look there–that’s what I’ve got for my day.’ And he put his hand into his breeches-pocket and fetched out a sixpence. ‘How’s a man to fill his belly out of that. Damnation!’
‘Dan!’
‘Well, what did I say? Hold your jaw, will you, and not be halloaing at me that way? I know what I am saying of, and what I’m a doing of.’
‘I wish they’d given you something more with all my heart,’ said Crawley.
‘We knows that,’ cried the woman from the bed. ‘We is sure of that, your reverence.’
‘Sixpence!’ said the man, scornfully. ‘If they’d have guv’ me nothing at all but the run of my teeth at the public-house, I’d ‘ve taken it better. But sixpence!’
Then there was a pause. ‘And what have they given to me?’ said Mr Crawley, when the man’s ill-humour about his sixpence had so far subsided as to allow of his busying himself again about the premises.
‘Yes, indeed;–yes, indeed,’ said the woman. ‘Yes, yes, we feel that; we do indeed, Mr Crawley.’
‘I tell you what, sir; for another sixpence I’d have sworn you’d never guv’ me the paper at all; and so I will now, if it bean’t too late;–sixpence or no sixpence. What do I care? D— them.’
‘Dan!’
‘And why shouldn’t I? They hain’t got brains enough among them to winny the truth from the lies–not among the lot of ’em. I’ll swear afore the judge that you didn’t give it me at all, if that’ll do any good.’
‘Man, do you think I would have you perjure yourself, even if that would do me a service? And do you think any man was ever served by a lie?’
‘Faix, among them chaps it don’t do to tell them too much of the truth. Look at that!’ And he brought out the sixpence again from his breeches-pocket. ‘And look at your reverence. Only that they’ve let you out for a while, they’ve been nigh as hard on you as though you were one of us.’
‘If they think that I stole it, they have been right,’ said Mr Crawley.
‘It’s been along of that chap Soames,’ said the woman. ‘The lord would’ve paid the money out of his own pocket and never said not a word.’
‘If they think that I’ve been a thief, they’ve done right,’ repeated Mr Crawley. ‘But how can they think so? How can they think so? Have I lived like a thief among them?’
‘For the matter o’ that, if a man ain’t paid for his work by them as his employers, he must pay hisself. Them’s my notions. Look at that!’ Whereupon he again pulled out the sixpence, and held it forth in the palm of his hand.
‘You believe, then,’ said Mr Crawley, speaking very slowly, ‘that I did steal the money. Speak out, Dan; I shall not be angry. As you go you are an honest men, and I want to know what such of you think about it.’
‘He don’t think nothing of the kind,’ said the woman, almost getting out of bed in her energy. ‘If he’ thought the like o’ that in his head, I’d read ‘un such a lesson he’d never think again the longest day he had to live.’
‘Speak out, Dan,’ said the clergyman, not attending to the woman. ‘You can understand that no good can come of lie.’ Dan Morris scratched his head. ‘Speak out, man, when I tell you,’ said Crawley.
‘Drat it all,’ said Dan, ‘where’s the use of so much jaw about it?’
‘Say you know his reverence is as innocent as the babe as isn’t born,’ said the woman.
‘No; I won’t–say anything of the kind,’ said Dan.
‘Speak out the truth,’ said Crawley.
‘They do say, among ’em,’ said Dan, ‘that you picked it up, and then got woolgathering in your head till you didn’t rightly know where it come from.’ Then he paused. ‘And after a bit you guv’ it me to get the money. Didn’t you, now?’
‘I did.’
‘And they do say if a poor man had done it, it’d be stealing, for sartin.’
‘And I’m a poor man–the poorest in all Hogglestock; and, therefore, of course, it is stealing. Of course I am a thief. Yes; of course I am a thief. When the world believe the worst of the poor?’ Having so spoken, Mr Crawley rose from his chair and hurried out of the cottage, waiting for no further reply from Dan Morris or his wife. And as he made his way slowly home, not going there by the direct road, but by a long circuit, he told himself there could be no sympathy for him anywhere. Even Dan Morris, the brickmaker, thought that he was a thief.
‘And am I a thief?’ he said to himself, standing in the middle of the road, with his hands up to his forehead.
CHAPTER XIII
THE BISHOP’S ANGEL
It was nearly nine before Mr Crawley got back to his house, and found his wife and daughter waiting breakfast for him. ‘I should not wonder if Grace were over here today,’ said Mrs Crawley. ‘She’d better remain where she is,’ said he. After this the meal passed almost without a word. When it was over, Jane, at a sign from her mother, went up to her father and asked him whether she should read with him. ‘Not now,’ he said, ‘not just now. I must rest my brain before it will be fit for any work.’ Then he got into the chair over the fire, and his wife began to fear that he would remain there all day.
But the day was not far advanced, when there came a visitor who disturbed him, and by disturbing him did him a real service. Just at ten there arrived at the little gate before the house a man on a pony, whom Jane espied, standing there by the pony’s head and looking about for someone to relieve him of the charge of the steed. This was Mr Thumble, who had ridden over to Hogglestock on a poor spavined brute belonging to the bishop’s stable, and which had once been the bishop’s cob. Now it was the vehicle by which Mrs Proudie’s episcopal messages were sent backwards and forwards through a twelve-miles ride round Barchester; and so many were the lady’s requirements, that the poor animal by no means ate the hay of idleness. Mr Thumble had suggested to Mrs Proudie, after their interview with the bishop and the giving up of the letter to the clerical messenger’s charge, that before hiring a gig from the Dragon of Wantley, he should be glad to know–looking as he always did to ‘Mary Anne and the children’–whence the price of the gig was to be returned to him. Mrs Proudie had frowned at him–not with all the austerity of frowning which she could use when really angered, but simply with a frown which gave her some little time for thought, and would enable her to continue to rebuke if, after thinking, she should find that rebuke was needed. But mature consideration showed her that Mr Thumble’s caution was not without reason. Were the bishop energetic–or even the bishop’s managing chaplain as energetic as he should be, Mr Crawley might, as Mrs Proudie felt assured, be made in some way to pay for a conveyance for Mr Thumble. But the energy was lacking, and the price of the gig, if the gig were ordered, would certainly fall ultimately on the bishop’s shoulders. This was very sad. Mrs Proudie had often grieved over the necessary expenditure of episcopal surveillance, and had been heard to declare her opinion that a liberal allowance for secret service should be made in every diocese. What better could the Ecclesiastical Commission do with all those rich revenues which they had stolen from the bishops? But there was no such liberal allowance at present, and therefore, Mrs Proudie, after having frowned at Mr Thumble for some seconds, desired him to take the grey cob. Now, Mr Thumble had ridden the grey cob before, and would have much preferred a gig. But even the grey cob was better than a gig at his own cost.
‘Mamma, there’s a man at the gate waiting to come in,’ said Jane. ‘I think he’s a clergyman.’
Mr Crawley immediately raised his head, though he did not at once leave his chair. Mrs Crawley went to the window, and recognised the reverend visitor. ‘My dear, it is that Mr Thumble, who is so much with the bishop.’
‘What does Mr Thumble want with me.’
