i>i»>l->i> f>-. X ^ 1/ >/ Y V: ^^^ I *RY OF THE UKIVERSITY OF CUIFORNU LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA RY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA RY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA i^i^jm ^^Gv y^^g i J^^^ ^> A uae&i. ^ \ Y OF THE UNIVERSITY 0-F CALIFORNIA LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA Y OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA -^=^-- cdV-^vTD ,.^7s>,.. LI ' \ II YjOF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA rrcKi TrTTTnTTTTrT I TTTrTTTmrx ^ ^9 ^ -^ Novels are sweets. All people with healthy A\erary appetites love them— almost all women ; a vast number of clever, hard-headed men. Judges, bishops, chancellors, mathematicians, arc notorious novel readers, as ■well as young boys and sweet girls, and their kind, tender mothers.— W. M. TuAOiiEUAv, iu Hour ilaiou' Papers. HARPER'S LIBRARY OF SELECT IsTOA^EL Harper's Select Library of Fiction rarely includes a work which has not '>. decided charm, either from the clearness of the story, the signiflcance of the theme, or the charm of the execution; so that on setting out upon a journey, or providing for the recreation of a solitary evening, one is wise and safe in procuring the Liter numbers of this attractive series. — Boston Transcript. 4. 5. G. 7. 8. y. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. IG. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. PEIOE Pelham. By Buhver $ 7") The Disowned. By Buhver 7o Devereux. By Buhver 50 Paul Clitibrd. By Buhvec 50 Eugene Aram. 13y Buhver 50 TheLast Days of Pompeii. By Buhver 50 Tlie Czarina. By Mrs. Hofland 50 Kienzi. By Buhver 75 Self-Devotion. By Miss Campbell 50 The Nabob at Home 50 Ernest Maltravers. By Buhver 50 Alice ; or, The Mysteries. By Buhver 50 The Last of the Barons. By Buhver.. 1 00 Forest Days. By James 50 Adam Brown, tlie Merchant. By H. Smith 50 Pilgrims of the Rhine. By Buhver.... 25 The Home. By IMiss Bremer 50 The Lost Ship. By Captain Neale 75 The False Heir. By James 50 The Neighbors. By Miss Bremer 50 Nina. iJy Miss Bremer 60 The President's Daughters. By Miss Bremer 25 The Banker's Wife. ]5y Mrs. Gore.... 50 The Birthright. By Mrs. Gore 25 New Sketches of Every-day Life. By Miss Bremer 50 Arabella Stuart. By James 50 The Grumbler. By Miss Pickering. .:, 50 The Unloved One. By Mrs. Hofland. 50 Jack of the Mill. By William Howitt. 25 The Heretic. By Liijetchnikoff 50 Tlie Jew. By Spindler 75 Arthur. BySue 75 Ciiatsworth. By Ward 50 The Prairie Bird. By C. A. Murray. 1 00 Amy Herbert. ByMissSewell 50 Rose d'Albret. By James 50 The Triumphs of Time. By Mrs. Marsh'^ 75 The H Family. By Miss Bremer 50 The Grandfather. By Miss Pickering. 50 Arrah Neil. By James 50 The Jilt 50 Tales from the German 50 Arthur Arundel. By H. Smith 50 Agincourt. By James 50 The Regent's Daughter 50 The Maid of Honor 50 Safia. Bv De Beauvoir 50 Look to the End. By Mrs. Ellis 50 The Improvisatore. 13y Andersen 50 The Gambler's Wife. By Mrs. Grey.. 50 Veronica. By Zschokke 50 Zoe. By Miss Jewsbury 50 PRICE 53. Wyoming § 50 54. De Rohan. By Sue 50 55. Self. By the Author of '• Cecil" 75 5G. The Smuggler. By James 75 57. The Breach of Promise 50 58. Parsonage of Mora. By Miss Bremer 25 59. A Chance Medley. By T. C. Grattan 50 GO. The White Slave 1 00 61. The Bosom Friend. By Mrs. Grey.. 50 62. Amaury. By Dumas 50 63. The Author's Daughter. By SLiry Ilowitt 25 64. Only a Fiddler ! &c. By Andersen.... 50 G5. The Whiteboy. By Mrs. Hall 50 Q'6. The Foster-Brother. Edited bv Leigh Hunt .' 50 67. Love and Mesmerism. By H. Smith. 75 GS. Ascanio. Bv Dumas 75 G9. Lady of Milan. Edited by JMrs. Thomson 75 70. The Citizen of Prague 1 00 71. The Royal Favorite. ByMts. Gore. 50 72. The Queen of Denmark. By Mrs. Gore 50 73. The Fives, &c. By Tieck 50 74,75. The Step-Mother. By James 1 25 70. Jessie's Flirtations 50 77. Chevalier d'Harmental. By Dumas. 50 78. Peers and Parvenus. By Mrs. Gore. 50 79. The Commander of Malta. By Sue.. 50 80. The Female Minister ". 50 •81. Emiha Wyndham. By Mrs. Marsh. 75 82. The Bush-Ranger. By Charles Row- croft 50 83. The Chronicles of Clovernook 25 84. Genevieve. ByLamartine 25 85. Livonian Tales 25 86. Lettice Arnold. By Mrs. Marsh 25 87. Father Darcy. By Mrs. Marsh 75 88. Leontine. By Mrs. Maberly 50 89. Heidelberg. By James 50 (JO, Lucretia. By Buhver 75 91, Beauchamp. Bv James 75 92,94. Fortescue. By Knowlcs I 00 93. Daniel Dennison,&c. Bv Mrs. Holland 50 95. Cinq-Mars. ByDeVignv .50 96. Woman's Trials. By Mrs. S. C. Hall 75 97. The Castle of Ehrenstein. By James 50 98. Marriage. By Miss S. Ferrier 50 99. Roland CasheL By Lever 1 25 100. Martins of Cro' Martin, By Lever... 1 25 101. Russell. ByJames 50 102. A Simple Story. By Mrs. Inchbald., 50 103. Norman's Bridge. By Mrs. Marsh... 50 104. Alamance 50 105. Margaret Graham. ByJames 25 2920G7 Harptrs Library of Select Novels. rniOB lOG, The "Wayside Cross. Bv E. II. Wil- iniin $ 2r, 107. The Convict. IJyJumes no lOS. MiiisimunerKvc. 15_v Mrs. S. C. Hull 50 lii'.l. Jiine i:.vio. l!y Cun'or Jiell 75 lit). Tiic Last of tlic Fail ies. Ey James.. 25 ill. Sir Tiieocloie J5rou^;liton. iJy James 50 112. ^;elt■-Colltrol. I5y iMarv Hrunton 75 IJ.!. 114. Harold. I5y Huhvcr 100 115. Brothers and Sisters. By Jliss Bremer 50 IKi. Ciowrie. By James 50 117. A Whim and its Consequences. By James 50 lis. Three Sisters and Three Fortunes. BvG. H. Lewes..: 75 1 1'.t. The Discipline of Life 50 120.' Thirty Years Since. ByJ.imes 75 121. .Mary'Barton. By Mrs. Gaskell 50 122. Tlie Cireat Iloggarty Diamond. By Thackeray 25 12.1. The Torgefv. By James 50 124. The Midnight Sun. By Miss Bremer 25 125, 12G. The (\ixtons. By Buhver 75 127. Mordaunt Hal!. By Mrs. Marsh 50 128. My Uncle the Curate 50 12l». The Woodman. By James 75 130. The Green Hand. A " Short Yarn " 75 131. Sidonia the Sorceress. By Meinhold 1 00 132. Shirley. By Currer BeU 100 133. TheOgilvies 50 134. Constance Lyndsay. By G. C. H 50 135. Sir Ed>vard Graham. By Miss Sin- clair 1 GO 13G. Hands not Hearts. By Miss Wilkin- son 50 137. The Wilmingtons. By Mrs. Marsh.. 50 138. Ked Allen. By I). Hannay 50 13!l. >.'ight and Morning. ByBulvver 75 14(1. The JMaid of Orleans 75 141. Antonina. By Wilkie Collins 50 142. Zanoni. ByBulwer 50 143. Eeginald Hastings. By Warburton.. 50 144. Pride and Irresolution 50 145. The Old Oak Chest. By James 50 146. Julia Ho^vard. By Mrs. Martin Bell. 50 147. Adelaide Lindsay. Edited by Mrs. Marsh 50 148. Petticoat Government. By Mrs. Trol- lope .'50 ^140.. The Luttrells. By F. Williams 50 150. Singleton Fontenoy, R. N. By Hannay 50 151. Olive. By the Author of "The Ogil- vies" 50 152. Henry Smeaton. By James 50 153. Time, the Avenger. By Mrs. Marsh. 50 154. The Commissioner. By James 1 00 155. The Wife's Sister. By Mrs. liubback 50 \r>^u The Gold Worshipers 50 157. The Daughter of Night. By Fullom. 50 158. Stuart of Dunleath. By Hon. Caro- line Norton 50 159. .Arthur Conway. By Captain E. H. Milman ." 50* IfiO. The Fate. By James 50 IGl I'he Lady and the Priest. By Mrs. Maberly 50 ■1€2. Aims and (Jhstacles. By James 50 163. The Tutor's Ward 50 ^iCTj Florence S.ackyille. By Mrs. Burbury 75 Cj3u Ravenscliffe. By Mrs. Marsh 50 16©. Maurice Tiernay. By Lever 1 00 yfl. TIio Head of the Family. By Miss Mulock % 75 105* Darien. By Warburton 50 I(5l>. Falkenburg 75 VM-. The Daltons. By Lever 150 -t?4^Ivar; or, The Skjuts - Boy. By Miss Carlen 50 172.''Pequinillo. By James 60 173. Anna Hammer. By Temme 50 174. A Life of Vicissitudes. By James... 50 Hfl". Henry Esmond. By Thackeray 50 174V177. My Novel. ByBulwer 1 50 178. Katie Stewart 25 rr^. Castle Avon. By Mrs. Marsh 60 ISO. Agnes Sorel. By James 50 J^. Agatha's Husband. By the Author of "Ohve" 50 i«2r. Villette. By Currer Bell 75 I'StJr Lover's Stratagem. By Miss Carlen. 50 184. Clouded Happiness. By Countess D'Orsay 50 185; Charles Auchester. A Memorial 75 IW. Lady Lee's Widowhood 50 im. Dodd Family Abroad. By Lever... .1 25 188. Sir Jasper Carew. By Lever 75 189. Quiet Heart 25 190. Aubrey. By Mrs. Marsh 75 WT. Ticonderoga. By James 50 ,,^88. Hard Times. By Dickens 50 42a) The Young Husband. By Mrs. Grey 60 ^^. The Mother's Becompense. By Grace Aguilar 75 195. Avillion, &c. By Miss Mulock 1 25 196. North and South. By Mrs. Gaskell. 60 WT. Country Neighborhood. By Miss Du- puy 50 498. Constance Herbert. By Miss Jews- bury 60 199. The Heiress of Haughton, By Mrs. Marsh 50 ■fieOr The Old Dominion. By James 50 201. John Halifax. By the Author of "Olive," &c 75 -2G2. Evelyn Marston. By Mrs. Marsh.... 60 203. Fortunes of Glencore. By Lever 50 ,204.. Leonora d'Orco. By James 50 ^205.} Nothing New. By Miss Mulock 60 ^2et?I TheRoseofAshurst. By Mrs. Marsh 50 207. The Athelings. By Mrs. Oliphant.... 75 208. Scenes of Clerical Life 75 209. My Lady Ludlow. By Mrs. Gaskell. 25 2j0, 211. Gerald Fitzgerald. By Lever... 60 2ii?. A Life for a Life. By Miss Mulock.. 50 ^iS; Sword and Gown. By Geo. Lawrence 25 214^ Misrepresentation. By Anna H. ■■ — ^ Drurv 1 00 215. The Mill on the Floss. By George Eliot 76 216. One of Them. By Lever 75 217. A Day's Ride. By Lever 60 218. Notice to Quit. By Wills 50 A Strange Story 1 00 Brown, Jones, and Robinson. By Trollope 60 Abel Drake's Wife. By John Saun- ders 75 322^ Olive Blake'K Good Work. By J. C. J JeaflFreson 75/ 2T3. The Professor's Lady 25' 224. Mistress and Maid. By Miss Mulock 5C 225. Aurora Floyd. By M. E. Braddon.. 7, Harper's Library of Select Novels. PKIOE ~226. Barrington. By Lever $75 227. Sylvia's Lovers.' ByMrs. Gaskell.... 75 228. A First Friendship 50 -^a. A Dark Night's Work. By Mrs. Gaskell 50 Countess Gisella. By E. Marlitt 25 St. Olave's 75 A Point of Honor 50 23^ Live it Down. ByJeaffreson 1 00 Martin Bole. By Saunders 50 J3;gJ Mary Lyndsay. By Lady Bonsonby. 50 .23G. Eleanor's Victory. By M.'E. Braddon 75 237. Rachel Kay. By TroUope 50 -2Zi). John ]\Iarchmont's Legacy. By M. y—^ E. Braddon 75 re3^ Annie Warleigh's Fortunes. By ^^ Holme Lee 75 ;^^ The Wife's Evidence. By Wills 50 ■-Sk* Barbara's History. By Amelia B. Edwards 75 242. Cousin Phillis 25 24*. What Will He Do With It ? By Bul- .1, wer 1 50 ■:^20 The Ladder of Life. By Amelia B. Edwards 50 -2f5. Denis Duval. By Thackeray 50 Maurice Dering. By Geo. Lawrence 50 Margaret Denzil's History 75 Quite Alone. By George Augustus Sala 75 Mattie : a Stray 75 ^'oO^' Mv Brother's 'Wife. By Amelia B. ^-*"" Edwards 50 "T&X. Uncle Silas. ByJ. S. LeFanu 75 3&S. Lovel the Widower. By Thackeray. . 25 ^53. I\Iiss Mackenzie. By Anthony Trol- lope 50 _;gg:^ On Guard. By Annie Thomas 50 { 2^^ Theo Leigh. By Annie Thomas 50 8w*. Denis Doone. By Annie Thomas. ... 50 257. Belial 50 258. Carrv's Confession 75; -g5^ Miss" Carew. By Amelia B. Ed- wards 50 -S«dr Hand and Glove. By Amelia B. Ed- wards 50 26L GuyDeverell. By J. S. Le Fanu.... 50 *4J^. Half a Million of Money. By Amelia B. Edwards 75 253. The Belton Estate. By Anthony Trollope 50 -2fii. Agnes. By Mrs. Oliphant 75 "88s» Walter Goring. By Annie Thomas.. 75 S66-. Maxwell Drewitt. By Mrs. J. H. Bidden 7.-, "iOT^ TheToilersof theSea. By Victor Hugo 75 aee. I\Iis3 Marjoribanks. By Mrs. Olip- " hant 50 /2C^ True History of a Little Ragamuffin. ^— -^ By James Greenwood 50 <^?0> Gilbert Rugge. By the Author of "A First F"riendship " 1 00 -dft; Sans Merci. Bv Geo. Lawrence 50 «^ Fhemie Keller. By^Irs. J. H. Riddell 50 ?T3? Land at Last. By Edmund Yates.... 50 -af^rFelix Holt, the Radical. By George ^^..— ^ Eliot 75 (27^ Bound to the Wheel. By John Saun- ders 75 27G. All in the Dark. By J. S. Le Fanu. 50 ,^i?7 Kissing the Rod. ^^ Edmund Yates 75 psf^he Race for Wealth. By Mrs. J. H. ,.^A Riddell $ 75 ^79, Lizzie Lorton of Greyrigg. By Mrs. Linton 75 "280. The Beauclercs, Father and Son. Bv C. Clarke .'. 50 -^S\. Sir Brook Fossbrooke. By Charles Lever 50 ?85. Madonna Mary. Bv Mrs. Oliphant . 50 2»5. Cradock NoweU. J3y R. D. Black- more 75 2M. Bernthal. From the German of L. Miihlbach 50 285. Rachel's Secret 75 24>€. The Claverings. By Anthony Trol- lope 50 a§7. The Village on the Clitf. By Miss Thackeray 25 e#»« Played Out. By Annie Thomas 75 2§:3^ Black Sheep. By Edmund Yates 50 '290.^Sowing the Wind. By E. Lynn "-^" Linton 50 291. Nora and Archibald Lee 50 22^ Raymond's Heroine £0 '^93^')]Mr' Wynyard's Ward. By Holme —'" Lee 50 -2^4'.' Alec Forbes. By George Macdonald 75 2'Ojyi No ]Man's I'riend. By 1\ W. Robin- son 75 296^. Called to Account. By Annie Thomas 50 "297. Caste 50 20'5; The Curate's Discipline. By IMrs. ._^ Eiloart 50 j?90. Circe. By Babington White 50 3Q0^ The Tenants of JMalory. By J. S. Le ^ Fanu ■ 50 ^0^ Carl von's Year. By James Payn 25 Sm. The Waterdale Neighbors 50 303. Mabel's Progress .'■>0 304'. Guild Court. By Geo. Macdonald... 50 30^., The Brothers' Bet. By Miss Carlen. 25 oOij. Playing for High Stakes. By Annie Thomas. Hhistrated 25 3QJL Margaret's Engagement 50 SbS; One of the Family. By James Payn. 25 309. I'ive Hundred Pounds Reward. By ^ a Barrister 50 310. Brownlows. By Mrs. Oliphant 38 311. Charlotte's Inheritance. Sequel to "Birds of Prey." By Miss Braddon 50 312. Jeanie's Quiet Life. By the Author of "St. Olave's" 50 313. Poor Humanity. By i". W. Robinson 50 311:. Brakespeare. By Geo. Lawrence 50 315.^ A Lost Name. By J. S. Le Fanu. ... 50 3 1 G.} Love or IMarriagc ? By W. ]51ack. ... 50 317. Dead- Sea Fmit. By Miss Braddon. Illustrated 50 318. The Dower House. By Annie Thomas 50 3 Id." The Bramleighs of Bishop's Folly. By Lever 50 320. Mildred. By Georgiana M. Craik.... 50 321. Nature's Nobleman. By tne Author of "Rachel's Secret" 50 322^ Kathleen. By the Author of "Ray- mond's Heroine" 50 323. That Boy of Norcott's. By Charles Lever 25 324. In Silk Attire. By W. Black 50 325. Hetty. By Henry Kingsley 25 32G> False Colors. Bv Annie Thomas 60 Harpers Library of Select Novels. PBIOS .327^Mcta's Fnith. Bv the Author of " St. oiiivc"s" ; $ no *N*r l\)iiiul Dead. IJy James ravn .00 jSatr Wrecked ill I'ovt. ' IJy Kdmuiid Yates 50 (^^^'Y\\^ .Minister's Wife." By Mrs. Oli- -^ lih:uU 75 S3U-'A Hc'jgar on Horseback. By James rayu 35 Kitty. By M. Bctham Edwards 50 3jliJl Only Herself. By Annie Thomas .... 50 llircll. By John ijauiiders 50 >Under Foot. By Alton Clyde 50 jG?\fSo Buns the World Away. By Mrs. ^ A. (.'. i?teele .'. 50 (3i}7. Batlled. By Julia Goddard 75 ,3^. Beneath the' Wheels 50 f'33^. Stern Necessity. By F. W. Robinson 50 !]Jpi9. Gwendoline's Harvest. By James Pavn 25 Si+t Kilnieny. By William Black 50 .aJ^. Jolin: A Love Story. By Mrs. Oli- phaut 50 313. True to Herself. By F. W. Kobinson 50 311. Veronica. By the Author of '"Ma- bel's Progress" 50 315. A Dangerous Guest. By the Author of "Gilbert Uugge" 50 3-i6-.-- Estelle Russell 75 347. The Heir Expectant. By the Author "".', of " Raymond's Heroine " 50 _3iS.' Which is'the Heroine ^ 50 •*Aft. The Vivian Romance. By Mortimer Collins m 350. In Duty Bound. Blustrated 50 14WT. The Warden and Barchester Towers. By A. TroUope 75 -3i5tJ'. From Thistles — Grapes? By Mrs. Kiloart 50 353. A Siren. By T. A. Trollope 50 183^. ^^ir Harry Hotspur of Hijmblethwaite. ^,^. By Antiiony Trollope. Blustrated.".. 50 ''T(^55y Earl's Dene. By R. E. Francillon.... 50 35G. Daisy Nichol. By Lady Hardy 50 357. Bred in the Bone. By James Payn.. 50 358. Fenton's Quest. By Miss Braddon. Illustrated 50 359. Monarch of Mincing - Lane. By W. Black. Illustr.ated 50 3G0. A Life's Assize. By Mrs. J. H. Rid- dell 50 3!ii»> Anteros. By the Author of " Guy Livingstone" 50 3G2. Her Lord and Master. By Mrs. Ross Church .50 303. Won— Not Wooed. Bv James Pavn 50 3C4. For Lack of Gold. ByChas. Gibbon 50 3G5. Anne Furness 75 3(;G. A D.iughter of Heth. By W. Black. .'50 3C7. Durnton Abbey. By T. A. Trollope. 50 3G8. Joshua Marvel. By B. L. Farjeon... 40 3G9. Levels of Arden. By M. E. Braddon. Illustrated 75 370. Fair to See. By L. W. M. Lockhart. 75 371. Cecil's Trvst. Bv James Pavn 50 372. Patty. By Katharine S. Macquoid...^ 50 373. Maud Mohan. By Annie Thomas.... 25 374. Grif. By B. L. Farjeon 40 375. A Bridge of Glass. By F.W. Robinson 50 3r<»r'A-tbcrt Lunel. By Lord Brougham.. 75 377. A Good Investment. By William Fliigg 50 378. A Golden Sorrow. By Mrs. Cashel Hoey .50 370. Ombra. By Mrs. Oliphant 75 380. Hope Deferred. By Eliza F. Pollard 60 38L The Maid of Sker. By R. D. Black- more 75 382. For the King. By Charles Gibbon... 50 383. A Girl's Romance, and Other Tales. ByJ'. W. Robinson 50 384. Dr." Wainwright's Patient. By Ed- mund Yates 50 385. A Passion in Tatters. By Annie Thomas 75 3SG. A Woman's Vengeance. By James P.-iyn 50 387. The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. By William Black 75 388. To the Bitter End. By Miss M. E. Braddon 7.5 3S0. Robin Gray. Bv Charles Gibbon 50 S^'^^i-erwiolphin.' Bv'Bulwer 50 391. Leila. By Bufwer 50 392r-K«Helm Chillingly. By Lord Lytton. 75 393. The Hour and the Slan. By Ilariiet Martineau 50 394. Murphy's Master. By James Paj-n... 25 395. The 2\ew JMagdalen. By Wilkie Col- lins 50 39G. " 'He Cometh Not,' She Said." By Annie Thomas 50 1 397. Innocent. By Mrs. Oliphant. Illus- trated 75 398. Too Soon. By Mrs. Macquoid 50 399. Strangers and Pilgrims. By Miss Braddon 75 400. A Simpleton. By Charles Reade 50 401. The Two Widows. By Annie Thomas 50 402. Joseph the Jew 50 403. Her Face was Her Fortune. By F. W. Robinson .TO 404. A Princess of Thule. By W. Black. 75 405. Lottie Darling. By J. C. Jcaft'reson. 75 40G. The Blue Ribbon. By the Author of "St. Olave's" 50 407. Harry Heathcote of Gangoil. By An- thony Trollope 25 408. Publicans and Sinners. By Miss M. E. Braddon 75 409. Colonel Dacre. By the Author of "Caste" 50 410. Through Fire and Water. By Fred- erick Talbot 25 411. Lady Anna. By Anthony Trol- lope 50 412. Taken at the Flood. By Miss Brad- don IT) 413. At Her Mercy. By James Payn 50 C^=° II.\RPER & Brothers will send their works by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, on receipt of the price. '1 CAN UE NOT.il.Nt; TO \0V, UEOAlSi; Ol' I'AIW'S UISGIUCE."— [bEE I'AGE 2*1.] THE LAST CHEONICLE OF B A E S E T. BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE, AUTHOR OF' 'THE CLAVEEINGS," "CAN YOU FOEGIVE HER?" "THE SMALL HOUSE AT ALLIXGTON, "DOCTOR THORNE," "ORLEY FARM," &c., &c. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY GEORGE H. THOMAS. NEW YOKE: HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE. 18 74. A H ANTHONY TROLLOPE'S WORKS. yiT. Trollopc's chnractora arc drawn with an outline firm, bold, strong, ore T^ry licou. — IJodton CvnffnjativnalUl. ;iJc--thru3t3 at some of tbo lies whicb pasa current in aociety nnOWN", JONES, and ROISINSON. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents, CAN YOU FOUGIVE HER! Illustrations. 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THE GOLDEN LION OF GRANPERE. Illustrations. Svo, Paper, 75 cents; Cloth, *1 25. THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. Illustrations. Svo, Cloth^ 42 00 ; Paper, |I 60. THE SMALL HOUSE AT ALLINGTON. Illostrations. Svo, Cloth, $2 00 ; Paper, $1 50. THE THREE CLERKS. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. THE VICAR OF BULLHAMPTON. Illustrations. Svo, Cloth, *1 75 ; Paper, i^ 25. THE WARDEN AND BARCHESTER TOWERS. Complete in One Volume. Svo, Paper, 76 cents. WEST INDIES AND THE SPANISH MAIN. ISrao, Cloth, $1 60. Published hy HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. C^" Sent ly mail, i^ostajc prepaid, to aivj part 0/ the United Utatcs, on receipt of the price. p, THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. CHAPTER I. HOW DID HE GET IT? "IcAN never bringmyself to believe it, John," ^ said Mary Walker, the pretty daughter of Mr. ' George Walker, attorney of Silverbridge. Walk- er and Winthrop was the name of the firm, and they were respectable people, who did all the solicitors' business that had to be done in that part of Barsetshire on behalf of the Crown, were employed on the local business of the Duke of Omnium, who is great in those parts, and alto- gether held their heads up high, as provincial lawyers often do. They — the Walkers — lived in a great brick house in the middle of the town, gave dinners, to which the county gentlemen not unfrcquently condescended to come, and in a mild way led the fashion in Silverbridge. "I can never bring myself to believe it, John," said Miss Walker. " You'll have to bring yourself to believe it," said John, without taking his eyes from his book. "A clergyman — and such a clergyman, too ! " "I don't see that that has any thing to do with it." And as he now spoke John did take Tiis eyes oft' his book. "Why should not a ', clergyman turn thief as well as any body else ? You girls always seem to forget that clergymen are only men after all." "Their conduct is likely to be better than that of other men, I think." "I deny it utterly," said John Walker. "I'll undertake to say that at this moment there are more clergymen in debt in Barsetshire than there are either lawyers or doctors. This man has always been in debt. Since he has been in the county I don't think he has ever been able to show his face in the High Street of Silver- bridge." "John, that is saying more than you have a right to say," said Mrs. Walker. "Why, mother, this very check was given to a butcher who had threatened a few days before to post bills all about the county, giving an ac- count of the debt that was due to him, if the money was not paid at once." "More shame for Mr. Fletcher," said Mary. "He has made a fortune as butcher in Silver- bridge." " What has that to do with it? Of course a man likes to have his money. He had written three times to the bishop, and he had sent a man over to Hogglestock to get his little bill settled six days running. Yon see he got it at last. Of course a tradesman must look for his njoney." "Mamma, do you think that Mr. Crawley stole the check ?" Mary, as she asked the ques- tion, came and stood over her mother, looking at her with anxious eyes. "I would rather give no opinion, my dear." " But you must think something when every body is talking about it, mamma." "Of course my mother thinks he did," said John, going back to his book. " It is impossi- ble that she should think otherwise." "That is not fair, John," said Mrs. Walker; "and I won't h.ive you fabricate thoughts for me, or put the expression of them into my mouth. The whole affair is very painful, and as your father is engaged in the inquiry I think that the less said about the matter in this house the better. I am sure that that would be your father's feeling." " Of course I should say nothing about it be- fore him," said Mary. "I know that papa does not wish to have it talked about. But how is one to help thinking about such a thing? It would be so terrible for all of us who belong to the Church." " I do not see that at all, " said John. " Mr. Crawley is not more than any other man just 10 Tyi; LAST CHRONICr.E OF BARSET. because he's i\ elcr^'yiu;in. I linlGAll tliat kipJ of ilap-tra]). There nro a lot of people here in Silverliritlye who think the matter shotiKln't he fullowed up. just heeause the man is in a ])osi- tion which makes the crime more criminal in him tluin it wouKl he in anotlier." "IJnt I feel sure that ^Ir. (.'rawley has com- mitted no crime at all," said Mary. " My dear," said Mrs. Walker, " I have just said that I would rather yon would not talk about it. Tapa will he in directly." "I won't, mamma; only — " " Only I yes ; just only !" said John. "She'd po on till dinner if any one would stay to hear her." '' You've said twice as much as I have, John." But John had left tiio room before his sister's last words could reach him. "You know, mamma, it is quite impossible not to help thinking of it," said Mary. " I dare say it is, my dear." "And when one knows the people it does make it so dreadful." "But do you know them? I never spoke to Mr. Crawley in my life, and I do not think I ever saw her." "I knew Grace very well — when she used to come first to ^liss Prettyman's school." "Poor girl ! I pity her." " Pity her ! Pity is no word for it, mamma. My heart bleeds for them. And yet I do not believe for a moment that he stole the check. How can it be possible? For though he may have been in debt because they have been so very, very poor, yet we all know that he has been an excellent clergyman. When the Ro- bartsos were dining hero last I heard Mrs. Ro- barts say that for piety and devotion to his du- ties she had hardly ever seen any one equal to him. And the Robartses know more of them than any body." "They say that the dean is his great friend." " What a pity it is that the Arabins should be away just now when he is in such trouble!" And in this way the mother and daughter went on discussing the question of the clergyman's guilt in spite of Mrs. Walker's previously ex- pressed desire that nothing more might be said about it. But Mrs. Walker, like many other mothers, was apt to be more free in converse with her daughter than she was with her son. While they were thus talking the father came in from his office, and then the subject was dropjjcd. Ho was a man between fifty and sixty years of age, with gray hair, rather short, and somewhat corpulent, hut still gifted with that amount of personal comeliness which comforta- ble position and the respect of others will gen- erally seem to give. A man rarely c.irries him- self meanly whom the world holds high in es- teem. " I am very tired, my dear, " said Jlr. Walker. "You look tired. Come and sit down for a fjw minutes before you dress. Mary, get your Aither's slippers." Mary instantly ran to the door. . , i' Thanks, my darling," said the father. A then he whispered to his wife, as soon as Maiy was out of hearing, "I fear that unfortunate anan is guilty. I fear he is I I fear he is !" "Oh, Heavens ! what will become of them ?" " What, indeed ? She has been with me to- day." "Has she? And what could you say to her?" " I told her at first that I could not see her, and begged her not to speak to me about it. I tried to make her understand that she should go to some one else. But it was of no use." "And how did it end?" " I a.sked her to go in to you, but she declined. She said you could do nothing for her." "And docs she tliink her husband guilty?" "No indeed. She think him guilty! No- thing on earth — or from he.iven either, as I take it — would make her sujipose it to be possi- ble. She came to nic simply to tell me how good he was." " I love her for that," said Mrs. Walker. " So did I. But what is the good of loving her? Thank you, dearest. I'll get your slip- pers for you some day, perhaps." The whole county was astir in this matter of this alleged guilt of the Reverend Josiah Craw- ley — the whole county, almost as keenly as the family of Mr. Walker, of Silverbridge. The crime laid to his charge was the theft of a check for twenty pounds, which he was said to have stolen out of a j)ocket-book left or droj)ped in his house, and to have passed as money into the hands of one Fletcher, a butcher of Silver- bridge, to whom he was indebted. Mr. Craw- ley was in those days the perpetual curate of Ilogglestock, a parish in the northern extremity of East Barsetshire ; a man known by all who knew any thing of him to be very poor — an un- happy, moody, disappointed man, upon whom the troubles of the world always seemed to come with a double weight. But he had ever been respected as a clergyman since his old fiiend Mr. Arabin, the dean-of Barehester, had given him the small incumbency which he now held. Though moody, unhappy, and disappointed, he was a hard-working, conscientious pastor among the poor people w^ith whom his lot was cast; for in the parish of Hogglcstock there resided only a few farmers higher in degree than field labor- ers, brickmakcrs, and such Hke. ]Mr. Crawley had now passed some ten years of his life at Ilogglestock ; and during those years he had worked very hard to do his duty, struggling to teach the peojile around him perhaps too much of the mystery, but something also of the com- fort, of religion. That he had become popular in his parish can not be said of him. He was not a man to make himself popular in any posi- tion. I have said that he was moody and disap- pointed. He was even worse than this ; ho was morose, sometimes almost to insanity. There had been days in which even his wife had found it impossible to deal with him otherwise than as with an acknowledged lunatic. And this was THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 11 known among the farmers, who talked about their clergyman among themselves as though he were a madman. But among tlie very poor, among the brickmakers of Iloggle End — a law- ' less, drunken, terribly rough lot of humanity — he was held in higli respect ; for they knew that he lived hardly, as they lived ; that he worked hard, as they worked ; and that the outside world was hard to him, as it was to them ; and there had been an apparent sincerity of godliness about the man, and a manifest struggle to do his duty in spite of the world's ill-usage, which had won its way even with the rough ; so that Mr. Crawley's name had stood high with many in his parish, in spite of the unfortunate peculiarity of his disposition. This was the man who was now accused of stealing a check for twenty pounds. But before the circumstances of the alleged theft are stated a word or two must be said as to Mr. Crawley's family. It is declared that a good wife is a crown to her husband, but JNIrs. Crawley had been much more than a crown to ' him. As had regarded all the inner life of the man — all that portion of his life which had not been passed in the pulpit or in pastoral teaching — she had been crown, throne, and sceptre all in one. That she had endured with him and on his behalf the miseries of poverty and the troubles of a life which had known no smiles, is perhaps not to be alleged as much to her honor. She had joined herself to him for better or worse, .and it was her manifest duty to bear such things ; wives always have to bear them, knowing when they marry that they must take their chance. Mr. Crawley might have been a bishop, and Mrs. Crawley, when she married him, perhaps thought it probable that such would be his for- tune. Instead of that he was now, just as he was approaching his fiftieth year, a perpetual ! curate, witli an income of one hundred and thirty pounds per annum — and a family. That had been Mrs. Crawley's luck in life, and of course she bore it. But she had also done much more than this. She had striven hard to be con- tented, or, rather, to appeartobe contented, when he had been most wretched and most moody. She had struggled to conceal from him her own conviction as to his half insanity, treating him at the same time with the respect due to an hon- ored father of a family, and with the careful measured indulgence fit for a sick and wayward child. In all the terrible troubles of their life her courage had been higher than his. The metal of which she was made had been temper- ed to a steel which was vety rare and fine, but the rareness and fineness of which he had failed to appreciate. He had often told her that she was without pride, because she had stooped to receive from others, on his behalf and on be- half of her children, things which were very needful, but which she could not buy. He had told her that she was a beggar, and tliat it was better to starve than to beg. She had borne the rebuke without a word in reply, and had then begged again for him, and had endured the starvation herself. Nothing in their poverty had, for years past, been a shame to her ; but every accident of their poverty was still, and ever had been, a living disgrace to him. They had had many children, and three were still alive. Of the eldest, Grace Crawley, we shall liear much in tlie coming stoiy. She was at this time nineteen years old, and there were those who said that, in si)ite of her poverty, her shabby outward apparel, and a certain thin, un- fledged, unrounded form of person, a want of fullness in the lines of her figure, she was the prettiest girl in that part of the world. She was living now at a school in Silverbridge, where for the last year she had been a teacher ; and there were many in Silverbridge who declared that very briglit prospects were opening to her — that young jNIajor Grantly of Cosby Lodge, who, thougli a widower with a young child, was the cynosure of all female eyes in and round Silver- bridge, had found beauty in her thin face, and that Grace Crawdey's fortune was made in the teeth, as it were, of the prevailing ill-fortune of her family. Bob Crawley, who was two years younger, was now at Marlbro' School, from whence it was intended that he should proceed to Cambridge, and be educated there at the ex- pense of his godfather, Dean Arabin. In this also the Avorld saw a stroke of good luck. But then nothing was lucky to Mr. Crawley. Bob, indeed, who had done very well at school, might do well at Cambridge — might do great things there. But Mr. Crawley would almost have preferred that the boy should work in the fields, than tliat he should be educated in a manner so manifestly eleemosynary. And then his clothes! How was he to be provided with clothes fit either for school or for college? But the dean and Mrs. Crawley between them managed this, leaving Mr. Crawley very much in the dark, as Mrs. Crawley was in the habit of leaving him. Then there was a younger daughter, Jane, still at home, who passed her life between her mo- ther's work-table and her father's Greek, mend- ing linen and learning to scan iambics — for j\Ir. Crawley in his early days had been a ripe scholar. And now there had come upon them all this terribly-crushing disaster. That poor Mr. Craw- ley had gradually got himself into a mess of debt at Silverbridge, from which he was quite unable to extricate himself, was generally known by all the world both of Silverbridge and Hogglestock. To a great many it was known that Dean Ara- bin had paid money for. him, very much con- trary to his own consent, and that he had quar- reled, or attempted to quarrel, with the dean in consequence — had so attempted, although the money had in part passed through his own hands. There had been one creditor, Fletcher, the butcher of Silverbridge, who had of late been specially hard upon poor Crawley. This man, who had not been without good nature in his dealings, had heard stories of the dean's good- will and such like, and had loudly expressed his opinion that the perpetual curate of Hog- 12 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. plcstock would show a higher pride in allowing liiinself to be indebted to a rieli brother clcrgy- i;i:in, than in remaining under thrall to a buttli- er. And tluis a rumor had grown up. And then the butcher had written rejjcated letters to the bishoi> — to Bishdj) rroudie of Barehester, who hail at first caused his chaplain to answer tlieni, and had told Mr. Crawley somewhat roundly what was his opinion of a clergyman who ate meat and did not pay for it. But no- thing that tiic bishop could say or do enabled Mr. Crawley to pay the butcher. It was very grievous to such a man as Mr. Crawley to re- ceive these letters from such a man as Bishop I'roudic ; but the letters came, and made fester- ing wounds, but then there was an end of them. And at last there had come forth from the butcher's shop a threat that if the money were not paid by a certain date printed bills should be posted about the county. All who heard of this in Silverbridgc were very angry with Mr. Fletcher, for no one there had ever known a tradesman to take such a step before ; but Fletcher swore that he would persevere, and defended himself by showing that six or seven months since, in the S])ring of the year, Mr. Crawley had been paying money in Silver- bridge, but had paid none to him — to him who had been not only his earliest, but his most en- during creditor. " He got money from the dean in March," said Mr. Fletcher to Mr. Walk- er, "and he paid twelve pounds ten to Green, and seventeen pounds to Grobury, the baker." It was that seventeen pounds to Grobury, the baker, for flour, which made the butcher so fix- edly determined to smite the poor clergyman hip and thigh. "And he paid money to Hall, and to Mrs. Holt, and to a deal more ; but he never came near my shop. If he had even shown himself, I would not have said so much about it." And then a day before the date named Mrs. Crawley had come to Silverbridge, and had paid the butcher twenty pounds in four five- pound notes. So for Fletcher the butcher had been successful. Some six weeks after this inquiry began to be made as to a certain check for twenty pounds drawn by Lord Lufton on his bankers in Lon- don, which check had been lost early in the spring by Mr. Soames, Lord Lufton's man of business in Barsetshire, together with a pocket- book in which it had been folded. This pock- et-book Soames had believed himself to have left at jNIr. Crawley's house, and had gone so far, even at the time of the loss, as to express his absolute conviction that he had so left it. He was in the habit of paying a rent-charge to Mr. Crawley on behalf of Lord Lufton, amount- ing to twenty pounds four shillings, every half year. Lord Lufton held the large tithes of Hogglestock, and paid annually a sum of forty pounds eight shillings to the incumbent. This amount was, as a rule, remitted punctually by Mr. Soames through the post. On the occasion now spoken of, he had had some reason for vis- iting Hogglestock, and had paid the money per- sonally to Mr. Crawley. Of so much there was no doubt. But he had paid it by a check drawn i)y himself on his own bankers at Barchcster, and that check had been cashed in the ordina- ry way on the next morning. On returning to his own house in Barchcster he had missed his pocket-book, and had written to Mr. Crawley to make inquiry. There had been no money in it beyond the check drawn by Lord Lufton for twenty pounds. Mr. Crawley had answered this letter by another, saying that no ])ocket- book had been found in his house. All this had ha])j)cned in Alarch. In October, Mrs. Crawley paid the twen- ty jjounds to Fletcher, the butcher, and in No- vember Lord Lufion's clieck was traced back through the Barchcster bank to Mr. Crawley's hands. A brickmakcr of Hoggle End, much ^favored by Mr. Crawley, had asked for change over the counter of this Barchcster bank — not, as will be understood, the bank on which l]ic check was drawn — and had received it. The accommodation had been refused to the man at first, but when he presented the check the second day, bearing Mr. Crawley's name on the back of it, together with a note from Mr. Crawley him- self, the money had been given for it ; and the identical notes so paid had been given to Fletcher, the butcher, on the next day by jNIrs. Crawley. When inquiry was made, Mr. Craw- ley stated that the check had been paid to him by Mr. Soames, on behalf of the rent-ciiarge due to him by Lord Lufton. But the error of 'this statement was at once made manifest. There was the check, signed by Mr. Soames himself, for the exact amount — twenty pounds four shillings. As he himself declared, he had never in his life paid money on behalf of Lord Lufton by a check drawn by his lordship. The check given by Lord Lufton, and which had been lost, had been a private matter between them. His lordship had simply wanted change in his pocket, and his agent had given it to him. Mr. Crawley was speedily shown to be altogeth- er wrong in the statement made to account for possession of the check. Then he became very moody and would say nothing further. But his wife, who had known nothing of his first statement when made, came forward and declared that she believed the check for twenty pounds to be a part of a present given by Dean Arabia to her husband in April last. There had been, she said, great heart-burnings about this gift, and she had hardly dared to speak to her husband on the subject. An ex- ecution had been threatened in the house by Grobury, the baker, of which the dean had heard. Tiien there had been some scenes at the deanery between her husband and the dean and ^Irs. Arabin, as to which she had subse- quently heard much from Mrs. Arabin, Mrs. Arabin had told her that money had been given — and at last taken. Indeed, so much had been very apparent, as bills had been paid to the amount of at least fifty pounds. When the threat made by the butcher had reached her tHE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 13 Mr.. AND MRS. CKAWI.EY. husband's ears, the effect upon Iiim had been very grievous. All this was the stoiy tokl by Mrs. Crawley to iNIr. Walker, tlie lawyer, when lie was pushing his inquiries. She, poor wo- man, at any rate told all that she knew. Her husbard h.ad told her one morning, when the butcher's threat was weighing heavily on his mind, speaking to her in such a humor that she found it impossible to cross-question him, that he had still money left, though it was money which he had hoped that he would not be driven to use ; and he had given her the four five- pound notes, and had told her to go to Silver- bridge and satisfy the man who was so eager for his money. She had done so, and had felt no doubt that the money so forthcoming had been given by the dean. That was the story as told by Mrs. Crawley. But how could she explain her husband's statement as to the check, which had been shown to he altogether false? All this jiassed between ]Mr. Walker and Mrs. Crawley, and 14 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. tlni lawyer was very pontic witli her. In the lirst stages of tlie incjuiry lie had sinijily desircil to learn tlie truth, and idaoe the clergyman above susjiieion. Latterly, b^ing bound as he was to tollow the matter up ollieially, he would not have seen Mrs. C'rawley, liad he been alilc to escape that lady's iin])ortunity. " Mr. AValk- cr," slie had said, at last, "you do not know my husband. No one knows him but I. Itisliard to liave to tell you of all our troubles." "If I can less.'u them, trust nic that I will do so," said ilie lawyer. "No one, I tliink, can lessen them in this world," said the lady. "The truth is, Sir, that my husband often knows not what he says. AViicn he declared that the money had been paid to him by Mv. Soames, most certainly he thouglit so. Tlicre arc times when in his misery he knows not what he says — when he forgets every thing." Up to this period Mr. Walker had not sus- pected Mr. Crawley of any thing dishonest, "nor did he sus])ect him as yet. The ])oor man had jtrobably received the money from the dean, and had told the lie about it, not choosing to own that he had taken money from his rich friend, and tliinking that tlierc would be no further Inquiry. He had been very foolisii, and that would be the end of it. Jlr. Soames was by no means so good-natured in his belief. "How sliould my jiocket-book luivegotinto Dean Arabin'shands?" said Jlr. Soames, almost triumj'liantly. "And then I felt sure at the time that I had left it at Crawley's house!' 3Ir. Walker wrote a letter to tlic dean, who at that moment was in Florence on his way to Rome, from whence he was going on to the Holy Land. There came back a letter from ]\Ir. Arabin, saying that on t!ie 17th of March he had given to I\Ir. Crawley a sum of fifty ])0unds, and that the payment had been made with five Bank of England notes often pounds each, which had been handed by him to his friend in the library at the deanery. The letter was very short, and may, perhaps, be described as having been almost curt. Mr. Walker, in his anxiety to do the best he could for Mr. Crawley, had simply asked a question as to the nature of tlie transaction between the two gen- tlemen, saying that no doubt the dean's answer would clear u]) a little mystery which existed at present respecting a check for twenty pounds. The dean in answer simply stated the fact as it has been given above; but he wrote to Mr. Crawley begging to know what was in truth this new difficulty, and offering any assistance in his power. He explained all the circum- stances of tlie money, as he remembered them. The sum advanced had certainly consisted of (ifty pounds, and there had certainly been five Bank of England notes. He had put the notes/anco of Major Grantly of Cosby Lodge, 'before into an enveloj)e, which he had not closed, but in the Holy Land, and meet him in Italy on his return. As she was so much nearer at hand, the dean expressed a hope that Mrs. Crawley would ai)ply to her if there was any trouble. The letter to Mr. Walker was conclusive as to the dean's money. Mr. Crawley had not received Lord Lufton's check from the dean. Then whence had he received it? The poor wife was left by the lawyer to obtain further in- formation from her husband. Ah, who can tell how terrible were the scenes between that poor pair of wretches, as tiic wife endeavored to learn the trutli from her miserable, half- maddened husband! That her husband had been honest throughout she had not any shadow of doubt. She did not doubt that to her, at least, he en- deavored to tell the truth, as far as his j)oor racked imperfect memory would allow him to remember what was true, and what was not true. The upshot of it all was that the husband de- clared that he still believed that the money had come to him from the dean. lie had kept it by him, not wishing to use it if he conld help it. He had forgotten it, so he said at times, having understood from Arabin that he was to have fifty pounds, and having received more. If it had not come to him from the dean, then it had been sent to him by the Prince of Evil for his utter undoing; and there were times in which he seemed to think that such had been the man- ner in which the fatal check had reached him. In all that he said he was terribly confused, con- tradictory, unintelligible — speaking almost as a madman might speak — ending always ])y de- claring that the cruelty of the world had been too much for him, that the waters were meeting over his head, and praying for God's mercy to remove him from the world. It need hardly be said that his poor wife in these days had a bur- den on her shoulders that was more than enough to crush any woman. She at last acknowledged to Mr. Walker that 'she could not account for the twenty pounds. She herself would write again to the dean about it, but she hardly hoped for any further assist- ance there. " The dean's answer is very ])lain,'' said Mr. Walker. "He says that he gave Mr. Crawley five ten-pound notes, and those five notes we have traced to Mr. Crawley's hands." Then Mrs. C-'rawley could say imiliiiig further beyond making protestations of her husband's innocence. CHAPTER IL BY HEAVENS, HE HAD BETTER NOT ! I MUST ask the reader to make the hcquaint- he is introduced to the family of Mr. Crawley, had addressed to Mr. Crawley, and had placed i at their parsonage in Ilogglestock. It has been this envelope in his friend's hands. He went said that Major Grantly had thrown a favorable on to say that Mrs. Arabin would have written, but that she was in Paris with her son. IMrs. Arabia was to remain in Paris during his absence eye on Grace Crawley — by which report occa- sion was given to all men and women in those parts to hint that the Ciawleys, with all their THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. piety and Imniilit^v, were very cunninp:, and that one of tlie Graiitl ys was, to say the least of it, very soft, admitted as it was tlirougliout the county of Barsetshire that there was no family therein more widely awake to the affairs gen- erally of this world and the next combined than the family of which Archdeacon Grantly was the respected head and patriarch. Mrs. Walker, the most good-natured woman in Sil- vcrbridge, had acknowledged to her daughter that she could not understand it — that she could not see any thing at all in Grace Crawley, ilr. Walker had shrugged his shoulders and ex- pressed a confident belief that Major Grantly had not a shilling of his own beyond his half- pay and his late wife's fortune, which was only six thousand pounds. Others, who were ill- natured, had declared that Grace Crawley was little better than a beggar, and that she could not possibly have accpiired the manners of a gentlewoman. Fletcher, the butcher, had won- dered whether the major would pay his future father-in-law's debts ; and Dr. Tempest, the old rector of Silverbridge, whose four daughters were alh as yet unmarried, had turned up his old nose, and had hinted that half-pay majors did not get caught in marriage so easily as that. Such and such like liad been the expressions of the opinion of men and women in Silver- bridge. But the matter had been discussed further afield than at Silverbridge, and had been allowed to intrude itself as a most un- welcome subject into the family conclave of the archdeacon's rectory. To those who have not as yet learned the fact from the public charac- ter and well-appreciated reputation of the man, let it be known that Archdeacon Grantly was at this time, as he had been for many yeai-s pre- viously, Archdeacon of Barchester and Rector of Plumstead Episcojii. A rich and prosperous man he had ever been — though he also had had his sore troubles, as we all have — his having arisen chiefly from want of that higher ecclesi- astical jiromotion which his soul had coveted, and for which the whole tenor of his life had especially fitted him. Now, in his green old age, he had ceased to covet, but had not ceased to repine. He had ceased to covet aught for himself, but still coveted much for his children ; and for him such a marriage as this which was now suggested for his son was encompassed al- most with the bitterness of death. " t think it would kill me," he had said to his wife; "by Heavens, I think it would be my death !" A daugliter of the archdeacon had made a splendid matrimonial alliance — so splendid that its history was at the time known to all the aris- tocracy of the county, and had not been alto- gether forgotten by any of those who keep them- selves well instructed in tiie details of the peer- age. Griselda Grantly had married Lord Dum- bello, the eldest son of the Marquis of Hartletoji — than whom no Englisli nobleman was more puissant, if broad acres, many castles, high title, and stars and ribbons arc anv signs of puissance — and she was now herself Marchioness of Hartle- top, withalittle Lord Dumbello of herown. The daughter's visits to the parsonage of her father were of necessity rare, such necessity having come from her own altered sphere of life. A Mar- chioness of Hartletop has special duties which will hardly permit her to devote herself frequent- ly to the humdrum society of a clerical father and mother. That it would be so, father and mother had understood when they sent the for- tunate girl forth to a higher world. But now and again, since her august marriage, she had laid her coroneted head upon one of the old rec- tory pillows for a night or so, and. on such oc- casions all the Plumsteadians had been loud in praise of her condescension. Now it happened that when this second and more aggravated blast of the evil wind reached the rectory — the renew- ed waft of the tidings as to Major Grantly's in- fatuation regarding Miss Grace Crawley, which, on its renewal, seemed to bring with it some- thing of confirmation — it chanced, I say, that at that moment Griselda, Marchioness of Hartle- top, was gracing the paternal mansion. It need hardly be said that the father was not slow to invoke such a daughter's counsel and such a sister's aid. I am not quite sure that the mother would have been equally quick to ask her daughter's advice had she been left in the matter entirely to her own propensities. Mrs. Grantly had ever loved her daughter dearly, and had been very proud of that great success in life which Griselda had achieved ; but in late years the child had become, as a woman, separate from the mother, and there had arisen, not unnaturally, a break of that close confidence which in early years had existed between them. Griselda, Marchioness of Hartletop, was more than ever a daughter to the archdeacon, even though he might never see her. Nothing could rob him of the honor of such a progeny — nothing, even though there had been actual estrangement between them. But it was not so with Mrs. Grantly. Griselda had done very well, and Mrs. Grantly had rejoiced ; but she had lost her child. Now the major, who had done well also, though in a much lesser de- gree, was still her child, moving in tiie same spliere of life witli lier, still dependent in a great degree upon his father's bounty, a neighbor in the county, a frequent visitor at the parsonage, and a visitor who could be received without any of that trouble which attended tiie unfrequent comings of Griselda, the marchioness, to the home of her youth. And for this reason Mrs. Grantly, terribly put out as she was at the idea of a marriage between her son and one standing so poorly in the world's esteem as Grace Craw- ley, would not have brought forward the matter before her daughter had she been left to her own desires. A marchioness in one's family is a tower of strength, no doubt ; but tlierc are counselors so strong that we do not wish to trust them, lest in the trusting we ourselves be over- whelmed by their strength. Now Mrs. Grantly was by no means willing to throw her influence into the hands of her titled daughter. IG THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. But the titloil ilnughter was consulted and gave her advice. ( )ii tlio oecjision of the i)resLMit visit to I'hunstcnd she had consented to lay her head for two nij;hts on the par.sonn<;o jjillows, and on the second evening her hrothcr, the nia- ji)r, was to come over from Coshy Lodjje to meet her. Before hi.s coniin;^ the all'air of Grace Crawley was discussed. "It would hreak my heart, Griselda," said the archdeacon, piteously — "and your mother's." "There is nothing against the jjiirl's charac- ter," said Mrs. CJrantly, "and tlie father and mother are gentlefolks hy birth ; but such a mar- riage for Henry would he very unseemly." '•To make it worse, there is this terrible story about him," said the archdeacon. " I don't suj>i)osc tlierc is much in that," said Jlrs. Grantly. " I can't say. Tiiere is no knowing. They told me to-day in Barchcster that Soames is jiressiny; the case a;^ainst liim." "Who is Soaines, pajja?" asked the mar- chioness. " He is Lord Lufton's man of business, my dear." "O!), Lord Lufton'sman of businessi'' Tlicre ^'.■as sonietliing of a sneer in the tone of the lady's voice as sbc mentioned Lord Lufton's name. ' ' I am told," continued the archdeacon, " that Soames declares the check was taken from a pocket-book whicli he left by accident in Craw- ley's house." "You don't mean to say, archdeacon, that you think tliat Mr Crawley — a clergyman — stole it !" said iMrs. Grantly. " I don't say any tiling of the kind, my dear. Eat supposing Mv. Crawley to be as honest as the sun, you wouldn't wish Henry to marry his daughter." " Certainly not, "said the motlier. " It would le an unfitting marriage. The poor girl has had no advantages." " He is not able even to pay his baker's bill. I always tliought Arabin was very wrong to place such a man in such a parish as Hoggle- stock. Of course the family could not live there." The Arabin here spoken of was Dr. Arabin, dean of Barchcster. The dean and tlie archdeacon had married sisters, and there was much intimacy between the families. "After all it is only a rumor as yet," said JIrs Grantly. " Fothergill told mc only yesterday that he sees her almost every day," said the fatlier. "What are we to do, Griselda? You know how headstrong Henry is." The marchioness sat quite still, looking at the fire, and made no im- mediate answer to this address. "There is nothing for it but that you should tell him what you think," said the mother. " If his sister were to speak to him it might do much," said the archdeacon. To this iNIrs. Grantly said nothing; but Mrs. Grantly's daugh- ter understood very well that her mother's con- lidencc in her was not equal to her father's. Lady Ilartletop said nothing, but still sat, with impassive face, and eyes fixed upon the fire. " I think that if you were to speak to him, Gri- selda, and tell him that he would disgrace his family, he would be ashamed to go on with sucb a marriage," said tiic father. " He would feel, connected as he is with Lord Ilartletop — " "I don't think he would feel any thing about that," said JNIrs. Grantly. " I dare say not," said Lady Ilartletop. "I am sure he ought to feel it," said the fa- ther. They were all silent, and sat looking at the fire. " I su])pose, papa, you allow Henry an in- come," said Lady Hartletoj), after a while. ' " Indeed I do — eight hundred a year " "Then I think I should tell him that that must depend upon his conduct. INIamma, if you won't mind ringing the bell, I will send for . Cecile, and go xij) stairs and dress." Then the marchioness went up stairs to dress, and in about an hour the major arrived in his dog-cart. He also was allowed to go up st:iirs to dress be- fore any thing was said to him about his great offense. "Griselda is right," said the archdeacon, speaking to his wife out of his dressing-room. " She always was right. I never knew a young woman with more sense than Griselda." "But you do not mean to say that in any event you would stop Henry's income?" Mrs. Grantly also was dressing, and made reply out of her bedroom. " Upon my word, I don't know. As a father I would do atiy thing to jircvent such a mar- riage as that." " But if he did marry her in spite of the threat ? And he would if he had once said so." " Is a father's word, tiien, to go for nothing? and a father who allows his son eight hundred a year? If he told the girl that he would be ruined she couldn't hold him to it." " My dear, they'd know as well as I do that you would give way after three months." " But why should I give way ? Good Heav- ens — !" " Of course you'd give way, and of course we should have the young woman here, and of course we should make the best of it." The idea of having Grace Crawley as a daughter at the Plumstead Rectory was too much for the archdeacon, and he resented it by additional vehemence in the tone of his voice, and a nearer personal approach to the wife of his bosom. All unaccoutred as he was, he stood in the doorway between the two rooms, and thence fuliuinated at his wife his assur- ances that he would never allow himself to be immersed in such a depth of humility as that she had suggested. " I can tell you tliis, then, that if ever she comes here I shall take care to be away. I will never receive her here. You can do as you jilease." " Tliat is just what I can not do. If I could do as I pleased I would put a stop to it at oucc." THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 17 " It seems to me that you wnnt to enconrage liim. A child about sixteen years of age !" '•I am told she is nineteen." " What does it matter if she was fift^'-nine? Tliiiik of what her bringing np has been. Think what it woukl be to iiavc all the Crawleys in our house forever, and all their debts, and all their disgrace!" " I do not know that they have ever been disgraced." "You'll see. The whole county has heard of the affair of this twenty pounds. Look at that dear girl up stairs, who has been such a comfort to us. Do you think it would be fit that she and her husband should meet such a one as Grace Crawley at our table?" "I don't think it would do them n bit of harm," said Mrs. Grantly. "But there would be no chance of that, seeing that Griselda's hus- band never comes to us." " He was here the year before last." "And I never was so tired of a man in all my life." '■Then you prefer the Crawleys, I suppose. This is what you get from Eleanor's teaching." Eleanor was the dean's wife, and Rlrs. Grantly 's younger sister. " It has alwaj's been a sorrow to me that I ever brought Arabin into the dio- cese." " I never asked you to bring him, archdeacon. But nobody was so glad asyuu when he proposed to Eleanor." "Well, the long and the short of it is this, I shall tell Henry to-night that if he makes a fool of himself with this girl he must not look to me any longer for an income. He has about six' hundred a year of his own, and if he chooses to throw himself away he had better go and live in the south of France, or in Canada, or where he pleases. He sha'n't come here." "I hope he won't marry the girl, with all my heart," said Mrs. Grantly. "He had better not! By Heavens, he had better not!" "But if he docs you'll be the first to forgive him." On hearing this the archdeacon slammed the door and retired to his ^yashing ajjparatus. At the present moment he was very angry with his wife, but then he was so accustomed to such anger, and was so well aware that it in truth meant nothing, that it did not make him vm- liappy. The archdeacon and Mrs. Grantly had now been man and wife for more than a quarter of a century, and had never in trutli quarreled. He had the most profound res])eot for her judg- ment, and the most implicit reliance on her con- duct. She had never yet offended him, or caused him to repent the hour in wliicli he had made her ]\Irs. Grantly. But she had come to under- stand that she might use a woman's privilege with her tongue ; and slie nsed it — not altogether to his comfort. On the present occasion he was the more annoyed because he felt that she might be right. "It would be a positive disgrace, and I never would see him again," he said to him- self. And yet as he said it he knew that he would not have the strength of character to carry him thi'ough a jirolonged (juarrel with his son. " I never would see her — never, never !" he said to himself. "And then such an opening as he might have at his sister's house!" Major Grantly had been a successful man in life — with the one exception of having lost the mother of his child within a twelve-month of his marriage, and within a few hours of that child's birth. He had served in India as a very young man, and had been decorated with the Victoria Cross. Then he had married a lady witli some money, and had left the active service of the army with the concurring advice of his own family and that of his wife. He had taken a small ])lace in his father's county; but tlie wife for whose comfort he had taken it had died be- fore she was permitted to see it. Nevertheless he had gone to reside there, hunting a good deal and farming a little, making himself jojiular in the district, and keeping uj) the good name of Grantly in a successful way, till — alas! — it had seemed good to him to tlirnw those favoi-ing eyes on ])oor Grace Crawley. His wife had now been dead just two years, and as ho was still under thirty no one could deny it would be right that he should marry again. No one did deny it. His father had hinted that he ought to do so, and had generously whispered that if some little increase to the major's present income were needed, he might possibly be able to do some- thing. "What is the good of keeping it?" the archdeacon had said in liberal after-dinner warmth ; "I only want it for your brother and yourself." The brother was a clergyman. And the major's mother had strongly advised him to marry again ■without loss of time. ' ' My dear Henry," she had said, "you'll never be younger, and youth does go for something. As for dear little Edith, being a girl, she is almost no impediment. Do you know tbose two girls at Chaldicotcs?" "What, Mrs. Thome's nieces?" "No; tiiey are not her nieces, but her cous- ins. Emily Dunstable is very handsome : and as for money — 1 " "But what about birth, mother?" "One can't have c\ery thing, my dear." "As far as I am concerned, I should like to have every thing or nothing," the major had said, laughing. Now for him to think of Grace Crawley after that — of Grace Crawley, who had no money, and no particular birth, and not even beauty itself — so at least JMrs. Grantly said — w ho had not even enjoyed the ordinary education of a lady, was too bad. Nothing had been want- ing to Emily Dunstable's education, and it was calculated that she would have at least twenty thousand pounds on the day of her marriage. The disappointment to the mother would be the more sore because she had gone to work upon her little scheme with reference to Miss Emily Dunstable, and had at first, as she thought, seen her way to success — to success in spite of the disparaging Avords which her son had spoken 18 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. to her. Mrs. Thome's house at Clialdicotcs — or Dr. Thome's house as it sliould, jierluips, be more i^ropcrly callcil, for Dr. Tliorne was the liiiiband of Mrs. Tliorne — was in these days the jileasanicst hi)use in IJarsotsliire. No one saw so niucli {■onij)aiiy as the Thorncs, or spent so inui'h nuuiey in so i)Ieasant a way. Tiie great county families, tlie Tallisers and the De Cour- cys, the I..uftons and the Greshains, were no doubt grander, and sonic of them were perhaps riciier than tlie Clialdicotc Tiionies — as they ■were called to distinj^uish them from the Thornes of Ullathome ; but none of liiese })Cople were so ]ileasaut in their ways, so free in their hosjjital- ity, or so easj' in their modes of living as the doctor and his wife. "When lirst Ciialdicotes, a very old country scat, had by the chances of war fallen into their hands and been newly furnish- ed, and newly decorated, and newly gardened, and new lygrcen-houscd and hot-watered by them, many of the county jicojilc bad turned up their noses at tliem. Dear old Lady Lufton had done so, and had b:en greatly grieved — saying no- thing, however, of her grief, when her son and dauglitcr-in-law had broken a\\ay from her, and submitted themselves to the blandishments of the doctor's wife. And the Grantlys liad stood aloof, partly influenced, no doubt, by their dear and intimate old friend JMiss IMonica Thorne of Ullat borne, a lady of the very old school, who, though good as gold and kind as charity, could not endure that an interloping Mrs. Thorne, who never had a grandfather, should come to honor and glory in the county simply because of her riches. Miss Monica Thorne stood out, but Jlrs. Grantly gave wiiy, and having once given way found tliat Dr. Thorne, and Mrs. Thorne, and Emily Dunstable, and Chaldicote House together, were very charming. And the major had been once there with her, and had made himself very pleasant, and there had certainly been some little passage of incipient love between liim and Miss Dunstable, as to which Mrs. Thorne, who managed every thing, seemed to be well pleased. This had been after the first mention made by ]Mrs. Grantly to her son of Emily Dunstable's name, but before she had lieard any faintest wiiispers of his fancy for Grace Crawley; and she had therefore been justified in hoping — almost in expecting — that Emily Dunstable would be her danghter-in-law, and was tlierelbre the more aggrieved when this ter- rible Crawley peril fust opened itself before her eyes. CHAPTER in. THE archdeacon's TIIBEAT, The dinner-party at the rectory comprised none but the Grantly family. The marchioness had written to say that she preferred to have it 60. The father had suggested that the Thornes of Ullathorne, very old friends, might be asked, and the Greshams fiom Boxall Hill, and had even promised to endeavor to get old Lady Lufton over to the rectory. Lady Lufton having in former years been Griselda's warm friend. But Lady Hartletop had jircferred to see her dear father and mother in jjrivacy. Her brother Henry she would be glad to meet, and hoped to make some arrangement with him for a short visit to Har- tlebury, her husband's jilace in Shropshire — as to whicli latter hint, it may, however, be at once said, tiiat nothing further was spoken after the Crawley alliance had been suggested. And there had been a very sore point mooted by the daughter in a request made by her to her father that she might not be called ujion to meet her randfather, her mother's father, Mr. Harding, clergyman of Barcliestcr, who was now stricken in years. "I'apa would not have come," said Mrs. Grantly; "but I think — I do think — " Then she stojijied herself. "Your father has odd ways sometimes, my dear. You know how fond I am of lia\ ing liim here myself." "It docs not signify," said Mrs. Grantly. " Do not let us say any thing more about it. Of course we can not have every thing. I am told the child docs her duty in her sphere of life, and I suppose we ought to be contented." Then Mrs. Grantly went up to her own room, and there she cried. Nothing was said to the major on the unpleasant subject of the Crawleys before dinner. He met his sister in the drawing-room, and was allowed to kiss her noble cheek. " I hope Edith is well, Henry," said the sister. " Quite well ; and little Dumbello is the same, I hope?" " Thank you, j-es; quite well." Then there seemed to be nothing more to be said be- tween the two. The major never made inquiries after the august family, or would allow it to ap- pear that he was conscious of being shone upon by the wife of a marquis. Any adulation w hich Griselda received of that kind came from her father, and, therefore, unconsciously she had learned to think that her father was better bred than the otlier members of her family, and more fitted by nature to move in that sacred circle to which siie herself had been exalted. We need not dwell upon the dinner, which was but a dull affair. Mrs. Grantly strove to carry on the family party exactly as it would have been car- ried on had her daughter married the son of some neighboring squire; but she herself was conscious of the struggle, and the fact of there being a struggle produced failure. The rector's servants treated the daughter of the house with special awe, and the marchioness herself moved, and spoke, and ate, and drank with a cold mag- nificence, which I think had become a second nature with licr, but which was not on that ac- count the less ojipressive. Even the archdeacon, who enjoyed something in that which was so disagreeable to his wife, felt a relief when lie was left alone after dinner with his son. He felt relieved as his son got up to open the door for his mother and sister, but was aware at tlie same time that he had before him a most diffi- cult and possil)]y a most disastrous task. His dcjir sou Henry was not a man to bo talked THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 19 smootlily out of, or into, any propriety. He had a will of his own, and having hitherto been a successful man, who in youth had fallen into few youthful troubles — who had never justified his father in using stern parental authority — was not now inclined to bend his neck. " Henry," said the archdeacon, "what are yon drinking? That's Si port, but it's not just what it should be. SImll I send for another bottle?" " It will do for me, Sir. I shall only take a glass." I "I shall drink two or three glasses of claret. But you young fellows have become so despe- rately temi)erate." " We take our v,'ine at dinner. Sir." "By-the-by, how well Griselda is looking." "Yes, she is. It's always easy fur women ■to look well when they're rich." How would iGrace Crawley look, then, who was poor as pov- erty itself, and who should remain poor if his ison was fool enough to marry her ? That was !the train of thought which ran through the arch- fdeacon's mind. "I do not think much of rich- fcs," said he ; "but it is always well that a gen glestock. I knew that there could be nothing in it." "But there is something in it, Sir." "What is there in it? Do not keep me in suspense, Henry. What is it you mean ?" "It is rather hard to be cross-questioned in this way on such a subject. AVhcn you express yourself as thankful that there is notliing in the rumor I am forced to stop you, as otiierwise it is possible that hereafter you may say that I have deceived you." "But you don't mean to marry her?" "I certainly do not mean to pledge myself not to do so." "Do you mean to tell me, Henry, that you are in love with Miss Crawley ?" Then there was another pause, during which the archdeacon sat looking for an answer; but the major said never a word. " Am I to suppose that you in- tend to lower yourself by marrying a young wo- man who can not possibly have enjoyed any of the advantages of a lady's education ? 