‘Nay, my dear; he will tell you that himself.’ But Mrs Crawley, though she answered him with a voice intended to be cheerful, greatly feared the coming messenger from the palace. She perceived at once that the bishop was about to interfere with her husband in consequence of that which the magistrates had done yesterday.
‘Mamma, he doesn’t know what to do with his pony,’ said Jane.
‘Tell him to tie it to the rail,’ said Mr Crawley. ‘If he has expected to find menials here, as he has them at the palace, he will be wrong. If he wants to come in here, let him tie the beast to the rail.’ So Jane went out and sent a message to Mr Thumble by the girl, and Mr Thumble did tie the pony to the rail, and followed the girl into the house. Jane in the meantime had retired out by the back door to the school but Mrs Crawley kept her ground. She kept her ground although she believed that her husband would have preferred to have the field to himself. As Mr Thumble did not at once enter the room, Mr Crawley stalked to the door, and stood with it open in his hand. Though he knew Mr Thumble’s person, he was not acquainted with him, and therefore simply bowed to the visitor, bowing more than once or twice with a cold courtesy, which did not put Mr Thumble altogether at his ease. ‘My name is Mr Thumble,’ said the visitor–‘the Reverend Caleb Thumble,’ and he held the bishop’s letter in his hand. Mr Crawley seemed to take no notice of the letter, but motioned Mr Thumble with his hand into the room.
‘I suppose you have come from Barchester this morning?’ said Mrs Crawley.
‘Yes, madam–from the palace.’ Mr Thumble, though a humble man in positions in which he felt humility would become him–a humble man to his betters, as he himself would have expressed it–had still about him something of that pride which naturally belonged to those clergymen who were closely attached to the palace at Barchester. Had he been sent on a message to Plumstead–could any such message from Barchester palace have been possible–he would have been properly humble in his demeanour to the archdeacon, or to Mrs Grantly had he been admitted to the august presence of that lady; but he was aware that humility would not become him on this present mission; he had been expressly ordered to be firm by Mrs Proudie, and firm he meant to be; and therefore, in communicating to Mrs Crawley the fact that he had come from the palace, he did load the tone of his voice with something of the dignity which Mr Crawley might perhaps be excused for regarding as arrogance.
‘And what does the “palace” want with me?’ said Mr Crawley. Mrs Crawley knew at once there was to be a battle. Nay, the battle had begun. Nor was she altogether sorry; for though she could not trust her husband to sit alone all day in his arm-chair over the fire, she could trust him to carry on a disputation with any other clergyman on any subject whatever. ‘What does the palace want with me?’ And as Mr Crawley asked the question he stood erect, and looked Mr Thumble full in the face. Mr Thumble called to mind the fact, that Mr Crawley was a very poor man indeed–so poor that he owed money all round the country to butchers and bakers, and the other fact that he, Mr Thumble himself, did not owe any money to anyone, his wife luckily having a little income of her own; and, strengthened by these remembrances, he endeavoured to bear Mr Crawley’s attack with gallantry.
‘Of course, Mr Crawley, you are aware that this unfortunate affair at Silverbridge–‘
‘I am not prepared to discuss the unfortunate affair at Silverbridge with a stranger. If you are the bearer of any message to me from the Bishop of Barchester, perhaps you will deliver it.’
‘I have brought a letter,’ said Mr Thumble. Then Mr Crawley stretched out his hand without a word, and taking the letter with him to the window, read it very slowly. When he had made himself master of its contents, he refolded the letter, placed it again in the envelope, and returned to the spot where Mr Thumble was standing. ‘I will answer the bishop’s letter,’ he said; ‘I will answer it of course, as it is fitting that I should do so. Shall I ask you to wait for my reply, or shall I send it by course of post?’
‘I think, Mr Crawley, as the bishop wishes me to undertake the duty–‘
‘You will not undertake the duty, Mr Thumble. You need not trouble yourself, for I shall not surrender my pulpit to you.’
‘But the bishop–‘
‘I care nothing for the bishop in this matter.’ So much he spoke in anger, and then he corrected himself. ‘I crave the bishop’s pardon, and yours as his messenger, if in the heat occasioned by my strong feelings I have said aught which may savour of irreverence towards his lordship’s office. I respect his lordship’s high position as bishop of this diocese, and I bow to his commands in all things lawful. But I must not bow to him in things unlawful, nor must I abandon my duty before God at his bidding, unless his bidding be given in accordance with the canons of the Church and the laws of the land. It will be my duty, on the coming Sunday, to lead the prayers of my people in the church of my parish, and to preach to them from my pulpit; and that my duty, with God’s assistance, I will perform. Nor will I allow any clergyman to interfere with me in the performance of those sacred offices–no, not though the bishop himself should be present with the object of enforcing his illegal command.’ Mr Crawley spoke these words without hesitation, even with eloquence, standing upright, and with something of a noble anger gleaming over his poor wan face; and, I think, that while speaking them, he was happier than he had been for many a long day.
Mr Thumble listened to him patiently, standing with one foot a little in advance of the other, with one hand folded over the other, with his head rather on one side, and with his eyes fixed on the corner where the wall and ceiling joined each other. He had been told to be firm, and he was considering how he might best display firmness. He thought that he remembered some story of two parsons fighting for one pulpit, and he thought also that he should not himself like to incur the scandal of such a proceeding in the diocese. As to the law in the matter he knew nothing himself; but he presumed that a bishop would probably know the letter better than a perpetual curate. That Mrs Proudie was intemperate and imperious, he was aware. Had the message come from her alone, he might have felt that even for her sake he had better give way. But as the despotic arrogance of the lady in this case had been backed by the timid presence and hesitating words of her lord, Mr Thumble thought that he must have the law on his side. ‘I think you will find, Mr Crawley,’ said he, ‘that the bishop’s inhibition is strictly legal.’ He had picked up the powerful word from Mrs Proudie and flattered himself that it might be of use to him in carrying his purpose.
‘It is illegal,’ said Mr Crawley, speaking somewhat louder than before, ‘and will be absolutely futile. As you pleaded to me that you yourself and your personal convenience were concerned in this matter, I have made known my intentions to you, which otherwise I should have made known only to the bishop. If you please, we will discuss the matter no further.’
‘Am I to understand, Mr Crawley, that you refuse to obey the bishop?’
‘The bishop has written to me, sire, and I will make known my intention to the bishop by a written answer. As you have been the bearer of the bishop’s letter to me, I am bound to ask whether I shall be indebted to you for carrying back my reply, or whether I shall send it by course of post?’ Mr Thumble considered for a moment, and then made up his mind that he had better wait, and carry back the epistle. This was Friday, and the letter could not be delivered by post till the Saturday morning. Mrs Proudie might be angry with him if he should be the cause of loss of time. He did not, however, at all like waiting, having perceived that Mr Crawley, though with language courteously worded, had spoken of him as a mere messenger.
‘I think,’ he said, ‘that I may, perhaps, best further the object which we must all have in view, that namely of providing properly for the Sunday services in the church of Hogglestock, by taking your reply personally to the bishop.’