1 say nothing of the imprudence of the thing ; notliing of her own want of fortune ; nothing of your jtleman'swife or a gentleman's daughter should having to maintain a whole family steeped in have a sufficiency to maintain her position in | poverty ; nothing of the debts and character of life." 1 the fixther, upon whom, as I understand, at this "You may say the same, Sir, of every body's moment tliere rests a very grave suspicion of — wife and every body's daughter." "You know what I mean, Henry." "I am not quite sure that I do, Sir." "Perhaps I had better speak out at once. A rumor has reached your mother and me, which we don't believe for a moment, but which, nevertheless, makes us unhappy even as a re- port. They say that there is a young woman living in Silverbridge to whom you are becom- ing attached." "Is there any reason why I should not be- come attached to a young woman in Silver- bridge? — though I hope any young woman to whom I may become attached will be worthy at any rate of being called a young lady." "I hope so, Henrv ; I hope so. I do hope 150." "So much I will promise, Sir; but I will promise nothing more." The archdeacon looked across into his son's face, and his heart sank within him. His son's voice and his son's eyes seemed to tell him two things. They seemed to tell him, firstly, that the rumor about Grace Crawley was true ; and, secondly, that the major was resolved not to be talked out of his folly. " But you are not en- gaged to any one, are you ?" said the archdea- of — of — what I'm afraid I must call downright theft." " Downright theft, certainly, if he were guilty." "I say nothing of all that; but looking at the young woman herself — " " She is simply the best educated girl whom it has ever been my lot to meet." " Henry, I have a right to expect that you will be honest with me." "I am honest witli you." "Do you mean to ask this girl to marry you?" "I do not think that you have any right to ask me that question, Sir." "I have a right at any rate to tell you this, that if you so far dit^grace yourself and me, I shall consider myself bound to withdraw from you all the sanction which would be conveyed by my — my — my continued assistance." " Do you intend me to understand that you will stop my income?" " Certainly I should." "Then, Sir, I think you would behave to me most cruelly. You advised me to give up my profession." 'Not in order that you might marry Grace con. The son did not at first make any answer, i Crawley." and then the father repeated the question. "Con- 1 "I claim the privilege of a man of my age to sidering our mutual positions, Henry, I think do as I please in such a matter as marriage, you ought to tell me if you are engaged." I am not engaged. Had I become so I should liave taken the first opportunity of tell- ing either you or my mother." " Thank God 1 Now, my dear boy, I can speak out more ])lainly. The young woman whose name I have heard is daughter to that Mr. Crawley who is perpetual curate at IIo^ Miss Crawley is a lady. Her father is a clergy- man, as is mine. Her fatiier's oldest friend is my uncle. There is nothing on earth against her except her poverty. I do not think I ever hoard of such cruelty on a father's part." "Very well, Henry." "I have endeavored to do my duty by you, Sir, always ; and by my mother. You can treat 20 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. and of your cliild, and of us, before von take any great step in life." "I will, mother," said lie. Then he went out and jnit on his wrapper, and pot into his do};-cart, and drove liimsclf oil" to iSilverbridge. He had not spoken to his father since tliey were in tiic dining-room on the jirevious cvenint;. When he started the marchioness had not yet come down stairs ; but at eleven she breakfast- ed, and at twelve she also was taken away. Toor ]Mrs. Grantly had not had much comfort fiotu her children's visits. me in this way, if you please, but it will not | "Dear Henry," said the motlier to her son have any ctVcct on my conduct. You can stop , the next morning; "think much of yourself, my allowance tc.-morrow, if you like it. I had not as yet made u]) my mind to nuike an olVer to Miss Crawley, but 1 shall now do so to-mor- row morning." Tiiis was very bad indeed, and the archdea- con was extremely Hidiai)i)y. He was by no means at heart a cruel man. He loved his children dearly. If this disagreeable marriage were to take ])lace he would doubtless do ex- actly as his wife had predicted. He would not stop his sou's income for a single cpiarter; and, though he went on telling himself that he would stoj) it, he knew in his own heart tluit any such severity was beyond his power. He was a gen- erous man in money-matters — having a dislike for poverty which was not generous — and for his own sake could not have endured to sec a son of his in want. IJut he was terribly anx- ious to exercise the jiowcr which the use of the threat mi;;lit give him. " Henry," he said, "you arc treating me badly, very badly. My anxiety has always been for the welfare of my children. Do you tliink that Miss Crawley would be a fitting sister-in-law for that dear girl up stairs?" "Certainly I do, or for any other dear girl in the world ; excepting that Griselda, who is not clever, would hardly be able to appreciate Miss Crawley, who is clever." "Griselda not clever! Good Heavens!" Then there was another pause, and as tlie ma- jor said nothing, the father continued his en- treaties. "Pray, pray think of what my wishes are, and your mother's. You are not commit- ted as yet. Pray think of us while there is time. I would rather double your income if I saw j'ou marry any one that we could name here." "I have enough as it is, if I may only be al- lowed to know that it will not be caja-iciously withdrawn." The archdeacon filled his glass tinconsciously, and si])ped his wine, while he thought wliat further he might say. Perhaps it might be better that he should say nothing further at the present moment. The major, however, was indiscreet, and pushed the ques- tion. " May I understand, Sir, that your threat is witlidrawn, and that my income is secure ?" ." What, if you marry this girl ?" "Yes, Sir; will my income be continued to me if I marry Miss Crawley?" "No, it will not." Then the father got up hastily, pushed the decanter back angrily from his hand, and without saying another word walk- ed away into the drawing-room. That evening at the rectory was very gloomy. The archdea- con now and again said a word or two to his daughter, and his daughter answered him in monosyllables. The major sat apart moodily, and spoke to no one. Mrs. Grantly, under- standing well what had passed, knew that no- thing could be done at the present moment to restore family comfort ; so she sat by the fire and knitted. Exactly at ten they all went to bed. i>s^ CHAPTER IV. THE CLKEGY-MAN'S house at nOGGLESTOCIC. I\Ius. Cr.AWLEY had walked fi-om Iloggle- stock to Silvcrbridge on the occasion of her visit to Mr. Walker, the attorney, and had been kindly sent back by that gentleman in his wife's little open carriage. The tidings she brought home with her to her husband were very griev- ous. The magistrates would sit on the next Thursday — it was then Friday — and Mr. Craw- ley had better appear before them to answer the charge made by Mr. Soames. He would be served with a summons, which he could obey of his own accord. There had been many points very closely discussed between Walker and Mrs. Crawley, as to which there had been great diffi- culty in the choice of words which should bo tender enough in regard to the feelings of the poor lady, and yet strong enough to convey to her the very facts as they stood. Would Mr. Crawley come, or must a policeman be sent to fetch him ? The magistrates had already is- sued a warrant for his apprehension. Such in truth was the fact, but they had agreed with THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 21 Mr. Walker that as there was no reasonable ground for anticipating any attempt at escape on the part of the reverend gentleman, the law- yer might use what gentle means he could for insuring the clergyman's attendance. Could Mrs. Crawley undertake to say that he would appear? INIrs. Crawley did undertake either that her husband should appear on tiic Thurs- day, or else that she would send over in the ear- ly part of the week and declare her inability to insure his aio^iearancc. In*that case it was un- derstood the policeman must come. Tlien Mr. Walker had suggested that JMr. Crawley had better employ a lawyer. Ujwn this Mrs. Craw- ley had looked beseechingly up into J\lr. Walk- er's face, and had asked him to undertake the duty. He was of course obliged to explain that lie was already employed on tlic otlier side. Mr. Soames had secured his S3rvices, and thougli lie was willing to do all in his ]wwer to mitigate tlie sufferings of tlie family, he could not abandon the duty he had undertaken. lie named anotlicr attorney, however, and then sent the jwor woman home in his wife's car- riage. " I fear that unfortunate man is guilty. I fear he is," Mr. Walker had said to his Avifc within ten minutes of the departure of the visitor. Mrs. Crawley would not allow herself to be driven up to the garden gate before her own house, but had left the carriage some three hun- dred yards off down the road, and from thence she walked home. It was now quite dark. It was nearly six in the evening on a wet Decem- ber night, and although cloaks and shawls had been supplied to her, she was wet and cold when she reached her home. But at such a moment, anxious as she was to prevent tlie additional evil which would come to them all from illness to herself, she could not pass through to her room till she had spoken to her husband. He was sitting in the one sitting-room on the left side of the jiassage as the house was entered, and witli him was their daughter Jane, a girl now nearly sixteen years of age. There was no light in the room, and hardly more than a spark of fire showed itself in the grate. The father was sitting on one side of the iiearth in an old arm-cluur, and there he had sat for the last hour without speaking. His daughter had been in and out of the room, and had endeavored to gain his attention now and again by a word, but he had never answered her, and had not even noticed her presence. At the moment when Mrs. Crawley's step was heard upon the gravel which led to the door Jane was kneeling before the fire, with a hand upon her father's arm. She had tried to get her hand into his, but he had either been unaware of the attempt, or had rejected it. "Here is mamma, at last," said Jane, rising to her feet as her mother entered the house. "Are you all in the dark?" said Mrs. Craw- Icy, striving to speak in a voice that should not be sorrowful. "Yes, mamma; we are in the dark. Papa is here. Oh, mamma, how wet you are!" "Yes, dear. It is raining. Get a light out of the kitchen, Jane, and I will go u]) stairs in two minutes." Then, when Jane was gone, the wife made her way in the dark over to her husband's side, and sjioke a word to him. " Josiah," she said, "will you not speak to me?" "What sliould I speak about ? Where have you been?" " I have been to Silverbridge. I have been to Mr. Walker. He, at any rate, is very kind." " I don't want his kindness. I want no man's kindness. Mr. Walker is. the attorney, I be- lieve. Kind, indeed!" "I mean considerate. Josiah, let us do the best we can in this trouble. We have had oth- ers as heavy before." "But none to crush me as this will crush me. Well ; what am I to do ? Am I to go to prison — to-night ?" At this moment his daughter returned with a candle, and the mother could not make her answer at once. It was a wretch- ed, poverty-stricken room. By degrees the car- pet had disappeared, which had been laid down some nine or ten j-ears since, when they had first come to Ilogglestock, and which even then had not been new. Now nothing but a poor fragment of it remained in front of the fire- place. In the middle of the room there was a table which had once been large ; but one flap of it was gone altogether, and the other flap sloped grievously toward the floor, the Aveakness of old age having fallen into its legs. There were two or three smaller tables about, but they stood pro]>ped against walls, thence obtaining a security which their own strength would not give them. At the further end of the room there was an ancient i>iece of furniture, which was always called "papa's secretary," at which Mr. Crawley customarily sat and wrote his ser- mons, and did all work that was done by him within his house. The man who had made it, some time in the last century, had intended it to be a locked guardian for domestic documents, and the receptacle for all that was most private in the house of some paterfamilias. But be- neath the hands of Mr. Crawley it always stood open ; and, with the exception of the small space at which he wrote, was covered with dog's-eared books, from nearly all of which the covers had disappeared. There were tliere two odd vol- umes of Euripides, a Greek Testament, an Odys- sey, a duodecimo Pindar, and a miniature Anacreon. There was half a Hoiace — the two first books of the Odes at the beginning and the De Arte Poetica at the end having disap- peared. There was a little bit of a volume of Cicero, and there were C;\isar"s Commentaries, in two volumes, so stoutly bound that they had defied the combined ill-usage of time and the Crawley fixmily. All these were piled upon the secretary, with many others — odd volumes of sermons and the like ; but the Greek and Latin lay at the top, and showed signs of most frequent use. There was one arm-chair in the room — a Windsor-chair, as such used to bo called, made soft, bv an old cushion in the back, in which Mr. 22 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. Crawley sat when both lie and his wife were in the room, and Mrs. (.Crawley when lie was ab- sent. And tliere was an old horse-hair sofa — now almost denuded of its horse-hair — but that, like the tables, required the assistanec of a fricniily wall. Tiien there was half a dozen of other cliairs — all of dillercnt sorts — and they completed the furniture of the room. It was not such a room as one would wish to see in- liabited by a beneficed clergyman of the Church of En;;land ; but tliey who know what money will do and what it will not, will nnderstand how easily n man with a family, and with a hundred and thirty jtonnds a year, may be brought to the need of inhabiting such a cham- ber. When it is rcmend)ered that three i>ounds of meat a day, at ninei)ence a jtound, will cost over forty jiounds a year, there need be no dif- ficulty in understanding that it may be so. Bread for such a family must cost at least twen- ty-five pounds. Clothes for five jiersons, of whom one must at any rate wear the raiment of a gentleman, can hardly be found for less than ten ))ounds a year a head. Then there remains fifteen pounds for tea, sugar, beer, wages, education, amusements, and the like. In such circumstances a gentleman can hardly pay much for the renewal of his furniture ! Jlrs. Crawley could not answer her husband's question before her daughter, and was therefore obliged to make another excuse for again .send- ing her out of the room. "Jane, dear," she said, "bring my things down to the kitchen, and I will change tliem by the fire. I will be there in two minutes, when I have had a word with your ]iii]ia." The girl went immediately, and then ^Irs. Crawley answered her husband's ques- tion. '"No, my dear; there is no question of your going to pi'ison." "But there will be." " I have undertaken that you shall attend be- fore tlie magistrates at Silverbridge on Thursday next, at twelve o'clock. You will do that?" "Do it! You mean, I suppose, to say that I must go there. Is anv body to come and fetch me?" "Nobody will conic. Only you must prom- ise that you will be there. I have promised for you. You will go ; 'will you not?" She stood leaning over him, half embracing him, waiting for an answer ; but for a while he gave none. "You will tell me that you will do what I have undertaken for you, Josiah?" "I tliink I would rather that they fetclicd me. I think that I will not go myself." "And have policemen come for you into the parisli I INIr. "Walker has promised that he will send over his jihaeton. lie sent me home in it to-day." "I want nobody's phaeton. If I go I will walk. If it were ten times the distance, and thougli I had not a shoe left to my feet, I would walk. If I go there at all, of my own accord, I will walk there." "But you will go?" "What do I care for the parish? What matters it who sees me now? I can not be degraded worse than I am. Every body knows it." "There is no disgrace without guilt," said his wife. "Every body thinks me guilty. I see it in their eyes. Tiie children know of it, and I hear their whispers in the school, ' Mr. Craw- ley has taken some money.' I heard the girl say it myself." "What matters wliat the girl says?" "And yet you would have me go in a fine carriage to Silverbridge, as though to a wedding. If I am wanted there let them take mc as they woidd another. I shall be here for them — un- less I am dead." At this moment Jane reappeared, ])ressingher mother to take ofY her wet clothes, and Mrs. Crawley went with her daughter to the kitchen. The one red-armed young girl who was their only servant was sent away, and then the mo- ther and child discussed how best they might ])revail with the head of the family. "But, mamma, it must come right, must it not?" " I trust it will. I think it will. But I can not see my way as yet." "Papa can not have done any thing wrong." "No, my dear; he has done nothing wrong. He has made great mistakes, and it is hard to make people understand that he has not inten- tionally spoken untruths. He is ever thinking of other things, about the school, and his ser- mons, and he does not remember." "And about how poor we are, mamma." "He has much to occupy his mind, and he forgets things which dwell in the memory with other people. He said that he had got this money from Jlr. Soames, and of course he thought that it was so." "And where did he get it, mamma?" "Ah — I wish I knew. I should have said that I had seen every shilling that came into the house ; but I know nothing of this check — whence it came." " But will not papa tell you ?" " He would tell me if he knew. He thinks it came from the dean." "And are you sure it did not ?" "Yes; quite sure ; as sure as I can be of any thing. The dean told me he would give hiin fifty pounds, and the fifty pounds came. I had them in my own hands. And he has written to say that it was so." " But couldn't this be part of the fifty pounds?" "No, dear, no." " Then where did papa get it? Perhaps he picked it up, and has forgotten ?" To this Mrs. Crawley made no replj'. The idea that the check had been found by her hus- band — had been picked up, as Jane had said — had occurred also to Jane's mother. Mr. Soames was confident that he had dropped the pocket-book at the parsonage. Mrs. Crawley had always disliked Mr. Soames, thinking him to be hard, cruel, and vulgar. She would not have hesitated to believe him guilty of a false- THE LAST CIIEONICLE OF BAKSET. 23 hood, or even of direct dishonesty, if by so believ- ing she could in her own mind have found the means of reconciling her husband's possession of the check with absolute truth on his part. But she could not do so. Even though Soames had, with devilish premeditated malice, slipped the check into her husband's ])ockct, his having done so would not account for her husband'* Iiaving used the check when he found it there. She was driven to make excuses for him which, valid as they might be witli herself, could not be valid with others. lie had said that Mr. Soames had paid the check to him. That was clearly a mistake. He had said tliat the check had been given to him by the dean. That was clearly another mistake. She knew, or thought she knew, that he, being such as he was, might make such blunders as these, and yet be true. She believed that such statements might be blunders and not falsehoods — so convinced was she that her husband's mind would not act at all times as do the minds of other men. But having such a conviction, she was driven to be- lieve also that almost any thing might be possi- ble. Soames may have been right, or he might have dropped, not the book, but the check. She had no difficulty in presuming Soames to be wrong in any detail, if by so supposing she could make the exculpation of her husband easier to herself. If villainy on the part of Soames was needful to her theory, Soames would become to her a villain at once — of the blackest dye. Might it not be possible that the check having thus fall- en into her husband's hands, he had come, after a, while, to think that it had been sent to him by his friend, the dean ? And if it were so, would it be possible to make others so believe? That there was some mistake which would be easily explained were her husband's mind lucid tit all points, but whicli she could not explain because of the darkness of his mind, she was thoroughly convinced. But were she herself to put forward such a defense on her husband's part, she would in doing so be driven to say that he was a lunatic ; that he was incapable of mana- ging the affairs of himself or his family. It seem- ed to her that slie would be compelled to have him proved to be either a thief or a madman. And yet she knew that he was neither. That he was not a thief was as clear to her as the sun at noonday. Could she have lain on the man's bosom for twenty years, and not yet have learned the secrets of the heart beneath ? Tiie whole mind of the man was, as she told herself, within her grasp. He might have taken the twenty pounds ; he might have taken it and spent it, though it was not his own ; but yet he was no thief. Nor was he a madman. No man more sane in preaching the gospel of his Lord, in mak- ing intelligible to the ignorant the promises of his Saviour, ever got into a parish pulpit or tauglit in a jiarish school. The intellect of the man was as clear as running water in all things not appertaining to his daily life and its difti- culties. He could' be logical with a vengeance — 90 logical as to cause infinite trouble to his wife, who, with all her good sense, was not log- ical. And he had Greek at his fingers' ends — as his daughter knew very well. And even to this day he would sometimes I'ccite to them En- glish poetry, lines after lines, stanzas upon stan- zas, in a sweet, low, melancholy voice, on long winter evenings when occasionally the burden of his troubles would be lighter to him than was usual. Books in Latin and in French he read with as much ease as in English, and took delight in such as came to him when he would condescend to accept such loans from the dean- ery. And there was at times a lightness of heart about the man. In the course of the last winter he had translated into Greek irregular verse the very noble ballad of Lord Bateman, maintain- ing the rhythm and the rhyme, and had repeat- ed it with uncouth glee till his daughter knew it all by heart. And when there had come to him a five-pound note from some admiring mag- azine editor as the price of the same — still through the dean's hands — he had brightened up his heart, and had thought for an hour or two that even yet the world would smile upon him. His wife knew well that he was not mad; but yet she knew that there were dark moments with him, in which his mind was so mucli astray that he could not justly be called to account as to what he might remember and what he might forget. How would it be possible to explain all this to a judge and juiy, so that they might nei- ther say that he was dishonest, nor yet that he was mad? "Perhaps he picked it up, and had forgotten," her daughter said to her. Perhaps it was so, but she might not as jct admit as much even to her child. " It is a mystery, dear, as yet, which, with God's aid, will be unraveled. Of one tiling we at least may be sure : that your papa has not willfully done any thing wrong." "Of course we are sure of that, mamma." Mrs. Crawley had many troubles during the next four or five days, of which the worst, per- haps, had reference to the services of the Suri- day which intervened between the day of her visit to Silvcrbridge and the sitting of the mag- istrates. On the Saturday- it was necessary that he should prepare his sermons, of which ha preached two on every Sunday, though his con- gregation consisted only of farmers, brickmak- ers, and agricultural laborers, who would will- ingly have dispensed with the second. Mrs. Crawley proposed to send over to Mr. Robarts, a neighboring clergyman, for the loan of a cu- rate. Mr. Robarts was a warm friend to the Crawleys, and in such an emergency would probably have come himself; but Mr. Crawley would not hear of it. The discussion took place early on the Saturday morning, before it was as yet daylight, for the poor woman was think- ing day and night of her husband's troubles, and it had this good effect, that immediately after breakfast he seated himself at his desk, and worked at his task as though he had for- gotten all else in the world. And on the Sundav morning he went into 24 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. his school before the hour of the church service, as liiul been his wont, :\m\ taught there as thou^^h cvcrv thiiijj wiili iiiin was as usuiil. Some of the cliilJreu were absent, haviiif^ iienrcl of their tcaciier's tribuhition, and havinj; been toUi ]iroh- ably that lie would remit his work ; and for those absent ones lie sent in great anger. The poor bairns came creeping in, for he was a man w!io by his manners had been able to secure their obedience in spite of his ])overty. And ho jtreached to the iicojjle of his parish on that .SundMv as he had always jircached ; eagerly, clearly, with an eloquence fitted for the liearts of such an audience. No one would have guessed from his tones and gestures and ajj- pearancc on that occasion tliat there was aught wrong with him — unless there had been there some observer keen enough to jjcrccive tliat the greater care which he used, and the s])ccial eagerness of his words, denoted a special frame of mind. After that, after tliosc church services were over, he sank again, and never roused himself till the dreaded day had come. CHAPTER V. WHAT THE AVORLD THOUGHT ABOUT IT. Opinion in Silverhridge, at Barclicster, and throughout the county was very much divided as to the guilt or innocence of j\Ir. Crawley. \]p to the time of Mrs. Crawley's visit to Sil- verhridge the affair had not been much dis- cussed. To give Mr. Soames his due, ho had been by no means anxious to press the matter against the clergyman ; but he had been forced to go on with it. While the first check was missing Lord Liifton had sent him a second check for the money, and the loss had thus fallen upon his lordship. The check had of course been traced, and inquiry had of course been made as to Mr. Crawley's possession of it. When that gentleman declared that he had re- ceived it from Mr. Soames, Sir. Soames had been forced to contradict and to resent such an assertion. When IMr. Crawley had afterward said that the money had come to him from the dean, and when the dean had shown that this also was untrue, Mv. Soames, confident as he was tliat he had dropped the pocket-book at Mr. Crawley's house, could not but continue the in- vestigation, lie had done so with as much si- lence as the nature of the work admitted. But by the day of the magistrates' meeting at Sil- verhridge the subject had become common through the county, and men's minds were very much divided. All Hogglestock believed their parson to be innocent ; but then all Hogglestock believed him to be mad. At Silverhridge the tradesmen with whom he had dealt, and to whom he had owed, and still owed, money, all declared him to be innocent. They knew something of the man personally, and could not believe him to he a thief. All the ladies in Silverhridge, too, were sure of his innocence. It was to them im- possible that such a man should have stolen twenty pounds. "My dear," said the eldest Miss Prcttyman to poor Grace Crawley, " in Enghmjl, where the laws are good, no gcntle- m.iii is ever made out to be guilty when he is innocent ; and your papa, of course, is innocent. Therefore you should not trouble yourself." "It will break pajia's heart," Grace had said, and she did trouble herself. But the gentlemen in Silverhridge were made of sterner stulf, and believed the man to be guilty, clergyman and gentleman though he was. Sir. Walker, who among the liglits in Silverhridge was the lead- ing light, would not sjieak a word upon the sub- ject to any body ; and then every body wlio was any body knew that Mr. Walker was con- vinced of the man's guilt. Had Mr. Walker believed him to be innocent his tongue would have been ready enough. John Walker, who was in the Iiabitof laughing at his father's good nature, had no doubt upon the subject. Mr. Winthrop, Mr. Walker's partner, shook his head. People did not think much of Mr. Winthrop, excepting certain nnmarried ladies ; for Mr. Winthrop was a bachelor, and had plenty of money. People did not think much of Mr. Winthrop ; but still on this subject he might know something, and when he shook his head he manifestly intended to indicate guilt. And l)r. Tempest, the rector of Silverhridge, did not hesitate to declare his belief in the guilt of the incumbent of Hogglestock. No man rever- ences a clergyman, as a clergyman, so slightly as a brother clergyman. To Dr. Tempest it ajipeared to be neither very strange nor very terrible that Sir. Crawley should have stolen twenty pounds. "What is a man to do," he said, "when he sees his children starving? He should not have married on such a ])rcfer- ment as that." Mr. Crawley had married, however, long before he got the living of Hog- glestock. There were two Lady Luftons — mother-in- law and daughter-in-law — who at this time were living together at Framlcy Hall, Lord Lufton's seat in the county of Barset, and they were both thoroughly convinced of Mr. Craw- ley's innocence. The elder lady had lived much among clergymen, and could hardly, I think, by any means have been brought to be- lieve in the guilt of any man who had taken upon himself the orders of the Church of En- gland. She had also known Mr. Crawley per- sonally for some years, and was one of those who could not admit to herself that any one was vile who had been near to herself. She believed intensely in the wickedness of the out- side world, of the world which was far away from herself, and of which she never saw any thing; but they who were near to lier, and who had even become dear to her, or who even had been respected by her, were made, as it were, saints in her imagination. The}' were brought into the inner circle, and could hardly be ex- THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 25 pelled. She was an old woman who tliought all evil of those she did not know, and all good of those whom she did know; and as she did know Mr. Ci'awley she was quite sure he had not stolen IMr. Soamcs's twenty pounds. She did know Mr. Soamesalso; and thus there was a mystery for the unraveling of which she was very anxious. And the young Lady Lufton was equally sure, and perhaps with better rea- son for such certainty. She had, in truth, known more of Mr. Crawley personally than had any one in the county, unless it was the dean. The younger Lady Lufton, the jiresent Lord Lufton's wife, had sojourned at one time, in Mr. Crawley's house, amidst the Crawley povert}', living as they lived, and nursing Mrs. Crawley through an illness which had well-nigh been fatal to her ; and the younger Lady Luf- ton believed in Sir. Crawley — as jMr. Crawley also believed in her. "It is quite impossible, my dear," the old wo- man said to her daughter-in-law. " Quite impossible, my lady." The dowager was always called "my lady," both by her own daughter and by lier son's wife, except in the presence of their cliildren, when she was ad- dressed as "grandmamma." "Think how well I knew him. It's no use talking of evidence. 