‘That provision is my care and need trouble no one else,’ said Mr Crawley, in a loud voice. Then, before seating himself at his old desk, he stood awhile, pondering with his back turned to his visitor. ‘I have to ask your pardon, sir,’ said he, looking round for a moment, ‘because by the reason of the extreme poverty of this house, my wife is unable to offer you any hospitality which is especially due from one clergyman to another.’
‘Oh, don’t mention it,’ said Mr Thumble.
‘If you will allow me, sir, I would prefer that it should be mentioned.’ Then he seated himself, and commenced his letter.
Mr Thumble felt himself to be awkwardly placed. Had there been no third person in the room he could have sat down in Mr Crawley’s arm-chair, and waited patiently till the letter should be finished. But Mrs Crawley was there, and of course he was bound to speak to her. In what strain should he do so? Even he, as little as he was given to indulge in sentiment, had been touched by the man’s appeal to his own poverty, and he felt, moreover, that Mrs Crawley must have been deeply moved by her husband’s position with reference to the bishop’s order. It was quite out of the question that he should speak of that, as Mr Crawley would, he was well aware, would immediately turn upon him. At last he thought of a subject, and spoke with a voice intended to be pleasant. ‘That was the school-house I passed, probably, as I came here?’ Mrs Crawley told him that it was the school-house. ‘Ah, yes, I thought so. Have you a certified teacher there?’ Mrs Crawley explained that no Government aid had ever reached Hogglestock. Besides themselves, they had only a young woman whom they themselves had instructed.
‘Ah, that is a pity,’ said Mr Thumble.
‘I–I am the certified teacher,’ said Mr Crawley, turning round upon him from his chair.
‘Oh, ah, yes,’ said Mr Thumble; and after that Mr Thumble asked no more questions about the Hogglestock school. Soon afterwards Mrs Crawley left the room, seeing the difficulty under which Mr Thumble was labouring, and feeling sure that her presence would not now be necessary. Mr Crawley’s letter was written quickly, though every now and then he would sit for a moment with his pen poised in the air, searching his memory for a word. But the words came to him easily, and before an hour was over he had handed his letter to Mr Thumble. The letter was as follows:–
‘THE PARSONAGE, HOGGLESTOCK, December, 186-
‘RIGHT REVEREND LORD,
‘I have received the letter of yesterday’s date which your lordship has done me the honour of sending by the hands of the Reverend Mr Thumble, and I avail myself of that gentleman’s kindness to return to you an answer by the same means, moved this to use his patience chiefly by the consideration that in this way my reply to your lordship’s injunctions may be in your hands with less delay than would attend the course of the mail-post.
‘It is with deep regret that I feel myself constrained to inform your lordship that I cannot obey the command which you have laid upon me with reference to the services of my church in this parish. I cannot permit Mr Thumble, or any other delegate from your lordship, to usurp my place in the pulpit. I would not have you think, if I can possibly dispel such thoughts from your mind, that I disregard your high office, or that I am deficient in that respectful obedience to the bishop set over me, which is due to the authority of the Crown as the head of the church in these realms; but in this, as in all questions of obedience, he who is required to obey must examine the extent of the authority exercised by him who demands obedience. Your lordship might possibly call upon me, using your voice as bishop of the diocese, to abandon altogether the freehold rights which are now mine in this perpetual curacy. The judge of assize, before whom I shall soon stand for my trial, might command me to retire to prison without a verdict given by a jury. The magistrates who committed me so lately as yesterday, upon whose decision in that respect your lordship has taken action against me so quickly, might have equally strained their authority. But in no case, in this land, is he that is subject bound to obey, further than where the law gives authority and exacts obedience. It is not in the power of the Crown itself to inhibit me from the performance of my ordinary duties in this parish by any such missive as that sent to me by your lordship. If your lordship think right to stop my mouth as a clergyman in your diocese, you must proceed to do so in an ecclesiastical court in accordance with the laws, and will succeed in your object, or fail, in accordance with the evidences as to the ministerial fitness or unfitness, which may be produced respecting me before the proper tribunal.
‘I will allow that much attention is due from a clergyman to pastoral advice given to him by his bishop. On that head I must first express to your lordship my full understanding that your letter has not been intended to convey advice, but an order;–an inhibition, as your messenger, the Reverend Mr Thumble, has expressed it. There might be a case certainly in which I should submit myself to counsel, though I should resist command. No counsel, however, has been given–except indeed that I should receive your messenger in a proper spirit, which I hope I have done. No other advice has been given me, and therefore there is now no such case as that I have imagined. But in this matter, my lord, I could not have accepted advice from a living man, no, not though the hands of the apostles themselves had made him bishop who tendered it to me, and had set him over me for my guidance. I am in a terrible strait. Trouble, and sorrow, and danger are upon me and mine. It may well be, as your lordship says, that the bitter waters of the present hour may pass over my head and destroy me. I thank your lordship for telling me whither I am to look for assistance. Truly I know not whether there is any to be found for me on earth. But the deeper my troubles, the greater my sorrow, the more pressing any danger, the stronger is my need that I should carry myself in these days with that outward respect of self which will teach those around me to know that, let who will condemn me, I have not condemned myself. Were I to abandon my pulpit, unless forced to do so by legal means, I should in doing so be putting a plea of guilty against myself upon the record. This, my lord, I will not do.
‘I have the honour to be, my lord,
‘Your lordship’s most obedient servant, ‘JOSIAH CRAWLEY’
When he had finished writing his letter he read it over slowly, and then handed it to Mr Thumble. The act of writing, and the current of the thoughts through his brain, and the feeling that in every word written he was getting the better of the bishop–all this joined to a certain manly delight in warfare against authority, lighted up the man’s face and gave to his eyes an expression which had been long wanting to them. His wife at that moment came into the room and he looked at her with an air of triumph as he handed the letter to Mr Thumble. ‘If you will give that to his lordship with an assurance of my duty to his lordship in all things proper, I will thank you kindly, craving your pardon for the great delay to which you have been subjected.’
‘As to the delay, it is nothing,’ said Mr Thumble.
‘It has been much; but you as a clergyman will feel that it has been incumbent upon me to speak my mind fully.’
‘Oh, yes; of course.’ Mr Crawley was standing up, as also was Mrs Crawley. It was evident to Mr Thumble that they both expected that he should go. But he had been especially enjoined to be firm, and he doubted whether hitherto he had been firm enough. As far as this morning’s work had as yet gone, it seemed to him that Mr Crawley had had the play to himself, and that he, Mr Thumble, had not had his innings. He, from the palace, had been, as it were, cowed by this man, who had been forced to plead his own poverty. It was certainly incumbent upon him, before he went, to speak up, not only for the bishop, but for himself also. ‘Mr Crawley,’ he said, ‘hitherto I have listened to you patiently.’
‘Nay,’ said Mr Crawley, smiling, ‘you have indeed been patient, and I thank you; but my words have been written, not spoken.’
‘You have told me that you intend to disobey the bishop’s inhibition.’
‘I have told the bishop so, certainly.’
‘May I ask you now to listen to me for a few minutes?’
Mr Crawley, still smiling, still having in his eyes the unwonted triumph which had lighted them up, paused a moment, and then answered him. ‘Reverend sir, you must excuse me if I say no–not on this subject.’
‘You will not let me speak?’
‘No; not on this matter, which is very private to me. What should you think if I went into your house and inquired of you as to those things which were particularly near to you?’
‘But the bishop sent me.’
‘Though ten bishops sent me–a council of archbishops if you will!’ Mr Thumble started back, appalled by the energy of the words used to him. ‘Shall a man have nothing of his own;–no sorrow in his heart, no care in his family, no thought in his breast so private and special to him, but that, if he happen to be a clergyman, the bishop may touch it with his thumb?’
‘I am not the bishop’s thumb,’ said Mr Thumble, drawing himself up.
‘I intended not to hint anything personally objectionable to yourself. I will regard you as one of the angels of the church.’ Mr Thumble, when he heard this, began to be sure that Mr Crawley was mad; he knew of no angels that could ride about the Barsetshire lanes on grey ponies. ‘And as much as I respect you; but I cannot discuss with you the matter of the bishop’s message.’
‘Oh, very well. I will tell his lordship.’
‘I will pray you to do so.’
‘And his lordship, should he so decide, will arm me with such power on my next coming as will enable me to carry out his lordship’s wishes.’
‘His lordship will abide by the law, as will you also.’ In speaking these last words he stood with the door in his hand, and Mr Thumble, not knowing how to increase or even maintain his firmness, thought it best to pass out, and mount his grey pony and ride away.
‘The poor man thought that you were laughing at him when you called him an angel of the church,’ said Mrs Crawley, coming up to him and smiling on him.
‘Had I told him he was simply a messenger, he would have taken it worse;–poor fool! When they have rid themselves of me they may put him here, in my church; but not yet–not yet. Where is Jane? Tell her that I am ready to commence the Seven against Thebes with her.’ Then Jane was immediately sent for out of the school, and the Seven against Thebes was commenced with great energy. Often during the next hour and a half Mrs Crawley from the kitchen would hear him reading out, or rather saying by rote, with sonorous rolling voice, great passages from some chorus, and she was very thankful to the bishop, who had sent over to them a message and messenger which had been so salutary in their effect upon her husband. ‘In truth an angel of the church,’ she said to herself as she chopped up the onions for the mutton-broth; and ever afterwards she regarded Mr Thumble as an ‘angel’.
CHAPTER XIV
MAJOR GRANTLY CONSULTS A FRIEND
Grace Crawley passed through Silverbridge on her way to Allington on the Monday, and on the Tuesday morning Major Grantly received a very short note from Miss Prettyman, telling him that she had done so. ‘Dear Sir,–I think you will be very glad to learn that our friend Miss Crawley went from us yesterday on a visit to her friend, Miss Dale, at Allington.–Yours truly, Annabella Prettyman.’ The note said no more than that. Major Grantly was glad to get it, obtaining from it the satisfaction which a man always feels when he is presumed to be concerned in the affairs of the lady with whom he is in love. And he regarded Miss Prettyman with favourable eyes as a discreet and friendly woman. Nevertheless, he was not altogether happy. The very fact that Miss Prettyman should write to him on such a subject made him feel that he was bound to Grace Crawley. He knew enough of himself to be sure that he could not give her up without making himself miserable. And yet, as regarded her father, things were going from bad to worse. Everybody now said that the evidence was so strong against Mr Crawley as to leave hardly any doubt of his guilt. Even the ladies in Silverbridge were beginning to give up his cause, acknowledging that the money could not have come rightfully into his hands, and excusing him on the plea of partial insanity. ‘He has picked it up and put it by for months, and then thought that it was his own . . .’ The ladies at Silverbridge could find nothing better to say for him than that; and when young Mr Walker remarked that such little mistakes were the customary causes of men being taken to prison, the ladies of Silverbridge did not know how to answer him. It had come to be their opinion that Mr Crawley was affected with a partial lunacy, which ought to be forgiven in one to whom the world had been so cruel; and when young Mr Walker endeavoured to explain to them that a man must be sane altogether or mad altogether, and that Mr Crawley must, if sane, be locked up as a thief, and if mad, locked up as a madman, they sighed, and were convinced that until the world should have been improved by a new infusion of romance, and a stronger feeling of justice, Mr John Walker was right.
And the result of this general opinion made its way to Major Grantly, and made its way, also, to the archdeacon at Plumstead. As to the major, in giving him his due, it must be explained that the more certain he became of the father’s guilt, the more certain also he became of the daughter’s merits. It was very hard. The whole thing was cruelly hard. It was cruelly hard upon him that he should be brought into this trouble, and be forced to take upon himself the armour of a knight-errant for the redress of the wrong on the part of the young lady. But when alone in his house, or with his child, he declared to himself that he would do so. It might well be that he could not live in Barsetshire after he had married Mr Crawley’s daughter. He had inherited from his father enough of that longing for ascendancy among those around him to make him feel that in such circumstances he would be wretched. But he would be made more wretched by the self-knowledge that he had behaved badly to the girl he loved; and the world beyond Barsetshire was open to him. He would take her with him to Canada, to New Zealand, or to some other far-away country, and there begin his life again. Should his father choose to punish him for so doing by disinheriting him, they would be poor enough; but, in his present frame of mind, the major was able to regard such poverty as honourable and not altogether disagreeable.
He had been out shooting all day at Chaldicotes, with Dr Thorne and a party who were staying in the house there, and had been talking about Mr Crawley, first with one man and then with another. Lord Lufton had been there, and young Gresham from Greshambury, and Mr Robarts, the clergyman, and news had come among them of the attempt made by the bishop to stop Mr Crawley from preaching. Mr Robarts had been of the opinion that Mr Crawley should have given way; and Lord Lufton, who shared his mother’s intense dislike of everything that came from the palace, had sworn that he was right to resist. The sympathy of the whole party had been with Mr Crawley; but they had all agreed that he had stolen the money.
‘I fear he’ll have to give way to the bishop at last,’ Lord Lufton had said.
‘And what on earth will become of his children,’ said the doctor. ‘Think of the fate of that pretty girl; for she is a very pretty girl. It will be the ruin of her. No man will allow himself to fall in love with her when her father shall have been found guilty of stealing a cheque for twenty pounds.’
‘We must do something for the whole family,’ said the lord. ‘I say, Thorne, you haven’t half the game here that there used to be in poor old Sowerby’s time.’
‘Haven’t I?’ said the doctor. ‘You see, Sowerby had been at it all his days, and never did anything else. I only began late in life.’
The major had intended to stay and dine at Chaldicotes, but when he heard what was said about Grace, his heart became sad, and he made some excuse as to the child, and returned home. Dr Thorne had declared that no man could allow himself to fall in love with her. But what if a man had fallen in love with her beforehand? What if a man had not only fallen in love, but spoken of his love? Had he been alone with the doctor, he would, I think, have told him the whole of his trouble; for in all the county there was no man whom he would sooner have trusted with his secret. This Dr Thorne was known far and wide for his soft heart, his open hand, and his well-sustained indifference to the world’s opinions on most of those social matters with which the world meddles; and therefore the words which he had spoken had more weight with Major Grantly than they would have had from other lips. As he drove home he almost made up his mind that he would consult Dr Thorne upon the matter. There were many younger men with whom he was very intimate–Frank Gresham, for instance, and Lord Lufton himself; but this was an affair which he hardly knew who to discuss with a young man. To Dr Thorne he thought that he could bring himself to tell the whole story.