1^0 evidence would make me believe it." "Nor me ; and I think it a great shame that such a report should be spread about." " I suppose Mr. Soames could not help him- self?" said the younger lady, who was not her- self very fond of Mr. Soames. "Ludovic says that he has only done what he was obliged to do." The Ludovic spokeiv of was Lord Lufton. This took place in the morning, but in the evening the affair was again discussed. at Fram- ley Hall. Indeed, for some days there was hardly any other subject held to be worthy of discussion in the county. Mr. Robarts, the cler- gyman of the parish and the brother of the younger Lady Lufton, was dining at the hall with his Avife, and the three ladies had together expressed their perfect conviction of the false- ness of the accusation. But when Lord Lufton and Mr. Robarts were together after the ladies had left them there was much less of this cer- tainty expressed. " By Jove !" said Lord Luf- ton, " I don't know what to think of it. I wish with all my heart that Soames had said nothing about it, and that the check had passed without remark." "That was impossible. When the banker sent to Soames he was obliged to take the mat- ter up." "Of course he was. But I'm sorry that it was so. For the life of me I can't conceive how tlie check got into Crawley's hands." "I imagine that it had been lying in the liouse, and that Crawley had come to think that it was his own." "But, my dear Mark," said Lord Lufton, "excuse me if I say that that's nonsense. What do we do when a poor man has come to think B that another man's property is his own? We send him to prison for making the mistake." "I hope they won't send Crawley to prison." "I hope so too; but what is a jury to do?" "You think it will go to a jury, then?" "I do," said Lord Lufton. "I don't see how the magistrates can save themselves from committing him. It is one of those cases in which every one concerned would wish to drop it if it were only possible. But it is not possi- ble. On the evidence, as one sees it at present, one is bound to say that it is a case for a jury." "I believe that he is mad," said tlie brother parson. " He always was, as far as I could learn," said the lord. "I never knew him myself. You do, I think ?" "Oh yes. I know him." And the vicar of Framley became silent and thoughtful as the memory of a certain interview between himself and Mr. Crawley came back upon his mind. At that time the waters bad nearly closed over his head, and Mr. Crawley had given him some assistance. When the gentlemen had again found the ladies they kept their own doubts to themselves ; for at Framley Hall, as at present tenanted, female voices and female influences predominated over those which came from the other sex. At Barchcster, the cathedral city of the coun- ty in which the Crawleys lived, opinion was vio- lently against Mr. Crawley. In the city Mrs. Proudie, the wife of the bishop, was the leader of opinion in general, and she was very strong in her belief of the man's guilt. She had known much of clergymen all her life, as it behooved a bishop's wife to do, and she had iione of tliat mingled weakness and ignorance which taught so many ladies in Bersetshire to suppose that an ordained clergyman could not become a thief. She hated old Lady Lufton with all her heart, and old Lady Lufton hated her as warmly.. Mrs. Proudie would say frequently that Lady Lufton was a conceited old idiot, and Lady Luf- ton would declare as frequently that Mrs. Prou- die was a vulgar virago. It was known at the palace in Barchester that kindness had been shown to the Crawleys by the family at Framley Hall, and this alone would have been sufficient to make Mrs. Proudie believe that Mr. Crawley could have been guilty of any crime. And as Mrs. Proudie believed, so did the bishop be- lieve. " It is a terrible disgrace to the diocese," said the bishop, shaking his head, and patting his apron as he sat by his study fire. "Fiddle-stick !" said Mrs. Proudie. "But, my dear — a beneficed clergyman !" " You must get rid of him; that's all. You must be firm whether he be acquitted or con- victed." "But if he be acquitted I can not get rid of him, my dear." "Yes, you can, if you are firm. And you must be firm. Is it not true that he has been disgracefully involved in debt ever since he has been there ; that you have been pestered by let- 2G THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. ters from uufoitimatc tradesmen \vIio can not get their money from Iiim?" "Tliiit is true, my ilear, certainly." "And is tliat kind of thing to j,'0 on? lie can not come to the jiahicc as all clergymen should do, because he has got no clothes to come in. I saw him once about the lanes, and I npver set my eyes on such an object in my life ! I would not believe liiat the man was a clergyman till John told me. He is a disgrace to the dio- cese, and he must be got rid of. I feel sure of Lis guilt, and I hope he will be convicted. One is bound to hope that a guilty man should be convicted. But if he csca])e conviction you must sequestrate the living because of the debts. The income is cnougli to get an excellent curate. It would just do for Thumble." To all of which the bishoj) made no further reply, but simply nodded his head and patted his apron. He knew that he could not do exactly what his wife required of him ; but if it should so turn out that poor Crawley was found to be guilty, then the matter would be comjiaratively easy. "It should be an example to us, that we should look to our own steps, my dear," said the bishop. "That's all very well," said Sirs. Proudie ; "but it has become your duty, and mine too, to look to the steps of other people ; and that duty we must do." "Of course, my dear; of course." That was the tone in which the question of Mr. Crawley's alleged guilt was discussed at the palace. We have already heard what was said on the subject at the house of Archdeacon Grantlj'. As the days passed by, and as other tidings came in, confirmatory of those which had before reached him, the archdeacon felt himself unable not to believe in the man's guilt. And the fear whicli he entertained as to his son's intended •marriage with Grace Crawley tended to increase the strength of his belief. Dr. Grantly had been a very successful man in the world, and on all ordinary occasions had been able to show that bold front with which success endows a man. But he still had his moments of weakness, and feared greatly lest any thing of misfortune should touch him, and mar the comely round- ness of his prosperity. He was very wealthy. The wife of his bosom had been to him all that a wife sliould be. His reputation in the clerical world stood very high. He had lived all his life on terms of equality with the best of the gentry around him. His only daughter had made a splendid man-iage. His two sons had hitherto done well in the world, not only as regarded their happiness, but as to marriage also, and as to so- cial standing. But how great would be the fall if his son should at last marry the daughter of a convicted thief! How would the Proudies re- joice over him — the Proudies who had been crushed to the ground by the success of the Har- tletop alliance ; and how would the low-church curates, who swarmed in Barsetsliire, gather to- gether and scream in delight over his dismay ! "But why should we say that he is guilty?" said Mrs. Grantly. " It hardly matters as far as we are concerned whether they find him guilty or not," said the archdeacon; "if Henry marries that girl my heart will be broken." But jjcrhaps to no one except to the Crawleys themselves had the matter caused so much ter- rible anxiety as to the archdeacon's son. Ho had told his father that he had made no offer of marriage to Grace Crawley, and he had told the truth. But there are perhaps few men who make such offers in direct terms without having already said and done that which make such offers sim])ly necessary as the final closing of an accepted bargain. It was so at any rate between Major Grantly and Miss Crawley, and Major Grantly acknowledged to himself that it was so. He acknowledged also to himself that as regard- ed Grace herself he had no wish to go back from his imjdied intentions. Notiiing that either his father or mother might say would shake him in that. But could it be his duty to bind himself to the family of a convicted thief? Could it be right that he should disgrace his father and his mother and his sister and his one child by such a connection ? He had a man's heart, and the poverty of the Crawleys caused him no solicitude. But he shrank from the contanaination of a prison. CHAPTER VL GRACE CRA-WLET. It has already been said that Grace Crawler was at tliis time living with the two Miss Pretty- mans, who kept a girls' school at Silverbridge. Two more benignant ladies than the Miss Pret- tymans never pi-esided over such an establish- ment. Tlie younger was fat, and fresh, and fair, and seemed to be always running over with tlie milk of human kindness. The other was very thin and very small, and somewhat afflicted with bad health — was weak, too, in the eyes, and subject to racking headaches, so that it was considered generally that she was unable to take much active part in the education of tlie pupils. But it was considered as generally that she did all the thinking, that she knew more than any other woman in Barsetshire, and that all the Prettyman schemes for education emanated from her mind. It was said, too, by those who knew them best, that her sister's good-nature was as no- thing to hers ; that she was the most charitable, the most loving, and the most conscientious of schoolmistresses. This was Miss Aunabella Prettyman, the elder; and perhaps it may be inferred that some portion of her great character for virtue may have been due to the fact that nobody ever saw her out of her own house. She could not even go to church, because the open air brought on neuralgia. She was there- fore perhaps taken to be magnificent, partly be- cause she was unknown. Miss Anne Pretty- man, the younger, went about frequently to tea- THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 27 parties — would go, intlccJ, to any jiarty to which she might be invited ; and was known to have a pleasant taste for pound-cake and sweetmeats. Being seen so mucli in the outei' world, slie be- came common, and her character did not stand so high as did that of her sister. Some people were ill-natured enough to say that she wanted to marry Mr. Winthrop; but of what maiden lady that goes out into the world are not such sto- ries told ? And all such stories in Silvcrbridge were told with s])ecial reference to Mr. Win- throp. Miss Crawley, at jjresent, lived with the Miss Prettymans, and assisted them in the school. This arrangement had been going en for the last twelve months, since the time in which Grace would have left the school in the natural course of things. There had been no bargain made, and no intention that Grace should stay. She had been invited to fill the ]ilace of an ab- sent superintendent, first for one month, then for another, and then for two more months ; and when the assistant came back the Miss Prettymans thought there were reasons why Grace should be asked to remain a little longer. But they took great care to let the fashionable world of Silvcrbridge know that Grace Crawley was a visitor with them, and not a teacher. "■\Ye pay her no salary, or any thing of that kind," said Miss Anne Prcttyman ; a statement, however, which was by no means true, for dur- ing those four months the regular stipend had been paid to her ; and twice since then Miss Annabella Prettyman, who managed all the money-matters, had called Grace into her little room, and had made a little speech, and had put a little bit of paper into her hand. "I know I ought not to take it," Grace had said to her friend Anne. "If I was not here t'.icre would be no one in my place." "Nonsense, my dear," Anne Prettyman had said; "it is the greatest comfort to us in the world. And you should make yourself nice, you know, for liis sake. All the gentlemen like it." Then Grace had been very angry, and had sworn that she would give the money back again. Never- theless, I think she did make herself as nice as she knew how to do. And from all this it may be seen that the Miss Prettymans had hitherto quite appi'oved of Major Grantly's attentions. But when this terrible affair came on about the check which had been lost and found and traced to Mr. Crawley's hands, Miss Anne Pret- tyman said nothing further to Grace Crawley about Major Grantl}'. It was not that she thought that Mr. Crawley was guilty, but she knew enough of the world to be aware that sus- picion of such guilt might compel such a man as Major Grantly to change his mind. "If he had only popped," Anne said to her sister, "it would have been all rigiit. He would never have gone back from his word." "My dear," said Annabella, "I wish you would not talk about po])ping. It is a terrible word." "I shouldn't to any one except you," said Anne. Tiicrc had come to Silvcrbridge some few months since, on a visit to Mrs. Walker, a young lady from Allington, in the neighboring county, between wliom and Grace Crawley there had grown up from circumstances a warm fiiend- ship. Grace had a cousin in London — a clerk high up and well-to-do in a public office, a nejjhew of her mother's — and this cousin was, and for years had been, violently smitten in love for this young lady. But the young lady's tale had been sad, and though she acknowledged feelings of most affectionate friendship for the cousin, she could not bring herself to acknowl- edge more. Grace Crawley had met the young lady at Silvcrbridge, and words had been spoken about the cousin ; and though tlie young lady from Allington was some years older than Grace, there had grown up to be a friendship, and, as is not uncommon between young ladies, there had been an agreement that they would corre- spond. The name of the lady was Miss Lily Dale, and the name of the well-to-do cousin in London was Mr. John Eames. At the present moment Miss Dale was at home with her mother at Allington, and Grace Craw- ley in her terrible sorrow wrote to her friend, pouring out her whole heart. As Grace's letter and Miss Dale's answer will assist us in our story, I will venture to give them both : " Sii.VERiiEiDGE, — Deccmher^ ISO-. " Deari;st Lily, — I hardly know how to tell you what has ha))pened, it is so very terrible. But perhaps you ^\iIl liave heard it already, as every body is talking of it here. It has got into the newspapers, and therefore it can not be kept secret. Not that I should keep any thing from you ; only this is so very dreadful that I hardly know how to write it. Somebody says — a Mr. Soamcs, I believe, it is — that papa has taken some money that does not belong to him, and he is to be brought before the magistrates and tried. Of course papa has done nothing wrong. I do think he would be the last man in the world to take a \)C\m\ that did not belong to him. You know how poor he is ; what a life he has had ! But I think he would almost sooner see mamma starving — I am sure he would rather be starved himself, than even borrow a shilling which he could not pay. To suppose that he would take money" (she had tried to write the word "steal," but she could not bring her pen to form the let- ters) "is monstrous. But, somehow, the cir- cumstances have been made to look bad against him, and they say that he must come over here to the magistrates. I often think that of all men in the world papa is the most unfortunate. Every thing seems to go against him, and yet he is so good ! Poor mamma has been over here, and she is distracted. I never saw her so wretched before. She had been to your friend, JMr. Walker, and came to me afterward for a minute. Mr. Walker has got something to do with it, though mamma says she thinks he is quite friendly to papa. I wonder whether you could find out, through Mr. Walker, what he thinks about it. Of course mamma knows that 28 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. jiapa has done nothing wronp ; but she says that the whole thin;; is nius: nivsterioiis, and that she docs not know liow to account for the money. Papa, you know, is not like otiier pcoiile. lie for;,'ots things; and is always tliinkinp, thinkinj.', tliinking of his great misfortunes. I'oor papal My iieart bleeds so when I remember all his sor- rows that I hate myself for thinking about mv- sclf. *' When mamma left me — and it was then I first knew that jiajia would really have to be tried— I went to Miss Annabella, and told her that I would go home. Slic asked me why, and I said I would not disgrace her house by staying in it. She got uj) and took me in her arms, and there came a tear out of both her dear old eyes, and she said that if any thing evil came to papa — which she would not believe, as she knew him to be a good man — tlicrc should be a home in her house not only for me, but for mamma and Jane. Isn't she a wonderful woman ? When I think of her I sometimes think that she must be an angel already. Then she became very serious — for just before, through her tears, she had tried to smile — and she told me to remem- ber that all people could not be like her, who had nobody to look to but herself and her sister ; and tiiat at present I must task myself not to think of that which I had been thinking of be- fore. She did not mention any body's name, but of course I understood very well what she meant ; and I suppose she is right. I said no- thing in answer to her, for I could not speak. She was holding my hand, and I took hers up and kissed it, to show her, if I could, that I knew that she was right ; but I could not have spoken about it for all the world. It was not ten days since that she herself, with all her prudence, told me that she thought I ought to make up my mind what answer I would give him. And tlien I did not say any thing ; but of course slie knew. And after that Miss Anne spoke quite freely about it, so that I had to beg her to be silent even before the girls. You know how impru- dent slie is. But it is all over now. Of course Miss Annabella is right. He has got a great many people to think of; his fiither and mother, and his darling little Edith, whom he brought here twice, and left her with us once for two days, so that she got to know me quite well ; and I took such a love for her that I could not bear to part with her. But I think sometimes that all our family are born to be unfortunate, and then I tell myself that I will never hope for any thing again. "Pray write to me soon. I feel as though nothing on earth could comfort me, and yet I shall like to have your letter. Dear, dear Lily, I am not even yet so wretched but what I shall rejoice to be told good news of you. If it only could be as John wishes it ! And why should it not ? It seems to me that nobody has a right or a reason to be unhappy except as. Good-l)y, dearest Lily, "Your affectionate friend, ' ' GiiACE Cka^vlet. "P.S. — I think I have made up my mind that I will go back to Ilogglestock at once if the magistrates decide against papa. I think I shoidd be doing the school harm if I were to stay here." The answer to this letter did not reach Miss Crawley till after the magistrates' meeting on the Thursday, but it will be better for our story that it should be given here than jjostpoued un- til the result of that meeting shall have been told. Miss Dale's answer was as follows : " Ai.i,i.n(;ton, — December, 1S6-. "Dkau Gkack, — Your letter has made me very unhajipy. If it can at all comfort you to know that mamma and I symjiathize with you altogether, in that you may at any rate be sure. But in such troubles nothing will give comfort. They must be borne till the fire of misfortune burns itself out. "I had heard about the affair a day or two before I got your note. Our clergyman, Mr. Boyce, told us of it. Of course we all know that the charge must be altogether unfounded, and mamma says that the truth will be sure to show itself at last. But that conviction does not cure the evil, and I can well understand that your father should suffer grievously ; and I j>ity your mother quite as much as I do him. "As for INIajor Grantly, if he be such a man as I took him to be from the little I saw of him, all this would make no difi'erence to him. I am sure that it ought to make none. Wliether it should not make a difference in you is another question. I think it should; and I think your answer to him should be that you could not even consider any such proj)osition while your father was in so great trouble. I am so much older than you, and seem to have had so much experience, that I do not scruple, as you will see, to come down upon you with all the weight of my wisdom. "About that other subject I had rather say nothing. I have known your cousin all my life almost ; and I regard no one more kindly than I do him. When I tliink of my friends, he is always one of the dearest. But when one thinks of going beyond friendship, even if one tries to do so, there are so many barriers ! " Your affectionate friend, "Lily Dale. "Mamma bids me say that she would be de- lighted to have you here wlienever it might suit you to come ; and I add to this message my en- treaty that you will come at once. You say that you think you ought to leave Miss Prett}'- man's for a while. I can well understand your feeling; but as your sister is with your mother surely you had better come to us — I mean quite at once. I will not scruple to tell you what mamma says, because I know your good sense. She says that as the interest of the school may possibly be concerned, and as you have no reg- ular engagement, she thinks }'0U ought to leave Silverbridge ; but slie says that it will be better that you come to us than that you should go THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 29 home. If you went home people might say that you had left in some sort of disgrace. Come to us, and wlien all this has been put right tlien you go back to Silverbridge ; and then, if a certain ])erson s])eaks again, you can make a different answer. IMamma quite under- stands that you are to come ; so you have only got to ask your own mamma, and come at once." This letter, as the reader will understand, did not reach Grace Crawley till after tho all-im- portant Thursday ; but before that day had come round Grace had told Miss I'rettyman — had told both tlie Miss Prettymans — that she was resolved to leave them. She had done this without even consulting her mother, driven to it by various motives. She knew that her fa- ther's conduct was being discussed by the girls in the school, and that things were said of him which it could not but be for the disadvantage of Miss Prettyman that any one should say of a teacher in her establishment. She felt, too, that she could not hold up her head in Silver- bridge in these days, as it would become her to do if she retained her position. She did strug- gle gallantly, and succeeded much more nearly than slie was herself aware. She was all but able to carry herself as though no terrible accusation was being made against her father. Of the strug- gle, however, she was not herself the less con- scious, and she told herself that on that account also she must go. And then she must go also because of IMajor Grantly. Whether he was minded to come and speak to her that one other needed word, or whether he was not so minded, it would be better that slie sliould be away from Silverbridge. If he spoke it she could only an- swer him by a negative : and if he were mind- ed not to sjieak it, would it not be better that she should leave herself the power of thinking that his silence had been caused by her absence, and not by liis coldness or indifference? She asked, therefore, for an interview with Miss Prettyman, and was shown into the elder sister's room at eleven o'clock on the Tuesday morning. The elder Miss Prettyman never came into the school herself till twelve, but was in the habit of having interviews with the young ladies — which were sometimes very awful in their nature — for the two previous hours. Dur- ing these interviews an immense amount of bus- iness was dune, and the fortunes in life of some girls were said to have been there made or marred; as when, for instance. Miss Crimpton had been advised to stay at home with her uncle in England, instead of going out with her sis- ters to India, both of which sisters were married within three months of their landing at Bombay. The way in which she gave her counsel on such occasions was very efficacious. No one knew better than Miss Prettyman that a cock can crow most effectively in his own farm-yard, and therefore all crowing intended to be effective was done by her within the shrine of her own peculiar room. "Well, my dear, what is it?" she said to Grace. "Sit in the arm-ciiair, my dear, and we can then talk comfortably." The teachers, when they were closeted with Miss Prettyman, were always asked to sit in the arm-chair, where- as a small, straight-backed, uneasy chair was kept for the use of the young ladies. And there was, too, a stool of repentance, out against the wall, very uncomfortable indeed for young la- dies who had not behaved themselves so pret- tily as young ladies generally do. Grace seated herself, and then began her speech very quickly. "Miss Prettyman," she said, "I have made up my mind that I will go home, if you please." "And why should you go liome, Grace ? Did I not tell you that you should have a liome here?" Miss Prettyman had weak eyes, and was very small, and had never possessed any claim to be called good-looking. And she assumed nothing of majestical awe from any adornment or studied amplification of the outward woman by means of impressive trappings. The possessor of an unobservant eye might have called her a mean- looking little old woman. And certainly there would have been nothing awful in her to any one who came across her otherwise than as a lady having authority in her own school. But within her own precincts she did know how to surround herself with a dignity which all felt who approached her there. Grace Crawley, as she heard the simple question which Miss Pret- tyman had asked, unconsciously acknowledged the strength of the woman's manner. She al- ready stood rebuked for having proposed a plan so ungracious, so unnecessary, and so unwise. " I think I ought to be with mamma at pres- ent," said Grace. "Your mother has your sister with her." "Yes, Miss Prettyman ; Jane is there." "If there be no other reason, I can not think that that can be held to be a reason now. Of course your mother would like to have you al- ways ; unless you should be married — but then there are reasons why this should not be so." " Of course there are." "I do not think — that is, if I know all thrft there is to be known — I do not think, I say, that there can be any good ground for your leaving us now — just now." Then Grace sat silent for a moment, gatlier- ing her courage, and collecting her words ; and after that she !-poke. "It is because of papa, and because of this charge — " "But, Grace — " "I know what you are going to say. Miss Prettyman — that is, I think I know." "If you will hear me you may be sure that you know." " But I want you to hear me for one moment first. I beg your pardon. Miss Prettyman ; I do indeed, but I want to say this before you go on. I must go home, and I know I ouglit. We are all disgraced, and I won't sto]) lieve to dis- grace the school. I know jiapa h.as done no- thing wrong ; but nevertheless we are disgraced. The police are to bring him in here on Thurs- 30 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. %^'^-t' X'^'l!,, J H ■\:?-'V^ A^;^^ik.> \ -: i&^^ I Ll.VE VOU AS THODlill YOU WEUE MY OWN," SAID THE tJCUOOLMISTlUCSS. dav, and every body in SilverLridge will know it. It can not be right that I should l)C here teaching in the school while it is all going on — and I won't. And, Miss Frettyman, I couldn't Jo it — indeed I couldn't. I can't bring myself to think of any thing I am doing — indeed I cin't; and then, Miss Prettyman, there are other reasons." By the time that she had pro- ceeded thus far Grace Crawley's words were nearly choked by her tears. "And what are the other reasons, Grace?" "I don't know," said Grace, struggling tc speak through her tears. "But I know," said Miss Prettyman. "I know them all. I know all your reasons, and I tell you tliat in my opinion you ought to remain where you are, and not go away. Tiie very reasons which to you are reasons for your go- ing, to me arc reasons for your remaining here." "I can't remain. I am determined to go. I don't mind you and Miss Anne, but I can't THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 31 bear to liavc the girls looking at mc — and tlie servants." Tlien Miss Prettyman paused a wliile, think- ing what words of wisdom would be most n])pro- priate in the present conjuncture. Eat words of wisdom did not seem to come easily to her, having for the moment been banished by tender- ness of heart. " Come here, my love," she said at last. "Come here, Grace." Slowly Grace got up from her scat, and caine round and stood by IMiss I'rettynian's elbow. Miss Prettyman pushed her chair a little back, and pushed her- self a little forward, and stretching out one hand placed her arm round Grace's waist, and with the other took hold of Grace's hand, and thus drew her down and kissed the girl's forehead and lips. And then Grace found lierself kneel- ing at her friend's feet. "Grace," she said, "do you not know that I love you? Do you not know that I love you dearly ?" In answer to this Grace kissed the withered hand she held in hers, while the warm tears trickled down upon Miss Prettyman's knuckles. "I love you as though you were my own," exclaimed the schoolmistress ; "and will you not trust nie, that I know what is best for you ?" "I must go home," said Grace. "Of course you shall, if you think it right at last ; but let us talk of it. No one in this house, you know, has the slightest suspicion that your father has done any thing that is in the least dishonorable." " I know that you have not." " No, nor has Anne." Miss Prettyman said this as though no one in that hoijsc beyond her- self and her sister liad a right to have any opin- ion on any subject. "I know that," said Grace. "Well, my dear. If we think so — " "But the servants, Miss Prettyman?" "If any servant in this house says a word to oifend you, I'll— ril—" " They don't say any thing. Miss Prettyman, but they look. Indeed I'd better go home. Indeed I had!" "Do not you think your mother has cares enough upon her, and burden enougli, without having another mouth to feed, and another head to shelter? You haven't thought of that, Grace!" "Yes, I have." " And as for the work, while you are not quite well you sliall not be troubled with teach- ing. I have some old papers that want copying and settling, and you shall sit here and do that just for an employment. Anne knows tliat I've long wanted to have it done, and I'll tell her that you've kindly promised to do it for me." "No; no; no," said Grace; "I must go home." She was still kneeling at Miss Pretty- man's knee, and still liolding Miss Prettyman's hand. And then, at tliat moment, there came a tap at the door, gentle but yet not humble, a tap which acknowledged, on the part of tlic tap- per, the supremacy in that room of the lady who was sitting there, but whicli still claimed ad- mittance almost as a riglit. The tap was well known by both of them to be the tap of Miss Anne. Grace immediately jumped up, and Miss Prettyman settled herself in lier chair witli a motion whicli almost seemed to indicate some feeling of shame as to her late position. "I suppose I may come in?" said Miss Anne, opening the door and inserting her head. "Yes, you may come in — if you have any thing to say," said INIiss Prettyman, witli an air which seemed to be intended to assert her supremacy. But, in trutli, slie was simply col- lecting the wisdom and dignity wliich had been somewliat dissipated by her tenderness. "I did not know that Grace Crawley was here," said Miss Anne. "Grace Crawley is here," said Miss Pretty- man. "What is the matter, Grace?" said I\Iiss Anne, seeing the tears. "Never mind now," said Miss Prettyman. "Poor dear, I'm sure I'm sorry as though she were my own sister," said Anne. "But, Annabella, I want to speak to you especially." "To me, in private?" "Yes, to you; in private, if Grace won't mind?" Then Grace prepared to go. But as she was going Miss Anne, upon wliose brow a heavy burden of tliought was lying, stopped her sud- denly. "Grace, my dear," she s.aid, "go up stairs into your room, will you? not across the hall to the school." . . ; ■ . . "And why shouldn't she go to the school?" said Miss Prettyman. ■ Miss Anne i)aused a moment, apd then an- swered, unwillingly, as though driven to make a reply which she knew to be indiscreet. " Be- cause there is somebody in the hall." "Go to your room, dear," said Miss Pretty- man. And Grace went to her room, never turn- ing an eye down toward the hall. "Who is it?" said jMiss Prettyman. ,; "Major Grantly is here, asking to sep you," said Miss Anne. CHAPTER VIL MISS tkettyman's private rooji. Major Graktly, when threatened by his fa- ther with pecuniary punishment should he, de- mean himself by such a marriage as tliat he had proposed to himself, had declared that ho would oft'er his hand to Miss Crawley on tlie next morning. , . This, however, he had not done. He had not done it, partly because ho did ■ not quite believe his father's threat, and partly because he felt that that threat was almost justified — for the present moment— by the cir- cumstances in which Grace Crawley's father had placed himself. Henry Grantly acknowledged, as he drove himself home on the morning after his dinner at the rectory, that in this matter of his marriage he did owe much to his family. 