In the evening there came to him a message from Plumstead, with a letter from his father and some present for the child. He knew at once that the present had been thus sent as an excuse for the letter. His father might have written by the post, or course; but that would have given to his letter a certain air and tone which he had not wished it to bear. After some message from the major’s mother, and some allusion to Edith, the archdeacon struck off upon the matter that was near his heart.
‘I fear it is all up with that unfortunate man at Hogglestock,’ he said. ‘From what I hear of the evidence which came out before the magistrates, there can, I think, be no doubt as to his guilt. Have you heard that the bishop sent over on the following day to stop him from preaching? He did so, and sent again on the Sunday. But Crawley would not give way, and so far I respect the man; for, as a matter of course, whatever the bishop did, or attempted to do, he would do with an extreme bad taste, probably with gross ignorance as to his own duty and as to the duty of the man under him. I am told that on the first day Crawley turned out of his house the messenger sent to him–some stray clergyman whom Mrs Proudie keeps in the house; and that on Sunday the stairs to the reading-desk and pulpit were occupied by a lot of brickmakers, among whom the parson from Barchester did not venture to attempt to make his way, although he was fortified by the presence of one of the cathedral vergers and by one of the palace footmen. As for the rest, I have no doubt it is all true. I pity Crawley from my heart. Poor, unfortunate man! The general opinion seems to be that he is not in truth responsible for what he does. As for his victory over the bishop, nothing on earth could be better.
‘Your mother particularly wishes you to come over to us before the end of the week, and to bring Edith. Your grandfather will be here, and he is becoming so infirm that he will never come to us for another Christmas. Of course you will stay for the new year.’
Though the letter was full of Mr Crawley and his affairs there was not a word about Grace. This, however, was quite natural. Major Grantly perfectly well understood his father’s anxiety to carry his point without seeming to allude to the disagreeable subject. ‘My father is very clever,’ he said to himself, ‘very clever. But he isn’t so clever but one can see how clever he is.’
On the next day he went into Silverbridge, intending to call on Miss Prettyman; nor was he called upon to do so, as he never got as far as that lady’s house. While walking up the High Street he saw Mrs Thorne in her carriage, and, as a matter of course, he stopped to speak to her. He knew Mrs Thorne quite as intimately as he did her husband, and liked her quite as well. ‘Major Grantly,’ she said, speaking out loud to him, half across the street; ‘I was very angry with you yesterday. Why did you not come up to dinner? We had a room ready for you and everything.’
‘I was not quite well, Mrs Thorne.’
‘Fiddlestick. Don’t tell me of not being well. There was Emily breaking her heart about you.’
‘I’m sure, Miss Dunstable–‘
‘To tell you the truth, I think she’ll get over it. It won’t be mortal with her. But do tell me, Major Grantly, what are we to think about this poor Mr Crawley? It was so good of you to be one of his bailsmen.’
‘He would have found twenty in Silverbridge, if he had wanted them.’
‘And do you hear that he has defied the bishop? I do so like him for that. Not but what poor Mrs Proudie is the dearest friend I have in the world, and I’m always fighting a battle with old Lady Lufton on her behalf. But one likes to see one’s friends worsted sometimes.’
‘I don’t quite understand what did happen at Hogglestock on the Sunday,’ said the major.
‘Some say he had the bishop’s chaplain put under the pump. I don’t believe that; but there is no doubt that when the poor fellow tried to get into the pulpit, they took him and carried him neck and heels out of the church. But, tell me, Major Grantly, what is to become of the family?’
‘Heaven knows!’
‘Is it not sad? And that eldest girl is so nice! They tell me that she is perfect–not only in beauty, but in manners and accomplishments. Everybody says that she talks Greek just as well as she does English, and that she understands philosophy from the top to the bottom.’
‘At any rate, she is so good and so lovely that one cannot but pity her.’
‘You know her, Major Grantly? By-the-by, of course you do, as you were staying with her at Framley.’
‘Yes, I know her.’
‘What is to become of her? I’m going your way. You might as well get into the carriage, and I’ll drive you home. If he is sent to prison–and they say he must be sent to prison–what is to become of them?’ Then Major Grantly did get into the carriage, and, before he got out again, he had told Mrs Thorne the whole story of his love.
She listened to him with the closest attention; only interrupting him now and then with little words, intended to signify her approval. He, as he told his tale, did not look her in the face, but sat with his eyes fixed upon her muff. ‘And now,’ he said, glancing up at her almost for the first time as he finished his speech, ‘and now, Mrs Thorne, what am I to do?’
‘Marry her, of course,’ said she, raising her hand aloft and bringing it down heavily upon is knee as she gave her decisive reply.
‘H–sh–h,’ he exclaimed, looking back in dismay towards the servants.
‘Oh, they never hear anything up there. They’re thinking about the last pot of porter they had, or the next they’re to get. Deary me, I am so glad! Of course you’ll marry her.’
‘You forget my father.’
‘No, I don’t. What has a father to do with it? You’re old enough to please yourself without asking your father. Besides, Lord bless me, the archdeacon isn’t the man to bear malice. He’ll storm and threaten and stop the supplies for a month or so. Then he’ll double them, and take your wife to his bosom, and kiss her, and bless her, and all that kind of thing. We all know what parental wrath means in such cases as this.’
‘But my sister–‘
‘As for your sister, don’t talk to me about her. I don’t care two straws about your sister. You must excuse me, Major Grantly, but Lady Hartletop is really too big for my powers of vision.’
‘And Edith–of course, Mrs Thorne, I can’t be blind to the fact that in many ways such a marriage would be injurious to her. No man wishes to be connected with a convicted thief.’
‘No, Major Grantly; but a man does wish to marry the girl that he loves. At least, I suppose so. And what man was ever able to give a more touching proof of his affection than you can to now? If I were you, I’d be at Allington before twelve o’clock tomorrow–I would indeed. What does it matter about the trumpery cheque? Everybody knows it was a mistake if he did take it. And surely you would not punish her for that?’
‘No–no; but I don’t suppose she’d think it a punishment.’
‘You go and ask her then. And I’ll tell you what. If she hasn’t a house of her own to be married from, she shall be married from Chaldicotes. We’ll have such a breakfast! And I’ll make as much of her as if she were the daughter of my old friend, the bishop himself–I will indeed.’
This was Mrs Thorne’s advice. Before it was completed, Major Grantly had been carried half way to Chaldicotes. When he left his impetuous friend he was too prudent to make any promise, but he declared that what she had said should have much weight with him.
‘You won’t mention it to anybody,’ said the Major.
‘Certainly not, without your leave,’ said Mrs Thorne. ‘Don’t you know I’m the soul of honour?’