32 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. Sliould he marry at all, he owed it to them to marry a h\dy. And Grace Crawley — so he told himself — was a lady. And he owed it to them to hring among them as his wife a woman who sliould not disgrace him or them hy her educa- tion, manners, or even hy her personal appear- ance. In all these respects Grace Crawley was, in his judgment, quite as good as they had a right to expect her to ho, and in some respects a great deal superior to that type of womanhood with which they had hcen most generally con- versant. " If every hody had her due, my sis- ter isn't fit to hold a candle to her," he said to himself. It must he acknowledged, therefore, that he was really in love with Grace Crawley ; and he declared to himself, over and ovei' again, that his family had no right to demand that he should marry a woman with money. The arch- deacon's son hy no means despised money. How could he, having come forth as a bird fledged from such a nest as the rectory at Plum- stead Episcopi? Before he had been brought by his better nature and true judgment to see that Grace Crawley was the greater woman of the two, he had nearly submitted himself to the twenty thousand pounds of Miss Emily Dunsta- ble — to that, and her good humor and rosy freshness combined. But he regarded himself as the well-to-do son of a very rich father. His only child was amply provided for ; and he felt that, as regarded money, he had a right to do as he pleased. He felt this with double strength after his father's threat. But he had no right to make a marriage hy which his family would be disgraced. Wheth- er he was right or wrong in supposing that he would disgrace his family were he to marry the daughter of a convicted thief, it is hardly neces- sary to discuss here. He told himself that it would be so — telling himself also that, by the stern laws of the world, the son and the daughter must pay for the oflense of the father and the mother. Even among the ])Oor, who woidd w^illingly marry the child of a man who had been hanged ? But he carried the argument be- yond this, thinking much of the matter, and endeavoring to think of it not only justly but generously. If the accusation against Cra^vley were false — if the man were being injured by an unjust charge— even if he, Grantl}', could make himself think that the girl's father had not stolen the money, then he would dare every thing and go on. I do not know that his ar- gument was good, or that his mind was logical in the matter. He ought to have felt that his own judgment as to the man's guilt was less likely to be correct than that of those whose duty it was and would be to form and to express a judgment on the matter ; and as to Grace herself, she was equally innocent whether her father were guilty or not guilty. If he were to be debarred from asking her for lier hand by his feelings for her father and mother, he should hardly have trusted to his own skill in ascer- taining the real truth as to the alleged theft. But he was not logical, and thus, meaning to be generous, he became unjust. He found that among those in Silverbndge whom he presumed to be best informed on such matters there was a growing opinion that Mr. Crawley had stolen the money. He was inti- mate with all the Walkers, and was able to find out that ^Irs. Walker knew that her husband believed in the clergyman's guilt. He was by no means alone in his willingness to accept Mr. Walker's opinion as the true opinion. Silver- bridge, generally, was endeavoring to dress it- self in Mr. Walker's glass, and to believe as Mr. Walker believed. The ladies of Silverbridge, including the MissPrettymans, were aware that Mr. Walker had been very kind both to Mr. and Mrs. Crawley, and argued from this that Jlr. Walker must think the man to he innocent.' But Henry Grantly, who did not dare to ask a direct question of the solicitor, went cunningly to work and closoted himself with Mrs. Walker — with Mrs. Walker, who knew well of the good fortune which was hovering over Grace's head and was so nearly settling itself upon her shouU ders. She would have given a finger to be able to whitewash Mr. Crawley in the major's esti- mation. Nor must it be supposed that she told the major in plain words that her husband had convinced himself of the man's guilt. In plain words no question was asked between them, and in plain woi'ds no opinion was ex- pressed. But there was the look of sorrow in the woman's eye ; there was the absence of reference to her husband's assurance that the man was innocent ; there was the air of settled grief which told of her own conviction : and the major left her convinced that Mrs. Walker believed Mr. Crawley to be guilty. Then he went to Barchester; not open- mouthed with inquiry, but rather with open ears, and it seemed to him that all men in Bar- chester were of one mind. There was a conn- THE LAST CimONICLE OF BARSET. 33 tv-chib in Barcliester, and at tliis connty-club nine men out of cveiy ten were talking about Mr. Crawley. It was by no means necessary that a man should ask questions on the subject. Opinion was expi-esscd so freely that no sueh asking was required ; and opinion in Barchcster — at any rate in the county-club — seemed now to be all of one mind. There had been every disposition at first to believe Mr. Crawley to be innocent. He had been believed to be inno- cent even after he had said wrongly that the check had been paid to him by Mr. Soamcs; but he had since stated that he had received it from Dean Arabin, and that statement was also shown to be false. A man who has a check changed on his own behalf is bound at least to show where he got the cheek. Mr. Crawley had not only failed to do this, but had given two false excuses. Henry Grantly, as he drove home to Silvcrbridge on the Sunday afternoon, summed up all the evidence in his own mind, ^ and brought in a verdict of Guilty against the father of the girl whom he loved. On the following morning he walked into Silvcrbridge and called at Miss Prettyman's house. As he went along his heart was warm- er toward Grace than it had ever been before. He had told himself that he was now bound to abstain, for his father's sake, from doing that which he liad told his father that he would cer- tainly do. But he knew also that he had said that which, though it did not bind him to Miss Crawley, gave lier a right to expect that he Avould so bind himself. And Miss Prettyman could not but be aware of what his intention had been, and could not but expect that he should now be explicit. Had he been a wise man al- together he would probably have abstained from saying anj' thing at tlie present moment — a wise man, that is, in the ways and feelings of the world in such matters. But, as tliere are men who will allow themselves all imaginable latitude in their treatment of women, believing that the world will condone any amount of fiiult of that nature, so are there other men, and a class of men wliich on the whole is the more numerous of the two, who are tremblingly alive to the danger of censure on this head — and to the daTiger of censure not only from others, but from tlieraselves also. Major Grantly had done that which made him think it imperative upon him to do something further, and to do that something at once. Therefore he started off on the Monday morn- ing after breakfast and walked to Silvcrbridge, and as he walked he built various castles in the air. Why should he not marry Grace — if she would have him — and take her away beyond the reach of her father's calamity ? Why should he not throw over his own people altogether, money, position, society, and all, and give him- self up to love? Were he to do so, men might say that he was foolish, but no one could hint that he was dishonorable. His spirit was high enough to teach him to think that such conduct on his part would have iu it something of mag- nificence ; but yet such was not his purpose. In going to Miss Prettyman it was his intention to apologize for not doing this magnificent tiling. His mind was quite made up. Nevertheless he built those castles in the air. It so happened that he encountered the youn- ger Miss Prettyman in the hall. It would not at all have suited him to reveal to her tlie pur- port of his visit, or ask her either to assist his suit or to receive his apologies. Miss Anne Prettyman was too common a jiersonage in the Silverbridge world to be fit for such employ- ment. Miss Anne Prettyman was, indeed, her- self submissive to him, and treated him with the courtesy which is due to a superior being. He therefore simply asked her whether he could be allowed to see her sister. "Surely, Major Grantly — that is, I think so. It is a little early, but I think she can re- ceive you." "It is early, I know; but as I want to say a word or two on business — " "Oh, on business. I am sure she will see 3'ou on business ; she will only be too proiid. If you will be kind enough to step in here for two minutes." Then Miss Anne, having de- posited the major iu the little parlor, ran up stairs with her message to her sister. "Of course it's about Grace Crawley," she said to herself as she went. "It can't be about any thing else. I wonder what it is he's going to say. If he's going to pop, and the father in all this trouble, he's the finest fellow that ever trod. " Such were her thoughts as she tapped at tiie door and announced in the presence of Grace that there was somebody in the hall. "It's Major Grantly," whispered Anne, as soon as Grace had shut the door behind her. " So I sujjposed by your telling her not to go into the hall. What has he come to say ?" "How on earth can I tell you that, Anna- bclla? But I suppose he can have only one thing to say after all that has come and gone. He can only have come with one object." " He wouldn't have come to me for that. He would have asked to see herself." "But she never goes out now, and he can't see her." "Or he would have gone to them over at Ilogglestock," said Miss Prettyman. " But of course he must come up now he is here. Would you mind telling him ? or sliall I ring the bell ?" "I'll tell him. We need not make more fuss than necessary, with the servants, you know. I suppose I'd better not come back with him?" There was a tone of supplication in the youn- ger sister's voice as she made the last suggestion which ought to have melted the heart of the eld- er ; but it was unavailing. "As he has asked to see me, I think you had better not," said Annabella. Miss Anne Prettyman bore her cross meekly, offered no argument on the sub- ject, and returning to the little parlor where she had left the major, brought him up stairs and ushered lum into her sister's room without even entering it again herself. 34 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. Major Grantly was as intimately afquaiiitt'd witli ^liss Anno I'rettynian as a man unilcr lliir- ty may well lie with a lady nearer fifty than for- ty, who is not sjiecially connceted with him l)y nny family tie ; but of Miss Prcttynian he knew personally very much less. Miss Prettyman, as has before i)een said, did not go out, and was therefore not common to the eyes of the 8ilverl)ridi;ians. She did occasionally sec her friends in her own house, and Grace Crawley's lover, as the major had come to be called, had been there on more than one occasion ; but of real personal intimacy between them tlierc had hitherto existed none. He mi^^ht have spok- en, iierhajis, a dozen words to her in his life. He had iis, amonj^ the wisest of men, but he did very well as a country magistrate, holding his tongue, keeping his eyes open, and, on such occasions as tliis, obeying Mr. Walker in all tilings. Dr. Tempest was also there, the rector of the parish, he being both magistrate and clergyman. There were many in Silvcrbridge wiio declared that Dr. Tempest would have done far better to stay away when a brother clergyman was thus to be brought before the bench ; but it had been long since Dr. Tempest had cared wliat was said about him in Silvcrbridge. He had become so accustomed to the life he led as to like to be disliked, and to be enamored of unpopularity. So when ]\Ir. Walker had ventured to suggest to him tliat, perhaps, lie might not clioose to be there, he had laughed Mr. Walker to scorn. "Of course I shall be there," he said. "I am interested in tlie case— very much interested. Of course I shall be there." And had not Lord Lufton been present he would have made him- self more conspicuous by taking the chair. ]\Ir. Fothcrgill was the fourth. Mr. Fothergill was man of business to the Duke of Omnium, who was the great owner of property in and about Silvcrbridge, and he was the most active magis- trate in that part of the county. He was a sharp man, and not at all likely to have any predisposition in favor of a clergyman. The fifth was Dr. Thome, of Chaldicotes, a gentle- man whose name has been already mentioned in these pages. He had been for many years a medical man practicing in a little village in the further end of tlie county ; but it had come to be his flxte, late in life, to marry a great lieiress, with whose money the ancient house and do- main of Chaldicotes had been purchased from the Sowerbys. Since then Dr. Tliorne had done his duty well as a country gentleman — not, however, without some little want of smooth- ness between him and the duke's people. Chaldicotes lay next to the duke's territory, and the duke had wished to buy Chaldicotes. When Chaldicotes slipped through the duke's fingers and went into the hands of Dr. Thorne — or of Dr. Thome's wife — the duke had been very angry with JNIr. Futhergill. Hence it had come to pass that there had not always been smoothness between the duke's people and the Clialdicotes people. It was now rumored that Dr. Thorne intended to stand for the county on the next vacancy, and that did not tend to make things snloother. On the right hand of Lord Lufton sat Lord George and Mr. Fothergill, and beyond Mr. Fothergill sat Mr. Walker, and be- yond Mr. Walker sat Mv. Walker's clerk. On the left hand of the chairman were Dr. Tempest and Dr. Thorne, and a little lower down was Mr. Zachary Wintlirop, who held the situation of clerk to the magistrates. Many people in Silvcrbridge said that this was all wrong, as ]\Ir. Wintlirop was jiartncr with Mr. Walker, who was always employed before the magis- trates if there was any employment going for an attorney. For this, however, Mr. Walker cared very little. He had so much of his own way ill Silvcrbridge that he was supposed to care nothing for any body. There were many other gentlemen in the room, and some who knew Mr. Crawley with more or less intimacy. He, however, took no- tice of no one, and when one friend, who had really known him well, came up behind and spoke to him gently, leaning over his cliair, the poor man iiardly recognized his friend. "I'm sure your husband won't forget me," said Mr. Robarts, the clergyman of Framley, as he gave his hand to that lady across the back of Mr. Crawley's chair. "No, Mr. Kobarts, he does not forget you. But you must excuse him if at this moment he is not quite himself. It is a trying situation for a clergyman." "I can understand all that ; but I'll tell you why I have come. I suppose this inquiry will finish the whole affair, and clear up whatever may be the difficulty. But should it not do so, it may be just possible, IMrs. Crawley, that some- thing may be said about bail. I don't under- stand much about it, and I dare say you do not either ; but if there sliould be any thing of that sort, let IVIr. Crawley name me. A brother clergyman will be best, and I'll have some other gentleman with me." Then he left her, not waiting for any answer. At the same time there was a conversation going on between Mr. Walker and another at- torney standing behind him, Mr. Mason. "I'll go to him," said Walker, "and try to arrange it." So Mr. Walker seated himself in the enijity chair beside Mr. Crawlej', and endeavored to explain to the wretched man that he would do well to allow l\fr. Mason to assist him. Mr. Craw- ley seemed to listen to all that was said, and then turned upon the speaker sharply: "I will have no one to assist me," he said so loudly that every one in the room heard the words. "I am innocent. Why should I want assistance ? Nor have I money to pay for it." Mr. Mason made a quick movement forward, intending to explain that that consideration need oft'er no impediment, but was stopped by further speech from Mr. Crawley. "I will have no one to help me," said he, standing upright, and for the first time removing his hat from his head. " Go on, and do what it is you have to do." After that he did not sit down till the proceedings were nearly over, though he was invited more than once by Lord Lufton to do so. We need not go tlirough all the evidence that was brought to bear upon the question. It was proved that money for the check was paid to Mr. Crawley's messenger, and that this money was given to Jlr. Crawley. When there oc- 1 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 41 cnrred some little delay in the chain of evidence necessary to show that Mr. Crawley had signed and sent the check and got the money he be- came impatient. " AVhy do you trouble the man ?" he said. "I had the check, and I sent him ; I got the money. Has any one denied it, that you should strive to drive a poor man like that beyond his wits?" Then Mr. Soames and the manager of the bank showed what inquiry had been made as soon as the check came back from the London bank ; how at first they had both thought tliat Mr. Crawley could of course explain the matter, and how he had explained . C it by a statement which was manifestly untrue. Then there was evidence to prove that the check could not have been paid to him by Mr. Soames, and as this was given Mr. Crawley shook his head and again became impatient. "I erred in that," he exclaimed. "Of course I erred. In my haste I thought it was so, and in my haste I said so. I am not good at reckoning money and I'emembering sums; but I saw that I had been wrong when my error was shown to me, and I acknowledged at once that I had been wrong." Up to this point he had behaved not only with 42 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. so much sjjirit, but with so much reason, that his wife began to hope that tlie imj)ortancc of the occasion had brought back tlie clearness of his mind, and that he would, even now, be able to jdace himself right as the inquiry went on. Then it was c.\i)lained that Mr. Crawley had stated that the check had been given to him by Dean Arabin, as soon as it was shown that it could not have been given to him by INIr. Soames. In reference to this, ]\Ir. Walker was obliged to cxi)Iain that apidieation had been made to the dean, who was abroad, and that the dean had stated that he had given fifty pounds to his friend. Mr. Walker explained also that the very notes of whicli tliis fifty pounds had consist- ed had been traced back to Mr. Crawley, and that they had had no connection with the check or with the money which had been given for the check at the bank. Mr. Soames stated that he had lost the check with a pocket-book ; that he had certainly lost it on the day on which he had called on Mr. Crawley at Ilogglestock ; and that he missed his pocket-book on his journey back from Hog- glestock to Barchester. At the moment of missing it he remembered that he had taken the book out from his pocket in Mr. Crawley's room, and, at that moment, he had not doubted but that he had left it in Mr. Crawley's house. lie had written and sent to Mr. Crawley to inquire, but had been assured that nothing had been found. There had been no other pi'operty of value in the pocket-book — nothing but a few vis- itinj; cards and a memorandum, and he had therefore stopped the check at the London bank, and thought no more about it. Mr. Crawley was then asked to explain in what way he came possessed of the check. The question was first put by Lord Lufton ; but it soon fell into Mr. Walker's hands, who certain- ly asked it with all the kindness with which such an inquiry could be made. Could Mr. Crawley at all remember by what means that bit of paper had come into his possession, or how long he had had it? He answered the last question first. "It had been with him for months." And why had he kept it ? He looked round the room sternly, almost savagely, before he answered, fixing his eyes for a moment upon almost every face around him as he did so. Then he spoke. "I was driven by shame lo keep it — and then by shame to use it." That this statement was true no one in the room doubted. And then the other question was pi'cssed upon him ; and he lifted up his hands, and raised his voice, and swore by the Saviour in whom he ' trusted that he knew not from whence the money had come to him. Why then had he said that it had come from the dean ? He had thought so. The dean had given him money, covered up in an inclosure, "so that the touch of the coin might not add to my disgrace in tak- ing his alms," said the wretched man, thus speaking openly and freely in his agony of the !■ hide. He had not seen the dean's moneys as they had been given, and he had thought that the check had been with them. Beyond that he could tell them nothing. Then there was a conference between the magistrates and Mr. Walker, in which Mr. Walker submitted that the magistrates had no alternative but to commit the gentleman. To this Lord Lufton demurred, and with him Dr. Thornc. "I believe, as I am sitting here," said Lord Lufton, "tliat he has told the truth, and that he does not know any raorc than I do from whence the check came." " I am quite sure he does not," said Dr. Thorne. Lord George remarked that it was the "queer- est go he had ever come across." Dr. Tempest merely shook his head. Mr. Fothergill pointed out that even suj)posing the gentleman's state- ment to be true, it by no means went toward establishing the gentleman's innocence. Tlic check had been traced to the gentleman's hands, and the gentleman was bound to show how it had come into his possession. Even supposing that the gentleman had found the check in his house, which was likely enough, he was not thereby justified in changing it, and aj)plying the proceeds to his own purposes. Mr. Walker told them that Mr. Fothergill was right, and that the only excuse to be made for Mr. Craw- ley was that he was out of his senses. "I don't see it," said Lord Lufton. "I might have a lot of paper-money by me and not know from Adam where I got it." " But you would have to show where you got it, my lord, when inquiry was made," said Mr. Fothergill. Lord Lufton, who was not particularly fond of Mr. Fothergill, and was very unwilling to be instructed by him in any of the duties of a mag- istrate, turned his back at once upon the duke's agent ; but within three minutes afterward he had submitted to the same instructions from Mr. Walker. Mr. Crawley had again seated himself, and during this period of the aft\;ir was leaning over the table with his face buried on his arms. Mrs. Crawley sat by his side, utterly impotent as to any assistance, just touching him with her hand, and waiting behind her veil till she should be made to understand what was the decision of the magistrates. This was at last communica- ted to her — and to him — in a whisper by Mr. Walker. Mr. Crawley must understand that he ,was committed to take his trial at Barchester at the next assizes, which Avould be held in April, but that bail would be taken — his own bail in five hundred pounds, and that of two others in two hundred and fifty pounds each. And Mr. Walker explained further that he and the bail- men were ready, and that the bail-bond was prepared. The bailmen were to be the Rev. Mr. Robarts and Major Grantly. In five min- utes the bond was signed, and Mr. Crawley shame which he had striven so persistently to'l was at liberty to go away, a free man — till THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 43 the Barchester Assizes should come round in April. Of all that was going on at this time Mr. Crawley knew little or nothing, and Mrs. Craw- ley did not know much. She did say a word of thanks to Mr. Robarts, and begged that the same might be said to — the other gentleman. If she had heard the major's name she did not remember it. Then they were led out back into the bedroom, where Mrs. Walker was found, anxious to do something, if she only knew what, to comfort the wretched husband and the wretch- ed wife. But what comfortlifr consolation could there be within their reach? There was tea made ready for them, and sandwiches cut from the inn larder. And there was sherry in the inn decanter. But no such comfort as that was possible for either of tlieni. They were taken home again in the ily, re- turning without the escort of Mr. Thompson, and as they went some few words were spoken by Mrs. Crawley. " Josiah," she said, "there will be a way out of this, even yet, if you will only hold up your head and trust." " Tlierc is a way out of it," he said. " Tiiere is a way. There is but one wa}'." When he had so spoken she said no more, but resolved that her eye should never be off him, no — not for a moment. Tlien, when she had gotten him once more into that front parlor, she threw her arms round him and kissed him. ^ \^ .-^^ftv ^M'^' ^r^ CHAPTER IX. GRACE CRAWLEY GOES TO ALLINGTON. The tidings of what had been done by the magistrates at their petty sessions was commu- 'nicated the same night to Grace Crawley by JMiss Prettyman. Miss Anne Pretty man had heard the news within five minutes of the exe- cution of the bail-bond, and had rushed to her sister with information as to the event. " They have found iiim guilty ; they have, indeed. They have convicted him — or whatever it is, because he couldn't say where he got it." "You do not mean that they have sent him to prison ?" "No — not to prison; not as yet, that is. I don't understand it altogether; but he's to be tried again at the assizes. In the mean time he's to be out on bail. Major Grantly is to be the bail — he and Mr. Robarts. That, I think, was very nice of him." It was undoubtedly the fact that Miss Anne Prettyman had received an accession of pleasurable emotion when she learn- ed that Mr. Crawley had not been sent away scathless, but had been condemned, as it were, to a public trial at the assizes. And yet she would have done any thing in her power to save Grace Crawley, or even to save her father. And it must be explained that Miss Anne Pretty- man was supposed to be specially efficient in teaching Roman history to her pupils, although she was so manifestly ignorant of the course of law in the country in which she lived. "Committed him," said Miss Prettyman, cor- recting her sister with scorn. "They have not convicted him. Had they convicted him there could be no question of bail." "I don't know how all that is, Annabella, but at any rate Ma- jor Grantly is to be the bailsman, and there is to be another trial at Barchester." "There can not be more than one trial in a criminal case," said Miss Prettyman, "unless the jury should disagree, or something of that kind. I suppose he has been committed, and that the trial will take place at the assizes." "Exactly — that's just it." Had Lord Lufton appeared as lictor, and had Thompson carried the fasces, Miss Anne would have known more about it. The sad tidings were not told to Grace till the evening. Mrs. Crawley, when the inquiry was over before the magistrates, would fain have had herself driven to the MissPrettyman's school that she might see her daughter; but she felt that to be impossible while her husband was in her charge. The father would of course have gone to his child, had the visit been suggested to him ; but that would have caused another teri'ible scene ; and the mother, considering it all in her mind, thouglit it better to abstain. Miss Prettyman did her best to make poor Grace tliink that the affair had gone so far favorably — did her best, that is, without saying any thing which her conscience told her to be false. "It is to be settled at the assizes in April," she said. "And in the mean time what will become of papa?" "Your papa will be at home, just as usual. He must have some one to advise him. I dare say it would have been all over now if he would have employed an attorney." " But it seems so hard that an attorney should be wanted." "My dear Grace, things in this world are hard." u THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET, "Rut tlicy fire always harder for papa and mainma than for any body else." In answer to this Miss I'rcttyman made some remarks in- tended to be wise and kind at the same time. Grace, whose eyes were hxden with tears, made no immediate rei)ly to tliis, but reverted to her former statement that she must go liome. "I can not remain, Miss rrettyman ; I am so un- happy." " Will yon be more lia|>])y iit home?" " I can bear it better there." The i)oor j;irl soon learned from the intended consolations of those around her, from the ill- considered kindnesses of the jnijiils, and from words wliii-!i fell from the servants, that her fa- ther had in fact i)cen judged to be guilty, as far as judgment hail as yet gone. "They do say, miss, it's only because he hadn't a lawyer," said tlie Iiousckeeper. And if men so kind as Lord Lufton and -Mr. Walker had made him out to be guilty, what could be expected from a stern judge down from London, who would know no- thing about her ]:o)r father and his peculiari- ties, and from t^vcIvo jurymen wlio would bo shoi)-kcepers out of Barchestcr? It would kill licr fatlier, and then it would kill her mother; and after that it would kill lier also. And there was no money in the house at home. She knew it well. She had been paid three pounds a month for her services at the school, and the money for the last two months had been sent to her mother. Yet, badly as she wanted any thing that slie miglit be able to earn, she knew that she could not go on teaching. It had come to be acknowledged by both the Miss Prettymans that any teaching on her part for the present was impossible. Siie would go home and perish with the rest of them. There was no room left for hope to her, or to any of h3r family. They had accused her father of being a common thief — her father whom she knew to be so nobly honest, her father whom she believed to be among the most devoted of God's servants. He was accused of a paltry theft, and the magistrates and lawyers and policemen among them had decided tliat the accusation was true! How could she look the girls in the face after that, or attempt to hold her own among the teacliers ! On tlie next morning there came tlie letter from Miss Lily Dale, and with that in her hand she again went to Miss Prettyman. She must go home, she said. She must at any rate see her mother. Could Miss Prettyman be kind enough to send her home. " I haven't sixpence to pay for any thing," she said, bursting out into tears; "and I haven't a right to ask for it." Then the statements which Miss Prettyman made in her eagerness to cover this latter mis- fortune wore decidedly false. There was so much money owing to Grace, she said ; money for this, money for that, money for any thing or nothing ! Ten pounds would hardly clear the account. " Nobody owes me any thing ; but if you'll lend mo five shillings !" said Grace, in her agony. Miss Prettyman, as sho made her way through this difficulty, thought of Ma- jor Grantly and his love. It would have been of no use, she knew. Had she brought them to- gether on that Monday, Grace would have said nothing to him. Indeed such a meeting at such a time would have been improper. Put regard- ing ftlajor Grantly, as she did, in the light of a millionaire — for the wealth of the archdeacon was notorious — slie could not but think it a pity that poor Grace should be begging for five shil- lings. " You need not at any rate trouble your- self about money, Grace," said Miss Prettyman. " Wiuit is a i)ound|Jr two more or less between yon and me? It is almost unkind of you to think about it. Is that letter in your hand j any thing for me to see, my dear?" Then ( Grace exjilained tliat she did not wish to show j Miss Dale's letter, but that Miss Dale had asked her to go to Allington. "And you will go," said IMiss Prettyman. "It will be the best thing for you, and the best thing for your mo- ther."' It was at last decided that Grace should go to her friend at Allington, and to Allington slio livent. She returned home for a day or two, and was persuaded by her mother to accept the invitation tliat had been given her. At Ilog- glcstock, while she was there, new troubles came up, of which something shall shortly be told ; but they were troubles in which Grace could give no assistance to her mother, and which, indeed, thougli they were in truth trou- bles, as will be seen, were so far beneficent that they stirred her father up to a certain action which was in itself salutary. " I think it will be better that you should be away, dearest," said the mother, who now, for the first time, heard plainly all that poor Grace had to tell about Major Grantly — Grace having, heretofore, barely spoken, in most ambiguous words, of I\Injor Grantly as a gentleman whom she had met at Eramley, and whom she had described as being "very nice." ■ In old days, long ago, Lucy Kobarts, the present Lady Lufton, sister of the Rev. Mark Robarts, the parson of Framlc}-, had sojourned for a while under Mr. Crawley's roof at Hogglc- stock. Peculiar circumstances, which need not, perhaps, be told here, had given occasion for this visit. She had then resolved — for her fu- ture destiny had been known to her before she left Mrs. Crawley's house — that she would in coming days do much to befriend the family of her friend ; but the doing of much had been very difficult. And the doing of any thing had come to be very difficult through a certain indis- cretion on Lord Lufton's part. Lord Lufton j had oftered assistance, pecuniary assistance, to I Mr. Crawley, which Mr. Crawley had rejected j with outspoken anger. What was Lord Lufton j to him that his lordship should dare to come to j him with his paltry money in his hand? But 1 after a while Lady Lufton, exercising some i cunning in the operations of her friendship, had 1 persuaded her sister-in-law at the Framley par- ' sonage to have Grace Crawley over there as a I THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 45 risitor — and thc/c she had been during the sum- mer holidnvs ))revions to the comnicncenient of our story. And there, at Franilcy, she had be- come acqtiainted with Major Grantly, who was staying with Lord Lufton at Framley Court. 8hc had then said something to her mother about Major Grantly, sometliing ambiguous, something about liis being " very nice," and the mother had thought how great was the pity that her daughter, who was "nice" too in her esti- mation, shouUl have so few of those adjuncts to assist her wliich come from full pockets. She had thought no more aboW it then; but now she felt herself constrained to think more. "I don't quite understand why he should have come to Miss Prettyman on Monday," said Grace, "because he hardly knows her at all." "I suppose it was on business," said Mrs. Crawley. "No, mamma, it was not on business." "How can you tell, dear?" " Because Miss Prettyman said it was — it was — to ask after me. Oh, mamma, I must tell you. I know he did like me." "Did he ever say so to you, dearest?" "Yes, mamma." "And what did j-ou tell him ?"' "I told him nothing, mamma." "And did he ask to see you on IMonday?" "No, manmia; I don't think he did. I think he understood it all too well, for I could not have spoken to him then." Mrs. Crawley pursued the cross-examination no further, but made up her mind that it would be better that her girl sliould be away from her wretched home during this period of her life. If it were written in the book of fate that one of her children should be exempted from the series of misfortunes which seemed to fall, one after another, almost as a matter of course, upon her luisband, upon her, and upon her family ; if so great good fortune were in store for her Grace as such a marriage as this which seemed to be so nearly otfered to her, it might probably be well that Grace should be as little at home as possible. ]\Irs. Crawley had heard nothing' but good of Major Grantly ; but she knew that the Grantlys were proud, rich peojilc — who lived with their heads high up in the county — and it could hardly be that a son of tlie archdeacon would like to take his bride direct from Hogglestock parsonage. It was settled that Grace should go to Ailing- ton as soon as a letter could be received from Miss Dale in return to Grace's note, and on the third morning after her arrival at home slie started. None but they who have themselves been poor gentry — gentry so poor as not to know how to raise a shilling — can understand the pe- culiar bitterness of the trials which such poverty produces. The poverty of the normal poor does not approach it; or, rather, the pangs arising from such poverty are altogether of a different sort. To be hungry and have no food, to bo coldand have no fuel, to be threatened with dis- traint for one's few chairs and tables, ar.d with the loss of the roof over one's head — all these miseries, which, if they do not jiositively reach, are so frequcntlj^ near to reacliing the normal poor, are, no doubt, the severest of the trials to which humanity is suhjected. They threaten life — or, if not life, then liberty — reducing the abject one to a choice between captivity and starvation. By hook or crook, the poor gentle- man or poor lady — let the one or the other be ever so poor — does not often come to the last extremity of the work-house. There are such cases, but they are exceptional. Mrs. Crawley, througli all her sufferings, had never yet found her cujiboard to be absolutely bare, or the bread- ])an to be actually empty. But there are pangs to which, at the time, starvation itself would seem to be preferable. The angry eyes of un- paid tradesmen, savage with an anger which one knows to be justifiable; the taunt of the poor servant who wants her wages ; the gradual re- linquishment of habits which the soft nurture of earlier, kinder years had made second nature; the wan cheeks of the wife whose malady de- mands wine ; the rags of the husband whose out- ward occupations demand decency ; the neglected children, w ho are learning not to be the children, of gentlefolk ; and, worse than all, the alms and doles of half-generous friends, the waning pride, the pride that w-ill not wane, the growing doubt whether it be not better to bow the head, and acknowledge to all the world that nothing of the pride of station is left — that the hand is o]icn to receive and ready to touch the cap, that the fall from the upper to the lower level has been accomplished — these are the pangs of poverty which drive the Crawleys of the world to the frequent entertaining of that idea of the bare bodkin. It was settled that Grace should go to Allington; but how about her clothes? And then, whence was to come the price of her jour- ney? "I don't think they'll mind about my being shabby at Allington. They live very quietly there." "But you say that Miss Dale is so very nice in all her ways." "Lily isverynice, mamma ; but I sha'n'tm.ind her so much as her mother, because she knows it all. I have told her every thing." "But you have given me all your money, dearest." "Miss Prettyman told me I was to come to her," said Grace, who had already- taken some small sum from the schoolmistress, which at once had gone into her mother's pocket, and into household purposes. "She said I should be sure to go to Allington, and that of course I should go to her, as I must pass through Silver- bridge." "I hope papa will not ask about it," said Mrs. Crawley. Luckily papa did not ask about it, being at the moment occupied much with other thoughts and other troubles, and Grace was allowed to return by Silverbridge, and to take what was needed from JSIiss Prettyman. Who can tell of the mending and patching, of 4G THE LAST CHKONICLE OF BARSET. tlic weary wearing midnight liouis of needle- work which were at'conii)lished before the poor pirl went, so that she might not readi her friend's house in actual rags? And when the work was ended, what was there to show for it ? I do not think tliat the idea of the bare bodkin, as re- garded herself, ever flitted ncross Mrs. Crawley's brain — she being one of those who arc very strong to endure ; but it must have occurred to her very often that the re]>ose of the grave is sweet, and that there cometli after deatii a lev- eling and making even of things which would at last cure all her evils. Grace no doubt looked forward to a leveling and making even of things — or perhajis even to something more prosperous thaii that, which should come to her relief on this side of the grave. She could not but have high hojies in regard to her future destiny. Although, as has been said, she understood no more than she ought to have understood from Miss Prettyman's account of the conversation with Major Grant- ly, still, innocent as she was, she had understood much. She knew that the man loved her, and she knew also that she loved the man. She tliorouglily comprehended that the present could be to her no time for listening to speeches of love, or for giving kind answers ; but still I think that she did look for relief on this side of the grave. "Tut, tut!" said Miss Pretty man, as Grace in vain tried to conceal her tears nj) in the pri- vate sanctum. "You ought to know me by this time, and to have learned that I can under- stand things." The tears had flown in return not only for tlie five gold sovereigns which Miss Prettyman had pressed into her hand, but on account of the prettiest, soft, gray merino frock that ever charmed a girl's eye. "I should like to know how many girls I have given dresses to when they have been going out visiting. Law, my dear ; they take them, many of them, from us old maids, almost as if we were only paying our debts in giving them." And then Miss Anne gave her a cloth cloak, very warm, with pretty buttons and gimp trimmings — just such a cloak as any girl might like to wear who thought that she would be seen out walking by her ISIajor Grantly on a Christmas morning. Grace Crawley did not expect to be seen out walking by her Major Grantly, but nevertheless she liked the cloak. By the power of her prac- tical will, and by her true sympathy, the elder Miss Prettyman had for a while conquered the annoyance which, on Grace's part, was attached to the receiving of gifts, by the consciousness of her poverty ; and when Miss Anne, with some pride in the tone of her voice, expressed a hope that Grace would think the cloak pretty, Grace put her arms pleasantly round her friend's neck, and declared that it was very pretty — the pretti- est cloak in all the world ! Grace was met at the Guestwiek railway-sta- tion by her friend Lilian Dale, and was driven over to Allington in a pony carriage belonging to Lilian's uncle, the squire of the parish. I think she will be excused in having put on her new cloak, not so much because of the cold as with a view of making the best of herself before Mrs. Dale. And yet she knew that Mrs. Dale would know all the circumstances of her pover- ty, and was very glad tiiat it siiould be so. "I am so glad that you have come, dear," said Lily, " It will be such a comfort." "I am sure you are very good," said Grace. "And mamma is so glad. Prom the mo- ment that we both talked ourselves into eager- ness about it — while I was writing my letter, you ktiow, we resolved that it must be so." " Pm afraid I shall be a great trouble to Mrs. Dale." "A trouble to mamma! Indeed you will not. You shall be a trouble to no one but me. I will have all the trouble myself, and the labor I dcliglit in shall ])liysic my pain." Grace Crawley could not during the journey be at home and at ease even with her friend Lily. She was going to a strange house under strange cii'cumstances. Her father had not in- deed been tried and found guilty of theft, but the charge of theft had been made against him, and the magistrates before whom it had been made had thought that the charge was true. Grace knew that all the local newspapers had told the story, and was of course aware that Mrs. Dale would have heard it. Her own mind was full of it, and though she dreaded to speak of it, yet she could not be silent. Miss Dale, who understood much of this, endeavored to talk her friend into easiness ; but she feared to begin upon the one subject, and before the drive was over they were, both of them, too cold for much conversation. "There's mamma," said Miss Dale as they drove up, turning out of the street of tlie village to the door of Mrs. Dale's house. "She always knows by instinct when I am coming. You must understand, now that you are among us, that mamma and I are not mother and daughter, but two loving old ladies, living together in peace and harmony. We do have our quarrels — whether the ciiicken shall be roast or boiled, but never any thing beyond that. Mamma, here is Grace, starved to death ; and she says if you don't give her some tea she will go back at once." "I will give her some tea," said Mrs. Dale. "And I am worse than she is, because I've been driving. It's all up with Bertram and Mr. Green for the next week at least. It is freezing as hard as it can freeze, and they might as well try to hunt in Lapland as here." "They'll console themselves wdth skating," said Mrs. Dale. "Have you ever observed, Grace," said Miss Dale, "how much amusement gentlemen re- quire, and how imperative it is that some otlier game should be provided when one game fails ?" " Not particularly," said Grace. "Oh, but it is so. Now, with women, it is supposed that they can amuse themselves or live without amusement. Once or twice in a year, perhaps, something is done for them. THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 47 There is an arrow-shooting party, or a bail, or a picnic. But the catering for men's s])ort is nev- er-ending, and is always paramount to every thing else. And yet the pet game of the day nev- er goes off properly. In partridge time the jiar- tridges are wild, and won't come to be killed. In hunting time the foxes won't run straight — the wretches. They show no spirit, and will take to ground to save their brashes. Then comes a nipping frost, and skating is proclaim- ed ; but the ice is always rough, and the wood- cocks have deserted the country. And as for salmon — when the summer comes round I do really believe that they suffer a great deal about the salmon. I'm sure they never catch any. So they go back to their clubs and their cards, and their billiards, and abuse their cooks and blackball tlicir friends. That's about it, mam- ma ; is it not ?" " You know more about it than I do, ray dear." " Because I have to listen to Bertram, as you never will do. AVe've got such a Mr. Green down here, Grace. He's such a duck of a man — sucii top-boots and all the rest of it. And yet they whisper to me that he doesn't ride al- ways to hounds. And to see him play billiards is beautiful, only he never can make a stroke. I hope you play billiards, Grace, because uncle Christopher has just had a new table put up." "I never saw a billiard- table yet," said Grace. "Then Mr. Green shall teach you. He'll do any thing that you ask him. If you don't ap- prove the color of the ball, he'll go to London to get you another 'one. Only you must be very careful about saying that you like any thing before him, as he'll be sure to have it for you the next day. Mamma happened to say that she wanted a four-penny postage-stamp, and he walked off to Guestwick to get it for her instantly, although it was lunch-time." " He did nothing of the kind, Lily," said her mother. "He Avas going to Guestwick, and was very good-natured, and brought me back a postage-stamp that I wanted." " Of course he's good-natured ; I know that. And there's my cousin Bertram. He's Captain , Dale, foa know. But he prefers to be called Mr. Dale, because he has left the army, and has set up as junior squire of the parish. Uncle Christopher is the real squire ; only Bertram does all the work. And now you know all about us. I'm afiaid you'll find us dull enough — un- less you can take a fancy to Mr. Green." "Docs Mr. Green live here?" asked Grace. ■ "No ; he does not live here. I never heard of his living any where. He was something once, but I don't know what ; and I don't think he's any thing now in particular. But he's Bertram's friend, and like most men, as ono sees them, he never has much to do. Does Major Grantly ever go forth to fight his coun- try's battles?" This last question she asked in a low whisper, so that the words did not reach her mother. Grace blushed up to her eyes, however, as she answered : "I think that Major Grantly has left the army." "Wc shall get her round in a day or two, mamma," said Lily Dale to her mother that night. " I'm sure it will be the best thing to force her to talk of her troubles." " I would not use too much force, my dear." " Things are better when they're talked about. I'm sure they are. And it will be good to make her accustomed to speak of Major Grantly. From what Mary Walker tells me he certainly means it. And if so, she should be ready for it when it comes." "Do not make her ready for what may never come." "No, mamma; but she is at present such a child that she knows nothing of her own pow- ers. She should be made to understand that it is possible that even a Major Grantly may think himself fortunate in being allowed to love her. " " I should leave all that to Nature, if I were you, " said Mrs. Dale. CHAPTER X. DIXNER AT FRAMLEY CODET. Lord Lufton, as he drove home to Framley after the meeting of the magistrates at Silver- bridge, discussed the matter with his brother-in- law, Mark Robarts, the clergyman. Lord Luf- ton was driving a dog-cart, and went along the road at the rate of twelve miles an hour. "I'll tell you what it is, Mark," he said, "that man is innocent ; but if he won't employ lawyers at his trial the jury will find him guilty." "I don't know what to think about it," said the clergyman. "Were you in the room when he protested so vehemently that he didn't know where he got the money?" "I was in the room all the time." " And did you not believe him when he said that ?" "Yes— I think I did." "Any body must have believed him — except old Tempest, who never believes any body, and Fothergill, who always suspects every body. The truth is, that he had found the check and put it by, and did not remember any thing about it." "But, Lufton, surely that would amount to stealing it." "Yes, if it wasn't that he is such a poor, cracked, crazj' creature, with his mind all abroad. I think Soames did drop his book in his house. I'm sure Soames would not say so unless he was quite confident. Somebody has picked it up, and in some way the check has got into Craw- ley's hand.. Then he has locked it up and has forgotten all about it ; and when that butcher threatened him he has put his hand upon it, and he has thought, or believed, that it had come from Soames, or from the dean, or from heaven, if you will. When a man is so crazy 48 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. as tliat, you can't judge of him as yon do of others." " But a jury nnist judge of him as it would of otiiers." '• And therefore there should he a hiwycr to tell tlic jury what to do. Tiiey should iiave somebody up out of the parish to show that lie is heside liiniself half his time. His wife would he the best i)crson, only it would be hard lines on her." "Very hard. And after all he would only escape by being siiown to be mad." "And he is mad." " Jlrs. I'roudie would come n])on him in such a case as that, and sequester his living." "And what will ^Irs. Troudie do when he's a convicted thief? yimply unfrock him and take away his living altogether. Notliing on cartli should induce me to find him guilty if I were on a jury." "But you have committed him." " Yes — I've been one, at least, in doing so. I simply did that whicli "Walker told us we must do. A magistrate is not left to himself as a juryman is. I'd eat the biggest pair of boots in Barchester before I found him guilty. I say, IMark, you must talk it over with the wo- men, and sec what can be done for them. Lucy tells me that they're so poor that if they have bread to eat it's as much as they have." On this evening Archdeacon Grantly and his wife dined and slept at Framley Court, there liaving been a very long family friendship be- tween old Lady Lufton and the Grantlys, and Dr. Thorne with his wife, from Chaldicotes, also dined at Framley. There was also tiicrc another clergyman from Barchester, Mr. Cham- pion, one of the prebends of the cathedral. There were only three now who had houses in the city since the retrenchments of the ecclesi- astical commission had come into full force. And this Mr. Champion was dear to the Dow- ager Lady Lufton, because he carried on wor- thily the clerical war against the bishop, which had raged in Barsetshire ever since Dr. Proudie had come there — which war old Lady Lufton, good and pious and charitable as she was, con- sidered that she was bound to keep up, even to the knife, till Dr. Proudie and all liis satellites should have been banished into outer darkness. As the light of the Proudies still shone brightly, it was probable that poor old Lady Lufton might die before her battle was accomplished. She often said that it would be so, hut when so say- ing always expressed a wish that the fight might be carried on after her death. " I shall never, never rest in my grave," she had once said to the archdeacon, "while that woman sits in your father's ]>alace." For the archdeacon's father had been Bishop of Barchester before Dr. Proudie. What mode of getting i;id of the bishop or his wife Lady Lufton proposed to herself I am unable to say ; but I think she lived in hopes that in some way it iniglit be done. If only the bishop could have been found to have stolen a check for twenty p(nnu!s, instead of ))Oor Mr. Crawley, Lady Lufton would, I think, have been satisfied. In the course of these battles Framley Conri would sometimes assume a clerical aspect — have a ]>revailing hue, as it were, of black coats, whicii was not altogether to the taste of Lord Lufton, and as to which ho would make com- ]ilaint to his wife, and to Mark Kobarts, himself a clergyman. "There's more of this than I can stand," he'd say to the latter. "There's a deuced deal more of it than you like yourself, I know." "It's not for me to like or dislike. It's a great thing having your mother in the pai'ish." "That's all very well; and of course she'll do as she likes. She may ask whom she pleases here, and I sha'n't interfere. It's the same as though it was her own house. But I shall take Lucy to Lufton." Now Lord Lufton had been building his house at Lufton for the last seven years and it was not yet finisiied — or nearly fin- ished, if all that his wife and mother said was true. And if they could have their way it nev- er would be finished. And so, in order that Lord Lufton might not be actually driven away by the turmoils of ecclesiastical contest, tlic younger Lady Lufton would endeavor to moder- ate both the wrath and the zeal of the elder one, and would struggle against the coming clergy- men. On this day, however, three sat at the board at Framley, and Lady Lufton, in her justification to her son, swore that the invitation had been given by her daughter-in-law. " You know, my dear," the dowager said to Lord Luf- ton, "something must be done for these i)Oor Crawleys; and as tlie dean is away, Lucy wants to speak to the archdeacon about them." " And the archdeacon could not subscribe his ten-pound note without having Mr. Cham- pion to back him ?" " ]My dear Ludovic, you do put it in such a way." "Never mind, mother. I've no special dis- like to Champion ; only as you are not paid five thousand a year for your trouble, it is ratlicr hard that you should have to do all the work of opjjosition bishop in the diocese." It was felt by them all — including Loi^ Luf- ton himself, who became so interested in the matter as to forgive the black coats before the evening was over — that this matter of Mr. Craw- ley's committal was very serious, and demanded the full energies of their ])arty. It was known to them all that the feeling at the palace was inimical to Mr. Crawley. "That she-Beelze- bub hates him for his povert}^ and because Ara- bin brought him into the diocese," said the arch- deacon, permitting himself to use very strong language in his allusion to the bishop's wife. It must be recorded on his behalf that he used the phrase in the presence only of the gentle- men of the party. I think he might have whis- pered the word into the ear of his confidential friend old Lady Lufton, and perhaps have given no oflTense ; but he would not have ventured to use such words aloud in the presence of ladies. THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 49 "You forget, archdeacon," said Dr. Thorne, laughing, " that the she-Beelzebub is my wife's particular friend." " Not a bit of it, "said the archdeacon. ' ' Your wife knows better than that. You tell her what I call her, and if she complains of tlie name I'll unsay it." It may therefore be supposed that Dr. Thorne, and Mrs. Thorne, and the archdeacon, knew each other intimately, and understood each other's feelings on these mat- ters. It was quite true that the palace party was inimical to Mr. Crawley. Mr. Crawley undoubt- edly was poor, and had not been so submissive to episcopal authority as it behooves any clergy- man to be whose loaves and fishes are scanty. He had raised his back more than once against orders emanating from the palace in a manner that had made the hairs on the head of the bish- op's wife to stand almost on end, and had taken as much upon himself as though his living had been worth twelve hundred a year. Mrs. Prou- die, almost as energetic in her language as the archdeacon, had called liim a beggarly perpetu- al curate. "We must have perpetual curates, my dear," the bishop had said. "They should know their places then. But wliat can j-ou ex- pect of a creature from the deaneiy ? All that ouglit to be altered. The dean should have no patronage in the diocese. No dean should have any patronage. It is an abuse from the begin- ning to the end. Dean Arabin, if he had any conscience, would be doing the duty at Hoggle- stock himself." How the bishop strove to teach his wife, with mildest Avords, what really ought to be a dean's duty, and how the wife rejoined by teaching her husband, not in the mildest words, what ought to be a bishop's duty, we will not further inquire here. The fact that such dialogues took place at the palace is recorded simply to show that the palatial feeling in Bar- chester ran counter to Mr. Crawley. And this was cause enough, if no other cause existed, for partiality to Mr. Crawley at Fram- ley Court. But, as has been partly explained, there existed, if possible, even stronger ground than this for adherence to tlie Crawley cause. The younger Lady Lufton had known the Craw- leys intimately, and the elder Lady Lufton had reckoned them among the neighboring clerical families of iier acquaintance. Both these la- dies were therefore stanch in tlieir defense of Mr. Crawley. The archdeacon himself had his own reasons — reasons which for the present he kept altogether wdthin his own bosom — for wish- ing that !Mr. Crawley had never entered the di- ocese. Whether the perpetual curate should or should not be declared to be a thief, it would be terrible to him to have to call the child of that perpetual curate his daughter-in-law. But not the less on this occasion was he true to his order, true to his side in the diocese, true to his hatred of tlie palace. "I don't believe it for a moment." he said, as he took his place on the rug before tlie fire in the drawing-room when the gentlemen came in from their wine. The ladies understood at once what it was that he couldn't believe. Mr. Crawley had for the moment so usurped the county that nobody thought of talking of any thing else. "How is it, then," said Mrs. Thorne, "that Lord Lufton, and my husband, and the other wiseacres at Silverbridge, have committed him for trial ?" "Because we were told to do so by the law- yer," said Dr. Thorne. "Ladies will never understand that magis- trates must act in accordance with the law," said Lord Lufton. "But you all say he's not guilty," said Mrs. Robarts. "The fact is, that the magistrates can not try the question," said the archdeacon; "they only hear the primary evidence. In this case I don't believe Crawley would ever have been committed if he had employed an attorney in- stead of speaking for himself." "Why didn't somebody make him have an attorney?" said Lady Lufton. " I don't think any attorney in the world could have spoken for him better than he spoke for himself," said Dr. Thorne. "And yet you committed him," said his wife. " What can we do for him ? Can't we pay the bail, and send liim oflP to America?" "A jury will never find him guilty," said Lord Lufton. "And what is the truth of it?" asked the younger Lady Lufton. Then the whole matter was discussed again, and it was settled among them all that Mr. Crawley had undoubtedly ap; ropriated the check through temporary obliquity of judgment — ob- liquity of judgment and forgetfulness as to the source from whence the check had come to him. "He has picked it up about the house, and then has thought that it was his own," said Lord Lufton. Had they come to the conclusion that such an appropriation of money had been made by one of the clergy of the palace, by one of the Troudeian party, they would doubtless have been very loud and very bitter as to the iniquity of the offender. They would have said much as to the weakness of the bishop and the wick- edness of the bishop's wife, and would have de- clared the appropriator to Iiave been as very a thief as ever picked a pocket or opened a till — but they were unanimous in their acquittal of INIr. Crawley. It had not been his intention, they said, to be a thief, and a man should be judged only by his intention. It must now be their object to induce a Barchester jury to look at the matter in the same light. "When they come to understand how the land lies," said the archdeacon, "they will be all right. There's not a tradesman in the city who does not hate that woman as though she were — " "Archdeacon," said his wife, cautioning him to repress his energy. "Their bills are all paid by this new chajilain 60 THE LAST CURONICLE OF BARSET. they've got, and lie is made to claim discount on every log of mutton," said the archdeacon. Arguing from wliich fact, or from which asser- tion, he came to tlic conclusion that no Barches- ter jury would find Mr. Crawley guilty. But it was agreed on all sides that it would not be well to trust to the unassisted friondshiii of the Barcliester tradesmen. Jlr. Crawley must be ])rovided with legal assistance, and tiiis must be furnished to him whether he should be will- ing or unwilling to receive it. Tliat there would be a ditliculty was acknowledged. JNIr. Crawley was known to bo a man not easy of persuasion, Avith a will of his own, with a great energy of obstinacy on jioints which he chose to take up as being of importance to his calling, or to his own ju-ofessional 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. llobarts, the cler- gyman of Framley, was deputed from tiie knot of Crawleiau advocates assembled in Lady Luf- ton's drawing-room to undertake the duty of seeing Mr. Crawley, and of explaining to him that his proper defense was regarded as a matter appertaining to the clergy and gentry generally of that jiart of the country, and that for the sake of the clergy and gentry the defense must of course be properly conducted. In such circum- stances the expense of the defense would of course be borne by the clergy and gentry con- cerned. It was thought that Mr. llobarts could put the matter to Mr. Crawley with such a mixt- ure of the strength of manly friendship and the softness of clerical persuasion, as to overcome the recognized diflSculties of the task. CHAPTER XL THE BISHOP SENDS IIIS INIIiniTION. 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 imjjerceptible wires, and distributed by inde- fatigable message boys whom Rumor seems to supply for the purpose. Barchester is twenty miles from Silverbridge by road, and more than forty by railway. I doubt whether any one 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 com- mitted that man to jail. There was no help for them unless they had forsworn themselves." "Not forsworn themselves, my dear," said the bishop, striving, as was usual with him, by some meek and inellectual 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 forsworn themselves ! " said Mrs. Prou- die ; "and now what do you mean to do ? This is Thui'sday, 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." " Jail, my dear." "I s.ay they have committed him to jail. So my informant tells me. But of course all the Plumstcad 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 ho])e so. And if he has a con- science, what must be his feelings when he hears that this creature whom he brought into the diocese has been committed to jail 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 crow-bar. And now what are we to do ? Here is Thursday, and something must be done before Sunday for the souls of those poor be- nighted creatures at Hogglestock." Mrs. Prou- die was ready for the battle, and was even now sniffing the blood afar off". "I believe it's a hundred and thirty pounds a year," she said, before the bishop had collected his thoughts suf- ficiently for a reply. " I think we must find out, first of all, wheth- er he is really to be shut up in prison," said the bishop. "And suppose he is not to be shut up. Sup- pose they have been weak or untrue to their duty — and from what we know of the magis- trates of Barsetshire there is too much reason to suppose that they will have been so ; suppose they have let him out, is he to go about like a roaring lion among tlie souls of the people ?" The bisliop 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 elo- quent 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 con- scientious man, and well knew that poor Mr. Crawley, even though he might have become a thief under terrible temptation, 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 his trial, as a convicted thief. But to explain all this to Mrs. Proudie was be- yond his power. He knew well that she would not hear a word in mitigation of Mr. Crawley's I THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 51 prcsumecl offense. IMr. Crawley belonged to tlie other party, and Mrs. Proudie was a thor- ough-going partisan. I know a man — an ex- cellent fellow, who, being himself a strong poli- tician, constantly expresses a belief that all poli- ticians opposed to him are thieves, child-mur- derers, parricides, lovers of incest, demons npon the 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 re- ally 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 be- lieved that the archdeacon was an actual ema- nation from Satan, sent to those parts to devour souls — as slie would call it — and that she her- self was an emanation of another sort, sent fi'om another source expressly to Barchester to pre- vent such devouring, as for as it might possibly 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 no faith in many things which she be- lieved 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 as yet, my dear," said the bishop. "A convicted thief!" repeated j\Irs. Proudie ; and she vociferated tiie words in such a tone that the bishop resolved that he would for the future let the word convicted pass without no- tice. 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." Tlie 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 hecould 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 uncoijsciously endeavor 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 encounter the win- ter weather without complaint. And he would be patient under the hot sun, knowing well that tranquillity is best for those who have to bear tropical heat. But when the storm threatened to knock him ofl:' his legs, when the earth be- neath 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 author- ity 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 tiie read- ing-desk. That scandal must at any rate be in- hibited." Now the bishop did not at all like the use of the woi'd 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, my dear, to-night." "And Mr. Thumble can go over with the let- ter the first thing in the morning." "Will not the post be better?" "No, bishop; certainh' not." " He would get it sooner, if I write to-night, my dear." "In either case he will get it to-morrow 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 that Mr. Thumble, if we decide that Mr. Thumble shall undertake the duty — " " We have decided that Mr. Thumble should undertake the duty. That is decided." "But I do not think he should trouble him- self to look for lodgings at Hogglestock. He can go over on the Sundays." "And who is to do the parish work ? Would 62 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 'a convicted TUIEf!" repeated MK8. I'ROUDIE. yon liave that man, a convicted tliicf, 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 nnliap- py, and feeling that he was driven by circum- stances either to assert his own knowledge or teach his wife something of the law with refer- ence to liis position as a bishop. "AVho is to pay Mr. Thumble?" " The income of the parish must be seques- trated, and he must be paid out of that. Of course he must have the income while he does the work." "But, my dear, I can not sequestrate the man's income." "I don't believe it, bishop. If the bisliop can not sequestrate, who can? But you are al- ways timid in exercising the authority ]nit into your hands for wise purposes. Not sequestrate tlie income of a man who has been proved to be a tjiief ! You leave tliat to us, and we will man- THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. age it." Tlie "us" here named comprised Mrs. Troudie and the bishop's managing cliaphiin. Then the bishop was left alone for an hour to write the letter which Mr. Thunible was to car- ry over to Mr. Crawley — and after a while he did write it. Before he commenced tlie task, however, he sat for some moments in liis arm- chair close by the fireside, asking himself wheth- er 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 un- written, 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 slie could do these things. In the last thirty yeai-s or more she had ever contrived by some power latent in her to have her will ef- fected. But what would happen if now, even now, he were to rebel ? That he would person- ally become very uncomfortable he was well aware, but he thought ihat he could bear that. The food would become bad — mere ashes be- tween his teeth, the daily modicum of wine would lose its flavor, the cliiraneys 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 of life in which such miseries make such men very miserable ; but yet he thought that he could endure ihem. And what other wretchedness would come to him ? She would scold him — fiightfully, loudly, scorn- fully, and, worse than all, continually. But of this he had so much habitually that any thing 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 al- lowed 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 pal- ace, and when he was summoned imperiously by the woman, calling for her 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 as- sume an air of masterdom should he chance to meet a house-maid on the stairs — tlien, at such moments as that, he would feel that any sub- mission was better than the misery whicli ho suffered. And he well knew that should lie now rebel the whole house would be in a turmoil. He would be bishoped here and 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 liis desk and wrote the letter. The letter was as follows : "The Pai.aoe, Baecuestkk, — Deceviher, ISO-. "Revkrend Sm" — he left out the dear, be- cause he knew that if he inserted it he would be compelled to write the letter over again — "I have heard to-day with the greatest trouble of spirit, that you have been taken before a bench of magistrates assembled at Silverbridge, having been previously arrested by the police in your j)arsouage house at Ilogglestock, and that the magistrates of Silverbridge have com- mitted you to take your trial at the next assizes at Barchester, on a charge of theft. "Far be it from me to ])rcjudgc the case. You will understand, reverend Sir, that I ex- press 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 acknowledgment and confession ! If you are innocent, may He protect you, and make your innocence to 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 bishoiJ, to explain to you that, circumstanced as you are, you can not with decency perform the church services of your parish. I have that confidence in you that I doubt not you will agree with me in this, and will be grateful to me for relieving you so far from the immediate perplexities of your position. I have, therefore, ajipointcd the Rev. Caleb Thumble to perform tlie duties of in- cumbent of Ilogglestock till such time as a jury shall have decided upon your case at Barches- ter; and in order tliat you may at once become acquainted with jNIr. Thumble, as will be most convenient that you should do, I will commis- sion him to deliver this letter into your hand personally to-morrow, trusting that you will re- ceive him with that brotherly spirit in which he is sent upon this painful mission. "Touching the remuneration to whieli Mr. Thumble will become entitled for his tempora- ry ministrations in the parish of Ilogglestock, I do not at present lay down any strict injunction. He must, at any rate, be ]iaid 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 waters of the present hour may not pass over your head and destroy you ! "I have the honor to be, " Reverend Sir, "Your faithful servant in Ciirist, "T. Baknum."