CHAPTER XV
UP IN LONDON
Some kind and attentive reader may perhaps remember that Miss Grace Crawley, in a letter written by her to her friend Miss Lily Dale, said a word or two of a certain John. ‘If it can only be as John wishes it!’ And the same reader, if there be one so kind and attentive, may also remember that Miss Lily Dale had declared, in reply, that ‘about that other subject she would rather say nothing,’–and then she added, ‘When one thinks of going beyond friendship–even if one tries to do so–there are so many barriers!’ From which words the kind and attentive reader, if such a reader be in such matters intelligent as well as kind and attentive, may have learned a great deal in reference to Miss Lily Dale.
We will now pay a visit to the John in question–a certain Mr John Eames, living in London, a bachelor, as the intelligent reader will certainly have discovered, and cousin to Miss Grace Crawley. Mr John Eames at the time of our story was a young man, some seven or eight and twenty years of age, living in London, where he was supposed by his friends in the country to have made his mark, and to be something a little out of the common way. But I do not know that he was very much out of the common way, except in the fact that he had some few thousand pounds left him by an old nobleman with great affection, and who had died some two years since. Before this, John Eames had not been a very poor man, as he filled the comfortable official position of the private secretary to the Chief Commissioner of the Income-Tax Board, and drew a salary of three hundred and fifty pounds a year from the resources of the country; but when, in addition to this source of official wealth, he became known as the undoubted possessor of a hundred and twenty-eight shares in one of the most prosperous joint-stock banks in the metropolis, which property had been left to him free of legacy duty by the lamented nobleman above named, then Mr John Eames rose very high indeed as a young man in the estimation of those who knew him, and was supposed to be something a good deal out of the common way. His mother, who lived in the country, was obedient to his slightest word, never venturing to impose upon him any sign of parental authority; and to his sister, Mary Eames, who lived with her mother, he was almost a god on earth. To sisters who have nothing of their own–not even some special god for their own individual worship–generous, affectionate, unmarried brothers, with sufficient incomes, are gods upon earth.
And even up in London Mr John Eames was somebody. He was so especially at his office; although, indeed, it was remembered by many a man how raw a lad he had been when he first came there, not so very many years ago; and how they had laughed at him and played him tricks; and how he had customarily been known to be without a shilling for the last week before pay-day, during which period he would borrow sixpence here and a shilling there with energy, from men who now felt themselves to be honoured when he smiled upon them. Little stories of his former days would often be told of him behind his back; but they were not told with ill-nature, because he was very constant in referring to the same matters himself. And it was acknowledged by everyone at the office, that neither the friendship of the nobleman, nor that fact of the private secretaryship, nor the acquisition of his wealth, had made him proud to his old companions or forgetful of old friendships. To the young men, lads who had lately been appointed, he was perhaps a little cold; but then it was only reasonable to conceive that such a one as Mr John Eames was now could not be expected to make an intimate acquaintance with every new clerk that might be brought into the office. Since competitive examinations had come into vogue, there was no knowing who might be introduced; and it was understood generally through the establishment–and I may almost say by the civil service at large, so wide was his fame–that Mr Eames was very averse to the whole theory of competition. The ‘Devil take the hindmost’ scheme he called it; and would then go on to explain that hindmost candidates were often the best gentlemen, and that, in this way, the Devil got the pick of the flock. And he was respected the more for this because it was known that on this subject he had fought some hard battles with the commissioner. The chief commissioner was a great believer in competition, wrote papers about it, which he read aloud to various bodies of the civil service–not at all to their delight–which he got to be printed here and there, and which he sent by post all over the kingdom. More that once this chief commissioner had told his private secretary that they must part company, unless the private secretary could see fit to alter his view, or could, at least, keep his views to himself. But the private secretary would do neither; and, nevertheless, there he was, still private secretary. ‘It’s because Johnny has got money,’ said one of the young clerks, who was discussing this singular state of things with his brethren at the office. ‘When a chap has got money, he may do what he likes. Johnny has got lots of money, you know.’ The young clerk in question was by no means on intimate terms with Mr Eames, but there had grown up in the office a way of calling him Johnny behind his back, which had probably come down from the early days of his scrapes and poverty.
Now the entire life of Mr John Eames was pervaded by a great secret; and although he never, in those days, alluded to the subject in conversation with any man belonging to the office, yet the secret was known by them all. It had been historical for the last four or five years, and was now regarded as a thing of course. Mr John Eames was in love, and his love was not happy. He was in love, and had long been in love, and the lady of his love was not kind to him. The little history had grown to be very touching and pathetic, having received, no doubt some embellishments from the imaginations of the gentlemen of the Income-Tax Office. It was said of him that he had been in love from his early boyhood, that at sixteen he had been engaged, under the sanction of the nobleman now deceased and of the young lady’s parents, that contracts of betrothal had been drawn up, and things done very unusual in private families in these days, and that then there had come a stranger into the neighbourhood just as the young lady was beginning to reflect whether she had a heart of her own or not, and that she had thrown her parents, and the noble lord, and the contract, and poor Johnny Eames to the winds, and had–Here the story took different directions, as told by different men. Some said the lady had gone off with the stranger and that there had been a clandestine marriage, which afterwards turned out to be no marriage at all; others, that the stranger suddenly took himself off, and was no more seen by the young lady; others that he owned at last to having another wife–and so on. The stranger was very well known to be one Mr Crosbie, belonging to another public office; and there were circumstances in his life, only half known, which gave rise to these various rumours. But there was one thing certain, one point as to which no clerk in the Income-Tax Office had a doubt, one fact which had conduced much to the high position which Mr John Eames now held in the estimation of his brother clerks–he had given this Mr Crosbie such a thrashing that no man had ever received such treatment before and lived through it. Wonderful stories were told about that thrashing, so that it was believed, even by the least enthusiastic in such matters, that the poor victim had only dragged on a crippled existence since the encounter. ‘For nine weeks he never said a word or ate a mouthful,’ said one young clerk to a younger clerk who was just entering the office; ‘and even now he can’t speak above a whisper, and has to take all his food in pap.’ It will be seen, therefore, that Mr John Eames had about him much of the heroic.
That he was still in love, and in love with the same lady, was known to everyone in the office. When it was declared of him that in the way of amatory expressions he had never in his life opened his mouth to another woman, there were those in the office who knew that to be an exaggeration. Mr Cradell, for instance, who in his early years had been very intimate with John Eames, and who still kept up the old friendship–although, being a domestic man, with wife and six young children, and living on a small income, he did not go out much among his friends–could have told a very different story; for Mrs Cradell herself had, in the days before Cradell had made good his claim upon her, been not unadmired by Cradell’s fellow-clerk. But the constancy of Mr Eames’s present love was doubted by none who knew him. It was not that he went about with his stockings ungartered, or any of the old acknowledged signs of unrequited affection. In his manner he was rather jovial than otherwise, and seemed to live a happy, somewhat luxurious life, well contented with himself and the world around him. But still he had this passion within his bosom, and I am inclined to think that he was a little proud of his own constancy.