* " naronum C:istnim liavini; been the old Roman name from whicli tlie modern Harcliester is derived, the bishopa of the diocese have always signed theraselves Barnum. 54 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. The bishop had hardly finislicd his letter when Mrs. I'roudic returned to the study, fol- lowed by the Rev. Caleb Thumblc. Mr. Thum- ble was a little man, about forty years of age, who had a wife and children living in Bnrehcs- tcr, and who existed on such chance clerical crumbs as might fall from the tabic of the bish- ojt's jiatronagc. Peojjle in Barchestcr said that Mrs. Tiuimble was a cousin of Mrs. I'rondie's; but as Mrs. I'roudic stoutly denied the connec- tion, it may be sujjposed that the ])coi)lc of Bar- chestcr were wrong. And, had Mr. Thumble's wife in truth Iicen a cousin, Mrs. Troudie would surely have j)rovidcd for him during the many years in which the diocese had been in her hands. No such provision had been made, and Mr. Thumblc, who had now been living in the diocese for three years, had received nothing else from the bisiiop than such chance employ- ment as this which he was now 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 remuner- ated for his work at the rate of about two shil- lings and sixpence a service. The bisliop handed liis letter to his wife, ob- serving in an oft-hand kind of way that she might as will sec what he said. "Of course I shall read it," said Mrs. Froudie. And the bishop winced visibly, because Mr. Thumble was present. "Quite right," said Mrs. Froudie, "quite right to let him know that you knew that he had been arrested — actually arrested by the police." '* I thought it pi-opcr to mention that, be- cause of the scandal," said the bishop. "Oh, it has been terrible in the city," said Mr. Thumble. " Never mind, Mr. Thumble," said Mrs. Frou- die. "Never mind that at present." Tlien she continued to read the letter. "What's this ? Confession ! That must come out, bish- op. It will never do that you should recom- mend confession to any body, under any cir- cumstances." " But, my dear — " "It must come out, bishop." " My lord has not meant auricular confes- sion," suggested Mr. Thumble. Then Mrs. Frou- die turned round and looked at Mr. Thumble, and jNIr. Thumble nearly sank amidst the tables and chairs. "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Frou- die," he said. "I didn't mean to intrude." "The word must come out, bishop," repeated Mrs. Froudie. " 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 to-mor- row. You should be there not later than ten, certainly." Then she paused until Mr. Thum- blc had given the required promise. "And we request that yon will be very firm in the mission which is confided to you — a mission wliich, as of course you sec, is of a very delicate and im- portant nature. You must be firm." "I will endeavor," said Mr. Thumble. "The bishop and I both feel that this most unfortunate man must not under any circum- stances be allowed to perform the services of the Church while this charge is hanging over him — a charge as to the truth of Avhich no sane man can entertain a doubt." "I'm afraid not, Mre. Froudie," said Mr. Thumble. "Tlic bishop and I therefore are most anx- ious that you shoulil make Mr. Crawley under- stand at once — at once," and the lady, as she spoke, lifted up her left hand with an eloquent violence which had its effect upon Mr. Thumble, "that he is inhibited" — the bishop shook in his shoes — " inhibited from the performance of any of his sacred duties." Thereupon Mr. Thum- ble promised obedience and went his way. CHAFTER XII. MR. CRAAVLEY SEEKS FOR SYMPATHY. Matters went very badly indeed in the par- sonage-house at Hogglestock. On the Friday morning, the morning of the day after his com- mittal, Mr. Crawley got up very early, long be- fore the daylight, and dressing himself in the dark, groped his way down stairs. 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 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 55 then you, and I too, will bp worse than we now arc." "We can not be worse. Yoit can not be worse, and for me it docs not signify. Let me 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 enough 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 can not 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 as yet come to that, that I should be stopped in my egress and ingress. They have — bailed me ; and wliile 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 will 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 it that you dread? I command you to tell me what is it that you fear?" He had now taken hold of her by the shoulder, slightly thrust- ing lier from him, so that he might see her face by the dim light of the single candle. " Speak, I say. What is that you tliink that 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. " Is 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 toward you," she said, "with all and every thing 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 in- tensity of your grief. You will stand out in the cold air, forgetful of every thing 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 a 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 knew 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 him- self 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 speech- less, doing nothing, he was telling himself from minute to minute that of all God's creatures he was the most heavily afflicted, and was reveling in the sense of the injustice done to him. He was recalling all the facts of his life, his edu- cation, which had been costly, and, as regard- ed knowledge, successful ; his vocation to the church, when in his youth he had determined to devote himself to the service of liis Saviour, disregarding promotion or the fixvor of men ; the short, sweet days of his early love, in which he had devoted himself again — thinking nothing of THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. self, but every tiling of her; his diligent work- ing, in whii-h he had ever done his very utmost for the parish in which he was jilaccd, and al- ways his best for the ])oorcst ; the success of other men who had been his compeers, and, as lie too often told himself, intellectually his in- feriors ; then of his children, who had been car- ried ofl" from liis love to the church-yard — over whose graves he himself had stood, reading out the pathetic words of the funeral service with uiisworviiig voice and a bleeding heart; and then of his children still living, who loved flieir mother so much better tlian tliey loved him. And he would recall all the circumstances of his jioverty — how he had been driven to accept alms, to lly from creditor*, to hide himself, to sec his chairs and tables seized before tlic 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 dero- gation from tlic spiritual grandeur of his posi- tion as j)riest among men, which came as one necessary result from his poverty. St. Paul could go forth without money in his ])urse or shoes to his feet or two suits to his back, and liis poverty never stood in the way of his preach- ing, or hindered the veneration of the faithful. St. Paul, indeed, was called upon to bear stripes, was flung into prison, encountered terrible dan- gers. Eut Mr. Crawley — so he told himself — could liavc encountered all that without flinch- ing. 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 treated him almost with derision, bccanse he was now different from them. Dean Arabin had laughed at him because he had persisted in walk- ing 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 jail ! Such were always his thoughts as he sat idle, silent, moody, over the fire; and his wife well knew their currents. It would certainly be bet- ter that he should drive himself to some employ- ment, if any employment could be found possi- ble to him. When she had been alone for a few minutes Mrs. Crawley got up from her chair, and going into the kitchen liglited 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 brick- makers before they go to their work. It is bet- ter 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 to-night, and then there will be no room for me here." Mr. Crawley went forth and made his way with rajiid stejis to a portion of his ]}arish near- ly two miles distant from his house, through which was carried a canal, affording water com- munication in some intricate way both to Lon- don and Bristol. And on the brink of this canal there had sprung up a colony of brick- makers, the nature of the earth in those parts combining with the canal to make brickmaking a suitable trade. The workmen there assem- bled were not, for the most part, native-born Ilogglestockians, or folk descended from II(;g- glestockian parents. They had come thither from unknown regions, as laborers of that class do come when they are needed. Some young men from that and neighboring parishes had joined themselves to the colony, allured by wages, and disregarding the menaces of the neighboring farmers ; but they were all in ap- ])earancc and manners nearer akin to the race of navvies than to ordinary rural laborers. 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 conse- quently they hated the farmers. They had a beer-shop, and a grocer's shop, and a huxter's shop for their own accommodation, and were consequently vilified by the small old-estab- lished tradesmen around them. They got drunk occasionally, but I doubt whether they drank more than did the farmers themselves on market-day. Tiiey 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 Avives, nor were their wives always good to them ; but it should be remombered that among the poor, especially when they live in clusters, such misfortunes can not be hidden as they may be amidst the decent belongings of more wealthy peo]iIe. That they worked very hard was certain; and it was certain also that very few of their number ever came upon the ])oor rates. What became of the old brickmakers no one knew. Who over sees a worn-out aged navvie? Mr. Crawley, ever since his first coming into Hogglestock, had been very busy among these brickmakers, and by no means without success. Indeed the farmers had quarreled with him be- cause the brickmakei's had so crowded the nar- row 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 — be- lieving as he did that Mr. Crawley was jiaid by tithes out of his own pocket. But Mr. Crawley had done his best to make the brickmakers wel- come at the church, scandalizing the farmers THE LAST CIIROXICLE OF BARSET. by causing them to sit or stand in any portion of tlie church whicli was hitherto unajjproin-i- ated. lie had been constant in his personal visits to thcni, and had felt himself to be more a St. Paul with tliem than with any other of his neiglibors around him. It was a cold morning, but the rain of the preceding evening liad 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 thouglit always of his in- juries. His own wife believed tliat he was about to commit suicide, and for so believing he was very angry with her ; and yet, as he well knew, tlie idea of making away with himself had flitted throngli his own mind a dozen times. Not from his own wife could he get real sympatliy. lie 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 tlie 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 mid- winter they commenced their work at seven. Tiie 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. Tlun the key was turned in the lock, and Dan !RIorris, 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. Craw- ley. The man answered by pointing with a short poker, which he held in his hand, to the bed, which was half screened from tlie room b}' a ragged curtain, which hung from the ceiling half-way down to the floor, " And are the Dar- vels here?" asked Mr. Crawley. Then Morris, again using the poker, pointed upward, showdng tliat the Darvels were still in their own allotted abode up stairs. "You're early out, jVIuster Crawley," said Morris, and then he went on with his fire. "Drat tlie 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. Crawdey, thouglit it better to remain where she was. Mr. Crawley sat himself down by the obsti- nate fire, and began to arrange tlie 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 cliooses ? I didn't ax him." Then Morris stood by and watclied, and after a while I\Ir. Crawley suc- C23ded in his attempt. D " How could it burn when you had not given the small spark a current of air to helj) it?" said ]\Ir. Crawley. "In course not," said the woman; "but he be such a stupid." The husband said no word in acknowledgment of this compliment, nor did he thank Mr. Craw- ley for what he had done, nor appear as thougli he intended to take any notice of him. He was going on witli his work when Mr. Crawley again interrupted him. "How did you get back from SilvcrbriJge 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 fur beer and grub — s'help me, I did." "Dan!" said the voice from the bed, re- buking him for the impropriety cf liis lan- guage. " Well ; I beg pardon, br.t I did. And they guv' me two bob — just two plain shillings, * "Dan!" "And I'd 've arncd tliree-and-six here at brickmaking easy ; tliat's what I would. How's a poor man to live tliat way ? They'll not cotch me at Barchestcr 'Sizes at that price; they may be sure of that. Look there — that's what I've got for my day." And he put Iiis hand into his breeches'-pockct and fetched out a six- pence. "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 liallooing at me that way. I know what I'm a saying of, and what I'm a doing of." " I wish they'd given you something more with all ni}' heart,*' s;iid Crawley. "We knows that," said 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 'vc taken it better. But sixpence !" Then there was a pause. "And what have they given to me?" said I\Ir. Crawley, when the man's ill-humor about his sixpence had so fiir 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. Crawdey." "I tell you what, Sir; for another sixpence I'd 've sworn you'd never guv' me the paper at all ; and so I will now, if it bean't too late — six- pence 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 trutii from the lies — not among the lot of 'em. 1 11 swear afore the judge that you didn't give it me at all if that'll do anv jrood." THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAHSET. BI'EAi; OUT, llA.N. '•Man, do you think I would have yon per- jure yourself, even if tliat would do me a serv- ice? And do you think that any man was ever served by a lie?" "Faix, among them cliaps 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 rever- ence. Only that they've let you out for a while, they've been nigli as hard on you as though you were cue of us. " " If they think that I stole it they have been right," said Mr. Crawley. "It's been along of that chap Soamcs." said the woman. "Tiie lord would 've p;iid the money out of his own pocket and never said not a word." "If thoy tliink that I've been a thief tlicy'vc done right," repeated Mr. Crawley. "But Jiow can tliey 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^ THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 59 for his work by them as is his employers he must pay hissclf. Them's my notions. Look at that!" Whereupon he again pulled out the sixpence, and held it forth in the i)alm of his liand. "You believe, then," said Mr. Crawley, speak- ing very slowly, "that I did steal the mone}'? Speak out, Dan ; I shall not be angry. As you go you are 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'd a-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 a lie." Dan Jlorris 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 nothing of the kind," said Dan. " Speak out the truth," said Crawley. " Thej' do say, among 'em," said Dan, " that you picked it up, and then got a wool-gathering 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." " Aud they do say if a poor man had done it it'd been stealing, for sartain." "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 did not the world believe the worst of the poor?" Having so spoken, Sir. Crawley rose from his chair and hurried out of the cottage, waiting no further reply from Dan Morris or his Avifc. And as he made his way slowly home, not going there by the direct road, but by a long circuit, he told himself that there could be no sympathy for him any where. 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 XIIL THE bishop's AXGEL, It was nearly nine before Mr. Crawley got back to his house, and found his wife and daugh- ter waiting l)reakfast for him. " I should not wonder if Grace were over here to-day," said f Mrs. Crawley. " She'd better remain where^i she is," said he. After this the meal passed al- most witiiout a word. When it was over, Jane, at a sign from her mother, went up to her fa- ther and asked him whether she should read with him. "Not now," ho 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 tliat he would remain there all the day. But the morning was not far advanced when there came a visitor who disturbed him, and by disturbing him did him 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 some one to relieve him from the charge of his 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. Broudie's epis- copal messages were sent backward and for- ward through a twelve-miles' ride round Bar- chcster ; and so many were the lady's require- ments that the poor animal by no means ate the hay of idleness. Mr. Thumble had suggest- ed to Mrs. Proudie after their inteiwiew 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 w'hich gave her some little time for thought, and would enable her to continue the rebuke if, after thinking, she should find that rebuke was needed. But mature consideration showed her that JMr. 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 tlie gig, if the gig were ordered, would certainly fall ul- timately upon the bishop's shoulders. This was very sad. Mrs. Proudie had often grieved over the necessary expenditure of ejjiscopal surveil- lance, and had been heard to declare her opin- ion that a liberal allowance for secret service should be made in every diocese. What better could the Ecclesiastical Commissionei's do with all those rich revenues which they had stolen from the bishops? But there was no such lib- eral allowance at present, and, therefore, Mrs. Proudie, after having frowned at Mr. Thumble for some seconds, desired him to take the gray cob. Now ]\Ir. Thumble had ridden the gray cob before, and would much have preferred a gig. But even the gray cob was better than a gig at his own cost. " Mamma, there's a man at the gate wanting to come in," said Jane. "I think he's a cler- gyman." Mr. Crawley immediately raised his head, though he did not at once leave his chair. Mrs, GO THE LAST CnUONICLE OF BARSET. Crawley went to the wiiulow, and recognized the reverend visitor. " AIv dear, it is tliat Mr. Thumblc wlio is so mnch with the bishop." "Wliat does Mr. Thinnlile want with nie?" "Nay, my dear; lie will tell you that him- self." IJut Mrs. Crawley, though she answered him with a voice intended to be cheerful, great- ly feared the coming of this messenger from the l>alace. She perceived at once that the bislioj) was about to interfere with her husband in con- sequence 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 tlicm at tlic palace, he will be ^^■rong. 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. Thumblc did tie the pony to the rail, and follou'cd the girl into the house. Jane in the mean time had retired out by the back door to the school, but Mrs. Crawley kept her ground. She kept her ground, although she almost be- lieved that her husband would prefer 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. Tliough he knew Mr. Tliumble's person he was not acquainted with him, and therefore he sim- ]ily 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 visit>Dr — "the Eeverend Caleb Thumble," and he held the bishop's letter in his hand. Mr. Crawley seem- ed to take no notice of the letter, but motioned Mr. Thumble with his hand into the room. "I suppose you have come over from Bar- chester this morning," said Mrs. Crawlc}'. "Yes, madam — from the palace." Mr. Thnmble, though a humble man in positions in which he felt that 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 belong- ed to those clergymen who were closely attach- ed to the palace at Barchester. Had he been sent on a message to Plumstead — could any such message from Barchester palace have been pos- sible — he would have been ])roperly humble in his demeanor to the archdeacon, or to Mrs. Grantly had he been admitted to the august ]iresence of that lady ; but he was aware that humility would not become him on his present mission ; ho had been exjiressly ordered to be firm by Mrs. I'roudie, and firm he meant to be ; and therefore, in communicating to Mrs. Craw- ley the fact tliat he had come from the palace, he did load the tone of his voice with something of 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 that there was to be a battle. Naj-, 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 otiicr clergyman on any subject whatever. "What docs the ])alace 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 l)akcrs, and the other fact that he, Mr. Thumblc himself, did not owe any money to any one, his wife luckily having a little income of her own ; and, strengthened by these remembrances, he endeavored to bear Mr. Crawley's attack with gallantry. " Of course, Mr. Crawley, you are aware that this unfortunate afVair at Silverbridge — " "I am not jircpared. Sir, to discuss the un- fortunate affair at Silverbridge with a stranger. If j-ou 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 with- out a word, and taking the letter with him to the window, read it very slowly. AVhen he had made himself master of its contents he refold- ed the letter, placed it again in the envelope, and returned to the spot where Mr. Thumble was standing. "I will answer the bishoji's let- ter," he said ; " I will answer it, of course, as it is fitting that I should do. Shall I ask you to wait for my rej)ly, 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. Thum- ble. 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 mat- ter." So much he spoke in anger, and then he corrected himself. "I crave the bishop's par- don, and yours as his messenger, if in the heat occasioned by my strong feelings I have said aught which may savor of irreverence toward 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 bid- ding, 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 duty, with God's as- sistance, I will perform. Nor will I allow any clergyman to interfere with me in the perform- ance of those sacred offices — no, not though the bishop himself should be present with the ol)ject of enforcing his illegal command." Mr. Crawley spoke tliese words without hesitation, even with eloquence, standing upright, and with THE LAST CHEONICLE OF BARSET. CI something of a noble anger gleaming over Lis poor wan face; and, I think, that while sjieak- ing them he was happier than he had been for many a long day. / Mr. Tiiumble listened to him patiently, stand- ing 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 whei'e the wall and ceiling joined each other. lie had been told to be firm, and he was considering how he might best display firmness. lie thought that he remembered some story of two parsons fighting for one puljiit, and he thought also that he should not himself like to incur the scandal of such a proceeding in tlie diocese. As to the law in the matter he knew notliing himself; but he presumed that a bishop would probably know the law better than a perpetual curate. That Mrs. Proudie was in- . temperate 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 had been iu this case backed by the timid pres- ence and hesitating words of her lord, ]\Ir. Thumble thought that he must have tlie 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. Crawlej^, speaking somewhat louder than before, "and will be ab- solutely futile. As you pleaded to me that you yourself and your own 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 bisliop. If you please, we will discuss the subject no further." "Am I to understand, Mr. Crawley, that you refuse to obey the bishop ?" "The bishop has written to me. Sir; 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 you whether I shall be indebted to you for car- rying 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 court- eously 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 jjroviding properly for the Sunday services of the church of Iloggle- stock, 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 a while, pondering, with his back turned to his visitor. "I have to ask your par- don, Sir," said he, looking round for a moment, "because, by reason of the exti'cme poverty of this house, my wife is unable to offer to you that hosjjitality 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 at his desk, 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. ButMrs. Crawley was there, and of course he was bound to speak to her. In what strain could he do so ? Even he, little as he v/as given to indulge in sentiment, had been touched by the man's appeal to his own pover- ty, 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 INIr. Crawley would, he was well awai'C, immediately turn upon him. At last he thought of a subject, and spoke with a voice intended to be jileasant. " That was the school-house I passed, probably, just as I came here ?" Mrs. Crawley told him that it was the school-house. " Ah, yes, I thought so. Have you a certified teacher here?" 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 M:\ 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 afterward Mrs. Crawley left the room, seeing the difliculty un- der which Mr. Thumble was laboring, and feel- ing 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 Mv. Thum- ble. The letter was as follows : "The Paesoxage, Hogglf.stock, Dec, 1SG-. " Right IvEVEEEND Loud, — I have received the letter of yesterday's date whicli your lord- ship has done me the honor of sending to me 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 thus to use his patience chiefly by the consideration that in this w-ay my reply to your loi-dship's injunctions may be in your hands with 62 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. less delay than would attend the regular course of the mail-post. "It is with Jeep regret that I feel myself constrained to inform your lordship that I can not obey the command which you have laid npon mo with reference to the services of my church in this ])arish. I can not permit Mr. Thumble, or any other delegate from your lord- ship, to usurp my place in my jjuljiit. I would not have you to tiiink, if I can jiossibly dis])cl 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 recpiired to obey must examine the extent of the authority exercised by him who demands obedience. Your lordship might possibly call n))on me, rising your voice as bishop of the dio- cese, to abandon altogether the freehold rights wliicli are now mine in this perpetual curacy. The judge of assize, before whom I shall soon stand for my trial, might command mc to retire to prison -without a verdict given by the jury. The magistrates who committed me so lately as yesterday, npon whose decision in that respect your lordship has taken action against me so quickly, might have equally strained their au- thority. But in no case, in this land, is he that is subject bound to obey further than where the law gives authority and exacts obedi- ence. It is not in the ])Ower of the Crown it- self to inhibit me from the performance of my ordinary duties in this parish by any such mis- sive as that sent to me by your lordsliip. If your lordship think it right to stop my month 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 ministerial fitness or unfitness which may be pro- duced respecting me before the proper tribunal. "I will allow that much attention is due from a clergyman to j)astoral 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 ad- vice, but an order — an inhibition, as your mes- senger, the Reverend Mr. Thumble, has express- ed 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 sliould receive your messenger in a proper spirit, which I hope I have done. No other advice has been given me, and therefore thei-e is now no such case as that I have imagined. But in this mat- ter, my lord, I could not have accepted advice from 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 ten'ible strait. Trouble, and sorrow, and danger are npon 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 tliank 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 dec])er my troubles, the greater my sorrow ; the more pressing my 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 shoidd in do- ing so be putting a jilca of guilty against my- self npon the record. This, my lord, I will not do. "I have the honor to be, my lord, " Your lordslii])"s most obedient servant, "JOSIAH CUAWLEY." When he had finished writing his letter ho 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 feel- ing that in every word Avritten he was getting the better of the bishop — all this joined to a certain manly delight in warfare against author- ity, lighted up the man's face and gave to his eyes an expression M-hich 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 j-ou 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 sub- jected." "As to the delay, that is nothing," said Mr. Thumble. "It has been much ; but you as a clergj'man will feel that it has been incumbent on me to speak my mind full}'." "Oh yes; of course." Mr. Crawley was standing up, as also was Mrs. Crawlej*. It was evident to Mr. Thumble that they both expected that he should go. But he had been specially 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 hinr that JNIr. Crawley had had the jday all 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 cer- tainly incumbent upon him, before he went, to speak np, not only for the bishop, but for him- self 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 dis- obey the bisliop's inhibition." ' "I have told the bishop so certainly." " jNIay I ask you now to listen to me for a few minutes?" Mr. Crawley, still smiling, still having in his THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 63 eyes the unwonted triumph which had lighted them up, paused a moment, and then answered him. "Reverend Sir, you must exeusc me if I say no — not on this subject." "You will not let me speak ?" "No; not on tliis matter, which is very pri- vate 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 had sent me — a coun- cil of archbishops if you will!" Mr. Thiimble started back, appalled at 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 any tiling personally objectionable to yourself. I will regard you as one of the angels of the churcli." Mr. Thum- ble, 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 gray ponies. " And as such I will respect you ; but I can not 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 sucli 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. Thum- ble, not knowing how to increase or even to maintain his firmness, thought it best to pass out, and mount his gray pony and ride away. ' ' The poor man thought that you were laugh- ing 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 com- menced with gi-eat energy. Often during the next hour and a half IMrs. 