It might be presumed that when Miss Dale wrote to her friend Grace Crawley about going beyond friendship, pleading that there were so many ‘barriers’, she had probably seen her way over most of them. But this was not so; nor did John Eames himself at all believe that he had given the whole thing up as a bad job, because it was the law of his life that the thing never should be abandoned as long as hope was possible. Unless Miss Dale should become the wife of somebody else, he would always regard himself as affianced to her. He had so declared to Miss Dale herself and to Miss Dale’s mother, and to all the Dale people who had ever been interested in the matter. And there was an old lady living in Miss Dale’s neighbourhood, the sister of the lord who had left Johnny Eames the bank shares, who always fought his battles for him, and kept a close look-out, fully resolved that Johnny Eames should be rewarded at last. This old lady was connected with the Dales by family ties, and therefore had the means of close observation. She was in constant correspondence with John Eames, and never failed to acquaint him when any of the barriers were, in her judgment, giving way. The nature of some of the barriers may possibly be made intelligible to my readers by the following letter from Lady Julia De Guest to her young friend:-
‘GUESTWICK COTTAGE, December, 186-
‘MY DEAR JOHN,
‘I am much obliged to you for going to Jones’s. I send stamps for two shillings and fourpence, which is what I owe to you. It used only to be two shillings and twopence, but they say everything has got to be dearer now, and I suppose pills as well as other things. Only think of Pritchard coming to me, and saying she wanted her wages raised, after living with me for twenty years! I was very angry, and scolded her roundly; but as she acknowledged, she had been wrong, and cried and begged my pardon, I did give her two guineas a year more.
‘I saw dear Lily just for a moment on Sunday, and upon my word I think she grows prettier every year. She had a young friend with her–a Miss Crawley–who, I believe, is the cousin I have heard you speak of. What is this sad story about her father, the clergyman! Mind you tell me about it.
‘It is quite true what I told you about the De Courcys. Old Lady De Courcy is in London, and Mr Crosbie is going to law with her about his wife’s money. He has been at it in one way or the other ever since poor Lady Alexandrina died. I wish she had lived, with all my heart. For though I feel sure that our Lily will never willingly see him again, yet the tidings of her death disturbed her, and set her thinking of things that were fading from her mind. I rated her soundly, not mentioning your name, however; but she only kissed me, and told me in her quiet drolling way that I didn’t mean a word of what I said.
‘You can come here whenever you please after the tenth of January. But if you come early January you must go to your mother first, and come to me for the last week of your holiday. Go to Blackie’s in Regent Street, and bring me down all the colours in wool I ordered. I said you would call. And tell them at Dolland’s the last spectacles don’t suit at all, and I won’t keep them, they had better send me down, by you, one or two more pairs to try. And you had better see Smithers and Smith, in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, No 57– but you have been there before–and beg them to let me know how my poor dear brother’s matters are to be settled at last. As far as I can see I shall be dead before I shall know what income I have to spend. As to my cousins at the manor, I never see them; and as to talking to them about business, I should not dream of it. She hasn’t come to me since she first called, and she may be quite sure I shan’t go to her till she does. Indeed I think we shall like each other apart quite as much as we should together. So let me know when you’re coming, and pray don’t forget to call at Blackie’s; nor yet at Dolland’s, which is much more important than the wool, because my eyes are getting so weak. But what I want you specially to remember is about Smithers and Smith. How is a woman to live if she doesn’t know how much she has got to spend? ‘Believe me to be, my dear John,
‘Your most sincere friend,
‘JULIA DE GUEST.’
Lady Julia always directed her letters for her young friend to his office, and there he received the one now given to the reader. When he had read it he made a memorandum as to the commissions, and then threw himself back in his arm-chair to think over the tidings communicated to him. All the facts stated he had known before; that Lady De Courcy was in London, and that her son-in-law Mr Crosbie, whose wife–Lady Alexandrina–had died some twelve months since at Baden Baden, was at variance with her respecting money which he supposed to be due to him. But there was that Lady Julia’s letter that was wormwood to him. Lily Dale was again thinking of this man, whom she had loved in the old days, and who had treated her with monstrous perfidy! It was all very well for Lady Julia to be sure that Lily Dale would never desire to see Mr Crosbie again; but John Eames was by no means equally certain that it would be so. ‘The tidings of her death disturbed her’! said Johnny, repeating certain words out of the old lady’s letter. ‘I know they disturbed me. I wish she could have lived for ever. If he ever ventures to show himself within ten miles of Allington, I’ll see if I cannot do better than I did the last time I met him!’ Then there came a knock at the door, and the private secretary, finding himself to be somewhat annoyed by the disturbance at such a moment, bade the intruder enter in an angry voice. ‘Oh, it’s you, Cradell, is it? What can I do for you?’ Mr Cradell, who now entered, and who, as before said, was an old ally of John Eames, was a clerk of longer standing in the department than his friend. In age he looked much older, and he had left with him none of that appearance of the gloss of youth which will stick for many years to men who are fortunate in their world affairs. Indeed it may be said that Mr Cradell was almost shabby in outward appearance, and his brow seemed to be laden with care, and his eyes were dull and heavy.
‘I thought I’d just come in and ask you how you are,’ said Cradell.
‘I’m pretty well, thank you; and how are you?’
‘Oh, I’m pretty well–in health, that is. You see one has so many things to think of when one has a large family. Upon my word, Johnny, I think you’ve been lucky to keep out of it.’
‘I have kept out of it, at any rate; haven’t I?’
‘Of course; living with you as much as I used to, I know the whole story of what kept you single.’
‘Don’t mind about that, Cradell; what is it you want?’
‘I mustn’t let you suppose, Johnny, that I’m grumbling about my lot. Nobody knows better than you do what a trump I got in my wife.’
‘Of course you did;–an excellent woman.’
‘And if I cut you out a little there, I’m sure you never felt malice against me for that.’
‘Never for a moment, old fellow.’
‘We all have our luck, you know.’
‘Your luck has been a wife and family. My luck has been to be a bachelor.’
‘You may say a family,’ said Cradell. ‘I’m sure that Amelia does the best she can; but we a desperately pushed sometimes–desperately pushed. I never had it so bad, Johnny, as I am now.’
‘So you said last time.’
‘Did I? I don’t remember it. I didn’t think I was so bad then. But, Johnny, if you can let me have one more fiver now I have made arrangements with Amelia how I’m to pay you off by thirty shillings a month–as I get my salary. Indeed I have. Ask her else.’
‘I’ll be shot if I do.’
‘Don’t say that, Johnny.’
‘It’s no good your Johnnying me, for I won’t be Johnnyed out of another shilling. It comes too often, and there’s no reason why I should do it. And what’s more, I can’t afford it. I’ve people of my own to help.’
‘But oh, Johnny, we all know how comfortable you are. And I’m sure no one rejoiced as I did when the money was left to you. If it had been myself I could hardly have thought more of it. Upon my solemn word and honour if you’ll let me have it this time, it shall be the last.’
‘Upon my word and honour then, I won’t. There must be an end to everything.’
Although Mr Cradell would probably, if pressed, have admitted the truth of this last assertion, he did not seem to think that the end had as yet come to his friend’s benevolence. It certainly had not come to his own importunity. ‘Don’t say that, Johnny; pray don’t.’
‘But I do say it.’
‘When I told Amelia yesterday evening that I didn’t like to got to you again, because of course a man has feelings, she told me to mention her name. “I’m sure he’d do it for my sake,”‘ she said.
‘I don’t believe she said anything of the kind.’
‘Upon my word she did. You ask her.’
‘And if she did, she oughtn’t to have said it.’
‘Oh, Johnny, don’t speak in that way of her. She’s my wife, and you know what your own feelings were once. But look here–we are in that state at home at this moment, that I must get money somewhere before I go home. I must, indeed. If you’ll let me have three pounds this once, I’ll never ask you again. I’ll give you a written promise if you like, and I’ll pledge myself to pay it back by thirty shillings a time out of the next two months’ salary. I will, indeed.’ And then Mr Cradell began to cry. But when Johnny at last took out his cheque-book and wrote a cheque for three pounds, Mr Cradell’s eyes glistened with joy. ‘Upon my word I am so much obliged to you! You are the best fellow that ever lived. And Amelia will say the same when she hears of it.’
‘I don’t believe she’ll say anything of the kind, Cradell. If I remember anything of her, she has a stouter heart than that.’ Cradell admitted that his wife had a stouter heart than himself, and then made his way back to his own part of the office.
This little interruption to the current of Mr Eames’s thoughts was, I think, good for the service, as immediately on his friend’s departure he went to his work; whereas, had not he been called away from his reflections about Miss Dale, he would have sat thinking about her affairs probably for the rest of the morning. As it was, he really did write a dozen notes in answer to as many private letters addressed to his chief, Sir Raffle Buffle, in all of which he made excellently-worded false excuses for the non-performance of various requests made to Sir Raffle by the writers. ‘He’s about the best hand at it that I know,’ said Sir Raffle, one day, to the secretary; ‘otherwise you may be sure I shouldn’t keep him here.’ ‘I will allow that he’s clever,’ said the secretary. ‘It isn’t cleverness, so much as tact. It’s what I call tact. I hadn’t been long in the service before I mastered it myself; and now that I’ve been at the trouble to teach him I don’t want to have the trouble to teach another. But upon my word he must mind his p’s and q’s; upon my word, he must; and you had better tell him so.’ ‘The fact is, Mr Kissing,’ said the private secretary the next day to the secretary–Mr Kissing was at that time secretary to the board of commissioners for the receipt of income tax–‘the fact is, Mr Kissing, Sir Raffle should never attempt to write a letter himself. He doesn’t know how to do it. He always says twice too much, and yet not half enough. I wish you’d tell him so. He won’t believe me.’ From which it will be seen Mr Eames was proud of his special accomplishment, but did not feel any gratitude to the master who assumed to himself the glory of having taught him. On the present occasion John Eames wrote all his letters before he thought again of Lily Dale, and was able to write them without interruption, as the chairman was absent for the day at the Treasury–or perhaps at his club. Then, when he had finished, he rang his bell, and ordered some sherry and soda-water, and stretched himself before the fire–as though his exertions in the public service had been very great–and seated himself comfortably in his arm-chair, and lit a cigar, and again took out Lady Julia’s letter.
As regarded the cigar, it may be said that both Sir Raffle and Mr Kissing had given orders that on no account should cigars be lit within the precincts of the Income-Tax Office. Mr Eames had taken upon himself to understand that such orders did not apply to a private secretary, and was well aware that Sir Raffle knew his habit. To Mr Kissing, I regret to say, he put himself in opposition whenever and wherever opposition was possible; so that men in the office said that one of the two must go at last. ‘But Johnny can do anything, you know, because he has got money.’ That was too frequently the opinion finally expressed among the men.
So John Eames sat down, and drank his soda-water, and smoked his cigar, and read his letter; or, rather, simply that paragraph of the letter which referred to Miss Dale. ‘The tidings of her death have disturbed her, and set her thinking again of things that were fading from her mind.’ He understood it all. And yet how could it possibly be so? How could it be that she should not despise a man–despise him if she did not hate him–who had behaved as this man had behaved to her? It was now four years since this Crosbie had been engaged to Miss Dale, and had jilted her so heartlessly as to incur the disgust of every man in London who had heard the story. He had married an earl’s daughter, who had left him within a few months of their marriage, and now Mr Crosbie’s noble wife was dead. The wife was dead, and simply because the man was free again, he, John Eames, was to be told that Miss Dale’s mind was ‘disturbed’, and that her thoughts were going back to things which had faded from her memory, and which should have been long since banished altogether from such holy ground.
If Lily Dale were now to marry Mr Crosbie, anything so perversely cruel as the fate of John Eames would never have yet been told in romance. That was his own idea on the matter as he sat smoking his cigar. I have said that he was proud of his constancy, and yet, in some sort, he was also ashamed of it. He acknowledged the fact of his love, and believed himself to have out-Jacobed Jacob; but he felt that it was hard for a man who had risen in the world as he had done to be made a plaything of by a foolish passion. It was not four years ago–that affair of Crosbie–and Miss Dale should have accepted him long since. Half-a-dozen times he had made up his mind to be very stern with her; and he had written somewhat sternly–but the first moment that he saw her he was conquered again. ‘And now that brute will reappear and everything will be wrong again,’ he said to himself. If the brute did reappear, something should happen of which the world would hear the tidings. So he lit another cigar, and began to think what that something should be.
As he did so he heard a loud noise, as of harsh, rattling winds in the next room, and he knew that Sir Raffle had come back from the Treasury. There was a creaking of boots, and a knocking of chairs, and a ringing of bells, and then a loud angry voice–a voice that was very harsh, and on this occasion very angry. Why had not his twelve o’clock letters been sent up to him to the West End? Why not? Mr Eames knew all about it. Why did Mr Eames know all about it? Why had not Mr Eames not sent them up? Where was Mr Eames? Let Mr Eames be sent to him. All which Mr Eames heard standing with the cigar in his mouth and his back to the fire. ‘Somebody has been bullying old Buffle, I suppose. After all he as been up at the Treasure today,’ said Eames to himself. But he did not stir till the messenger had been to him, nor even then at once. ‘All right, Rafferty,’ he said; ‘I’ll go just now.’ Then he took half-a-dozen more whiffs from the cigar, threw the remainder into the fire, and opened the door which communicated between his room and Sir Raffle’s.
The great man was standing with two unopened epistles in his hand. ‘Eames,’ said he, ‘here are letters–‘ Then he stopped himself, and began upon another subject. ‘Did I not give express orders that I would have no smoking in the office?’
‘I think Mr Kissing said something about it.’
‘Mr Kissing! It was not Mr Kissing at all. It was I. I gave the order myself.’
‘You’ll find it began with Mr Kissing.’
‘It did not begin with Mr Kissing; it began and ended with me. What are you going to do, sir?’ John Eames stepped towards the bell, and his hand was already on the bell-pull.
‘I was going to ring for the papers, sir.’
‘And who told you to ring for the papers? I don’t want the papers. The papers won’t show anything. I suppose my word may be taken without the papers. Since you are so fond of Mr Kissing–‘
‘I’m not fond of Mr Kissing at all.’
‘You’ll have to go back to him, and let somebody come here who will not