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 a 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 afterward she regarded Mr. Thumble as an "angel." CHAPTER XIV. MAJOR GRANTLY CONSULTS A FRIEND. Grace Crawlky 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 Frettyman, telling him that she had done so. " Dear Sir, — I think you will be glad to learn that our friend, Miss Crawley, went from us yesterday on a visit to her friend. Miss Dale, at Allington. — Youre truly, Annabella Prettyman." The note said no more than that. Major Grantly was glad to get it, obtaining from it that 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 favorable 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 sub- ject made him feel that he was bound to Grace Crawley. He knew enougli of himself to be sure that he could not give her up without mak- ing himself miserable. And yet, as regarded her father, things were going from bad to woi'se. Every bod_v now said that the evidence was so strong against Mr. Crawley as to leave hardly a doubt of his guilt. Even the ladies in Silver- bridge were beginning to give up his cause, ac- knowledging 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 of Silverbridge could find nothing better to say for him than that ; and when young Mr. AValker remarked that such little mistakes were the cus- tomary causes of men being taken to prison the ladies of Silverbridge did not know how to an- swer him. It had come to be their opinion that ]Mr. Crawley was affected with a partial lunacy, whicli ought to be forgiven in one to whom the world had been so cruel ; and when young Mr. Walker endeavored to explain to them tliat a man must be sane altogether or mad altogether, and that Sir. Crawley must, if sane, be locked up as a thief, and if mad, locked up as a madman, they sighed, and were con- vinced that until the world should have been improved by a new infusion of romance, and a stronger feeling of poetic justice, INIr. John Walker was right. And the result of this general opinion made its way out to i\Iajor Grantly, and made its way, also, to the archdeacon at Plumstead. As to the major, in giving him his due, it must be ex- plained that the more certain he became of the fixther'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 cru- elly hard upon him that he should be brought into this trouble, and be forced to take upon himself the armor of a knight-errant for the re- dress of the wrong on the part of the young lady. But when alone in his house, or with his child. ( i C-l THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. he declared to himself that he would do so. It niij^ht well he that he could not live in Barset- shire after he had married Mr. Crawley's daugh- ter. He had inherited from his father enough of that longing for ascendency among those around him to make him feel that in such cir- cumstances he would he wretched. But he would he made more wretched hy the self-knowl- edge that he had hcliaved hadly to the girl he loved ; and the world hcyond IJarsetsliire was open to him. He would take her with him to Canada, to New Zealand, or to some other far- away country, and there hegin his life again. Should his father choose to punish him for so doing by disinheriting him, they would he poor enough ; but in his present frame of mind, the major was able to regard such jjovcrty as honor- able and not altogether disagreeable. He hail been out shooting all day at Chaldi- cotes, with Dr. Thorne and a, party who were staying in the house there, and had been talk- ing about Mr. Crawley, first with one man and then with another. Lord Lufton had been there, and young Gresham from Grcshamsbury, and Mr. llobarts, 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 opinion that Mr. Craw- ley should have given way ; and Lord Lufton, who shared his mother's intense dislike of every thing 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 chil- dren?" said the doctor. "Think of the fate of that pretty girl ; for she is a very pretty girl. It will be ruin to her. No man will allow him- self to fall in love with her when her fatlier shall have been found guilty of stealing a check for twenty pounds." " We must do something for the w hole fiim- ily," said the lord. " I say, Thorne, you haven't half tiie 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 any thing 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 his child and returned home. Dr. Thorne had declared that no man could al- low 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 indifierence to the world's o])inions on most of those social matters witli which the world meddles ; and therefore the words which he had spoken had more weight with ISIajor Grantly than they would have had from other lips. As he drove home he almost made u]) his mind that he would consult Dr. Thorne u])on tlie matter. There were many younger men with whom he was very intimate — Frank Gresham, for instance, and Lord Luf- ton himself; but this was an att'air which he hardly knew how to discuss with a young man. To Dr. Tliorne he thought that he could bring himself to tell tlie whole story. In the evening there came to him a messen- ger from Plumstead, with a letter from his fa- tlier 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, of 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 tlie major's mother, and some al- lusion to Edith, the arclideacon struck off upon the matter that was near his heart. "I fear it is all up with that unfortunate man at Ilogglestock," he said. " From what I hear of the evidence which came out before the mag- istrates, 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 w^iy, 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 of bad taste, [irobably with gross ignorance as to his own duty and as to the duty of the man under him. I am told that on tlie first day Crawley turned out of his house the messenger sent to him — some stray clergyman whom Mrs. Proudie keeps about the house; and that on the Sunday the stairs to the reading-desk and pulpit were oc- cupied by a lot of brickmakers, among whom the parson from Barchester did not venture to attempt to make his way, although he was for- tified by the presence of one of the cathedral vergers and by one of the palace footmen. I can hardly believe about the verger and the footman. As for the rest, I have no doubt it is all true. I jiity Crawley from my heart. Poor, unfortunate man ! The general oj)inion seems to be that he is not in truth responsible for what he has done. As for his victory over the bishop, nothing on earth could be better. "Your mother particularly wishes yoit 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 over the new year." Though the letter was full of JNIr. Crawley and his affairs there was not a word in it about Grace. This, however, was quite natural. Major Grantly perfectly well understood his fa- ther's anxiety to carry his point without seeming to allude to the disagreeable subject. "My fa- THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. Gs ther is very clever," lie said to himself, "very clever. But he isn't so clever but one can see how clever he is." Oa the next day he went into Sllverbridgc, intending to call on Miss Prettyman. He had not quite made up his mind what he would say to Miss Prettyman ; nor was he called upon to do so, as lie 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. lie knew Mrs. Tliorne 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 every thing." "I wasliot 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 ine. Major Grantly, what are wc to think about this poor jMr. Crawley? It was so good of you to be one of his bailsmen." " lie would have found twenty in Silver- bridge 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 sec one's friends worsted sometimes, you know." "I don't quite understand what did happen at Ilogglestock on Sunday," said the major. "Some say he had the bishoji's cliai)lain put imdcr 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, IMajor Grantly, what is to become of the fivmily ?" " Heaven knows 1" "Is it not sad? And that eldest girl is so nice! Tliey tell me that she is perfect — not only in beauty, but in manners and accomplish- j ments. Every body says that she talks Greek i just as well as she does English, and that she ! understands philosophy from the top to the bot- I tom." ' "At any rate, she is so good and so lovely ' that one can not but pity her now," said the major. "You know her, then, Major Grantly ? By- the-by, of course you do, as you were staying with her at Framley." "Yes, I know her." I' What is to become of her? I'm going your way. You might as well get into the car- riage, and I'll drive you home. If he is sent .to prison — and they say he must be sent to pris- on — what is to become of them ?" Then. Maior 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 atten- tion ; 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, ^Irs. Thorne, what am I to do ?" "JNIarry her, of course," said she, raising her hand aloft and bringing it down heavily upon his knee as she gave her decisive reply. "II — sli — h!" he exclaimed, looking back in dismay toward the servants. "Oh, they never hear any thing np 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 ?" "Y'ou forget my father." "No, I don't. What has a father to do with it ? Y'ou'rc old enough to please yourself with- out asking your father. Besides, Lord bless me I the archdeacon isn't the man to bear mal- ice. He'll storm and threaten and stop the supplies for a month or so. Then he'll double tiiem, 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 that." " But my sister — " "As for your sister, don't talk to me about her. I don't care two straws about your sister. Y"ou must excuse me, Major Grantly, but Lady Hartletop is really too big for my powers of vi- sion." " 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, iNIajor Grantly; but a man does wish to marry the girl that he loves. At least I sup- pose so. And what man ever was able to give a more touching proof of his alTection than you can do now ? If I were you, I'd be at Allington before twelve o'clock to-morrow — I would in- deed. What does it matter about the trump- ery check ? Every body 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 him- self — I will indeed." This was IMrs. Thome's advice. Before it was completed Major Grantly had been carried half-way to Chaldicotes. When he left his im- petuous friend he was too prudent to make any promise, but he declared that what she had said should have much weight with him. CG THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAESET. " You won't mention it to any body ?" said the major. "Certainly not, without your leave," said Mrs. 'I'horne. " Don't you know that I'm the soul of iionor ?" CIIArTER XV. VV 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 onl}' be as John Avishcs 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 sub- ject she would rather say nothing;" and then she had added, "^yhcn one thinks of going beyond friendsliip — even if one tries to do so — there are so many barriers !" From which words the kind and attentive reader, if such reader be in such matters intelligent as well as kind and attentive, may have learned a great deal with reference to Miss Lily Dale. We will now pay a visit to the John in ques- tion — a certain Mr. John Eames, living in Lon- don, 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 some- thing 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 had some few thousand pounds left him by an old nobleman who had been in no way related to him, but who had regarded him with great af- fection, and who had died some two years since. Before this, John Eames had not been a very l)oor man, as he filled the comfortable official jiosition of ])rivatc secretary to the Chief Com- missioner of the Income-tax Board, and drew a salary of three hundred and fifty pounds a year from the resources of his country ; but when, in addition to this source of official Avealth, he be- came known as the undoubted possessor of a iiundrcd and twenty-eight shares in one of the most j)rospcious joint-stock banks in the me- tropolis, 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. Ilis mother, wlio lived in the country, was obe- dient to his slightest word, never venturing to impose u]>on him any sign of parental author- ity; and to his sister, Mary Eames, who lived ''with her mother, he was almost a god upon earth. To sisters who have nothing of their own — not even some special god for their own individual worship — generous, aficctionate, un- married brothers, with sufficient incomes, are gods ujjon earth. And even u\> in London Mr. John Eames was somebody. He was so csiJCcially 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 lauglied 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 ]ieriod he would borrow sixpence here and a shilling there with great energy, from men who now felt themselves to be honored 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 every one at the office that neither the friendship of the nobleman, nor the fact of the private secretaryship, nor the ac- quisition of his wealth, had made him proud to his old companions or forgetful of old friend- ships. 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 acquaint- ance 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 can- didates 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 opinion THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. G7 because it was known that on this subject he had fought some hard battles with the chief com- missioner. 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 piintcd here and there, and whiclV he sent by post all over the kingdom. More than 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 younijf clerks, who was discussing this singular state of things with liis 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 witli ]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 his poverty. Now the entire life of Mr. John Eames was pervaded by a great secret ; and although lie never, in those days, alluded to the subject in conversation with an}"^ man belonging to the of- fice, yet the secret was known to 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 imagina- tions of the gentlemen of the Income-tax Office. It was said of him that he had been in love from his early boyliood ; that at sixteen he had been engaged, under the sanction of the noble- man now deceased and of the young lady's pa- rents ; that contracts of betrothals had been drawn up, and tilings done very unusual in pri- vate families in tliese days ; and tliat then there had come a stranger into tlie neighborhood just as the young lady was beginning to reflect wheth- er 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 oft' with the stranger, and that there had been a clandestine marriage, which afterward 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. Tiie stranger was very well known to be one Mr. Crosbie, belonging to aiir- other public office ; and there were circumstances in liis life, only half known, which gave rise to these various rumors. But there was one thing certain, one point as to which no clerk in the Income-tax Office had a dotlbt, 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. Cros- bie such a thrashing that no man had ever re- ceived such treatment before and had lived through it. Wonderful stories were told about that tlirashing, so tiiat it was believed, even by the least entliusiastic in such matters, that the poor victim had only dragged on a crippled ex- istence since tlie encounter. " Eor nine weeks he never said a word or ate a moutliful," said one young clerk to a younger clerk Avho 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. Tiiat he was still in love, and in love Avith the same lady, was known to every one in the office. When it was declared of him that in the way of amatory expressions he had never in liis life opened his mouth to another woman, there were those in tlie office who knew that this was 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 a wife and six young chiklrcn, and living on a small income, he did not go much out among his friends — could have told a veiy dif- ferent story ; for Mrs. Cradell herself had, in days before Cradell had made good his claim upon her, been not unadmired by Cradell's fel- low-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 acknoAvl- edged signs of unrequited affection. In his man- ner 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 tliis was not so ; nor did John Eames himself at all believe that tlie barriers were in a way to be overcome. I will not say 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 IMiss Dale herself and to Miss Dale's mother, and to all the Dale people who had ever been interested in the matter. And there M-as an old lady living in jNIiss Dale's neighborhood, the sister of the lord who had left Jolmny Eames the bank shares, wlio always fought his battles for him, and kejjt a close look- out, fully resolved that John Eames should be rewarded at last. This old ladv was connected ri 08 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. with the D.-^lcs bv family tics, and tliercforc had means of dose ubserviition. t^lic was in con- stant coiTcs[)ondencc ^vitll John Eamcs, and never failed to aeiiuaint liini when any of the barriers were, in her judgment, giving way. The nature of sonic of the barriers may jKJSsibly be made intelligible to my readers by the fol- lowing letter from Lady Julia Do Guest to her ' young friend : "Grr.sTwirK Cottac.e, — December, 1SG-. " ^[y Dkak John, — I am much obliged to you for going to Jones's. I send stamps for two shillings and fourpcnce, which is what I owe you. It usctl only to be two shillings and twojience, but they say every thing has got to be dearer now. anil I su]i])Ose ])ills as well as other things. Only think of rritchard coming to me, and say- ing she wanted her wages raised, after living with me for twenty years! I was ten/ angry, and scolded her roundly ; but as she acknowl- edged she had been wrong, and cried and begged my pardon, I did give her two guineas ii year more. "I saw dear Lily just for a moment on Sun- day, and upon my word I think she grows pret- . tier 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 mc all about it. "It is quite true what I told you about the Dc Courcys. Old Lady Dc Courcy is in Lon- don, 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 jioor Lady Al- cxandrina 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 ti- dings of her death disturbed her, and set her thinking of things that were fading from her mind. I rated her soxmdly, 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 liere whenever yon ])leasc after the tenth of January. But if you come early in 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 mc down all the colors in wool that I or- dered. I said you would call. And tell them atDolland'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 got 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 bo quite sure I sha'n't go to her till she does. Indeed I think we shall like each other apart (piite as much as we should together. So let mc know when you're coming, and j>t-ni/ don't forget to call at Blackie's ; nor yet at DoUand's, which is much more important than the wool, because of my eyes 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 re- ceived 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 com- municated to him. All the facts stated he had known before ; that Lady Dc 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 in Lady Julia's letter which was wormwood to him. Lily Dale was again thinking of this man, whom she had loved in 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 JMr. Crosbio again ; but John Eames was by no means equal- ly certain that it would be so. " The tidings of her death disturbed her!" said Johnny, re- peating to himself certain words out of the old lady's letter. " I know they disturbed me. I wish she could have lived forever. If he ever ventures to show himself within ten miles of Allington, I'll see if I can not do better than I did the last time I met him !" Then there came a knock at the door, and the private sec- retary, finding himself to lie 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?" 'l\Ir. Cradell, who now entered, and who, as be- fore said, was an old ally of John Eames, was a clerk of longer standing in the department than his friend. In age he looked to be much older, and he had left with him none of that ap- pearance of the gloss of youth which will stick for many years to men who are fortunate in their worldly affairs. Indeed it may be said that Mr. Cradell was almost shabby in his out- ward 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 hQ\v 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, THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET: 69 Johnny, I tliiiik you've been lucky to keep out of it." "I havckei>toutof it, at any rate; haven't I?" "Of course; living with you as much as I ' used to do, I know the wliole story of what has 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 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 he a bachelor." ' • You may say a family, '' said Cradell. ' ' I'm sure that Amelia does the best she can ; but we are desperately pushed sometimes — desperately puslied. I never was so bad, Johnny, as I am now." " So yon said the last time." "Did I? I don't remember it. I didn't think I was so bad then. But, Johnny, if you can I'Jt 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 sal- arv. Indeed I have. A'^k 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 da it. And what's more, I can't afford it. I've pco]ile of my own to help." " Bat oh, Jolinny, we all know how comfort- able you are. And I'm sure no one rejoiced as I 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 honor if you'll let me have it this time it shall be the last." " Upon my word and honor then, I won't. There must be an end to every thing." Although Mr. Cradell would probably, if pressed, have admitted the truth of this last as- sertion, 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 1 I didn't like to go to you again, because of cours3 a man has feelings, she told me to men- tion her name. 'I'm sure he'd do it for my sake,' she said." "I don't believe she said any thing of the kind." " Ujjon my word she dil. 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 l)ledge myself to pay it back by thirty shillings a time out of the two next months' salary. I will, indeed." And then Mr. Cradell began to cry. But when Johnny at last took out his check-book and wrote a clieck 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 any thing of tlie kind, Cradell. If I remember any thing 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 tlie current of Mr. Eames's thoughts was, I think, for the good of the service, as immediately on his friend's depart- ure he went to liis Avork ; wliereas, had not ho been thus 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 an- swer 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-per- formance 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 there." " I will allow that he is clever, " said the secretary. " It isn't clev- erness so much as tact. It's what I call tact. I hadn't been long in the service before I mas- tered 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 //s and 5's ; upon my word he must ; and you had better tell him so." "The fact is, Mr. Kissing," said tiie private secretary the next day to the secretary — Mr. Kissing was at that time secretary to the boaitl of commis- sioners for the receipt of income tax — "the fact is, Mr. Kissing, Sir Raffle should never at- tempt 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. Fames 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 tlie pres- ent occasion John Eames wi-ote all his letters before he tliought again of Lily Dale, and was able to write them without interrujjtion, 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 70 THE LAST CITRONICLE OF EARSET. himself comfortably in his avm-chair, and lit a cigar, and aguin took ont Lady Julia's letter. As re^'arded tlie cij^ar, it may be said that both Sir Kallic and !Mr. Kissing had given orders that on 110 account should cigars be lit within the precincts of the Liconic-tax Otlice. Mr. Eames liad taken ujjon himself to understand that such orders did not ai)i)ly to a ))rivate secretary, and was well aware that Sir Kallie knew his habit. To Mv. Kissing, I regret to say, he put himself in oj)i)Osition whenever and wlierever oi)iK)sition was jiossiblc ; so that men in the ofiicc said that one of the two must go at last. " IJut Johnny can do any tiling, you know, because he has got money." That was too frequently the oi)inion finally expressed among the men. So Jolm Eames sat down, and drank his soda- water, and smoked his cigar, and read his letter ; or rather siin]>h' tliat paragraph of the letter wliicli referred to Mi-ss Dale. "The tidings of her death have disturbed her, and set her think- ing again of things that Mere fading from her mind." lie understood it all. And yet how could it possibly be so ? How could it b3 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 Crosbic had been engaged to Jliss Dale, and had jilted her so heartlessly as to incur the disgust of every man in London who had heard the story. lie had married an carl's daughter, who had left him within a few months of their marriage, and now JMr. Cros- bie's noble wife was dead. The wife was dead ; and simply because tlie man was free again, he, John Eames, was to be told that JNIiss 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, any thing so perversely cruel as the fate of John Eames would never yet have been told in ro- mance. Tiiat 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 acknowl- edged the fact of his love, and believed himself to have out-Jacobed Jacob ; but he felt that it Avas liard for a man who had risen in the world as lie had done to be made a jilaything of by a foolisli passion. It was now 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 to her; and he had written somewhat sternly — but the first moment tliat he saw her he was con- quered again. "And now that brute will re- appear, and every thing will be wrong again," he said to himself. If the brute did reappear, something should ha]3peu of which the world should hear the tidings. So he lit another ci- gar, and began to think what tliat something should be. As he did so he heard a loud noise, as of harsh, rattling winds in the next room, and ho 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 liim 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 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 Buflle, I su])pose. After all he has been at the Treasury to-day," said Eames to himself. But he did not stir till the messenger had been to him, nor even then at once. " All right, Rafterty," he said ; " I'll go in just now." Tiien he took half a dozen more whiffs from the cigar, threw the remainder into the fii-e, and opened the door which communi- cated between liis room and Sir RatHe's. The great man was standing with two un- opened epistles in his hand. "Eames," said he, " here are letters — " Then he stopped him- self, and began upon another subject. "Did I not give express orders that I would have no smoking in the office?" "I tliink Mr. Kissing said something about it, Sir." " 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 be- gan and ended with me. What are you going tO do, Sir?" John Eames had stepped toward the bell, and his hand was already on the bell- pull. "I was going to ring for the papers. Sir." "And wlio told you to ring for the papers? I don't want the papers. The papers won't show any thing. I suppose my word may be taken without the papers. Since you're so fond of Mr. Kissing — " "I'm not fond of Mr. Kissing at all." "You'll have to go back to him, and let some- body come here who will not be too independent to obey my orders. Here are two most import- ant letters have been lying here all day, instead of being sent up to me at the Treasury." "Of course tliey have been lying there. I thought you were at the club." "I told you I should'go to the Treasury. I have been there all the morning with the chan- cellor" — when Sir Raffle spoke officially of the chancellor he was not supposed to mean the Lord Chancellor — "and here I find letters which I particularly wanted lying upon my desk now. I must put an end to this kind of thing. I must, indeed. If you like the outer office bet- ter say so at once, and you can go." "I'll think about it. Sir Raffle." "Think about it! W^hat do you mean by tliinking about it? But I can't talk about that now. I'm very busy, and shall be here till past seven. I suppose you can stay ?" THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 71 " All night, if you wish it, Sir." " Very ■well. That will do for the present. I wouldn't have had these letters delayed for twenty pounds." "I don't suppose it would have mattered one straw if botii of them I'emained unopened till next week." This last little speecli, however, was not made aloud to Sir RafHe, but by Johnny to himself in the solitude of his own room. Very soon after that he went away, Sir Raffle having discovered that one of the letters in ques- tion required his immediate return to the West End. " I've changed my mind about staying. I sha'n't stay now. I should have done if these letters had reached me as they ought." "Then I suppose I can go?" "You can do as you like about that," said Sir Raffle. Eames did do as he liked, and went home, or to his club ; and as he went he resolved that he would put an end, and at once, to tlie present trouble of his life. Lily Dale should accept him or reject him ; and, taking either the one or the other alternative, she should hear a bit of his mind plainly spoken. CHAPTER XVI. DOAVN AT ALLIXGTON. It was Christmas time down at Allington, and at three o'clock on Christmas-eve, just a^ the darkness of the early winter evening was coming on, Lily Dale and Grace Crawley were seated together, one above the other, on the steps leading up to the pulpit in Allington Church. They had been working all day at the deco- rations of the church, and they were now look- ing round them at the result of their handi- work. To an eye unused to the gloom the place would have been nearly dark ; but they could see every corner turned by the ivy sprigs, and every line on which the holly-leaves were shining. And the greeneries of the winter had not been stuck up in the old-fashioned, idle way, a bough just fastened up here and a twig insert- ed there ; but every thing had been done with some meaning, with some thought toward the original architecture of the building. Tiie Goth- ic lines had been followed, and all the lower arches which it had been possible to reach with an ordinary ladder had been turned as truly with the laurel cuttings as they had been turned originally with the stone. " I wouldn't tie another twig," said the elder girl, "for all the Christmas pudding that was ever boiled." "It's lucky then that there isn't another twig to tie." "I don't know about that. I see a score of places where the work has been scamped. This is the sixth time I have done the church, and I don't think I'll ever do it again. AVhen we first began it. Bell and I, you know — before Bell ■was n;arried— Mrs. Boyce, and the Boycian es- tablishment generally, used to come and help. Or rather we used to hcl]> her. Now she hardly ever looks after it at all." " She is older, I suppose." " She's a little older, and a deal idler. How idle people do get! Look at him. Since he has had a curate he hardly ever stirs round the par- ish. And he is getting so fat that — II — sh ! Here she is herself — come to give her judgment upon us." Then a stout lady, the wife of the vicar, walked slowly up the aisle. "Well, girls," she said, "you have worked hard, and I am sm-e Mv. Boyce will be A-ery much obliged to you." " Mr. Boyce, indeed !" said Lily Dale. "We shall expect the whole parish to rise from their seats and thank us. Why didn't Jane and Bessy come and help us?" "They were so tired when they came in from the coal club. Besides, they don't care for this kind of thing — not as you do." " Jane is utilitarian to the back-bone, I know," said Lily, "and Bessy doesn't like getting up ladders." "As for ladders," said Mrs. Boyce, defend- ing her daughter, " I am not quite sure that Bessy isn't right. You don't mean to say that you did all those in the capitals yourself?" "Every twig, with Hopkins to hold the lad- der and cut the sticks ; and as Hopkins is just a hundred and one years old we could have done it pretty nearly as well alone." "I do not think that," said Grace. "He has been grumbling all the time," said Lily, "and swears he never will have the laurels so robbed again. Eire or six years ago he used to declare that death would certainly save him from the pain of such another desecration before the next Christmas ; but he has given up that foolish notion now, and. talks as though he meant to protect the Allington shrubs at any rate to the end of this century." "I am sure we gave our share from the par- sonage," said Mrs. Boyce, who never understood a joke. " All the best came from the parsonage, as of course they ought," said Lily. "But Hopkins had to make up the deficiency. And as my uncle told him to take the hay-cart for them in- stead of the hand-barrow, he is broken-hearted." "I am sure he was very good-natured," said Grace. "Nevertheless he is broken-hearted; and I am very good-natured too, and I am broken- backed. Who is going to preach to-morrow morning, Mrs. Boyce?" "Mr. Swanton will preach in the morning." "Tell him not to be long, because of the children's pudding. Tell IMr. Boyce if he is long we won't any of us come next Sund.iy." "jNIy dear, how can you say such wicked things! I shall not tell him any thing of the kind." "That's not wicked, Mrs. Boyce. If I were to say I had eaten so much lunch that I didn't want any dinner you'd understand that. If THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. ^Ir. Swaiiton will preach for tlircc-quartcrs of an ' who take upon tliemsclvcs semi-clerical duties. hour — " And it is natural that it should be so ; for is it "He only preached for three-quarters of an not said that familiarity docs breed contempt? hour once, Lily " lie has been over the half-hour every Sun- day since he has been here. His average is over forty minutes, and I say it's a shame." "It is not a shame at all, Lily," said Mrs. Boyce, becoming very serious. " Look at my uncle ; he doesn't like to po to sleep, and he has to sutler a ])nrgatory in keep- ing himself awake." " If your uncle is heavy how can Mr. Swan- ton hcl]) it? If Mr. Dale's minJ were en the subject he would not sleep." "Come, Mrs. Boycc ; there's somebody else .sleeps sometimes besides my uncle. When Mr. Boycc ]Hits up his fin;j;er and just touches his nose I know as well as possible why he does it." " Lily Dale, you have no business to say so. It is not true. I don't know how you can bring yourself to talk in that way of your own clergy- man. If I were to tell your mamma she would be shocked." "You won't be so ill-natured, Mrs. Boycc — after all that I've done for the church." " If you'd think more about the clergyman, Lil}', and less about the church," said Mrs. Boyce, very sententiously — "more about the matter and less about the manner, more of the reality and less of the form — I think you'd find that your religion would go further with you. Miss Cr.awley is the daughter of a clergyman, and I'm sure she'll agree with me." " If she agrees with any body in scolding me I'll quarrel with her." "I didn't mean to scold you, Lily." " I don't mind it from you, Mrs. Boycc. In- deed, I rather like it. It is a sort of pastoral visitation ; and as Mr. Boycc never scolds me liimself, of course I take it as coming from him by attorney." Then there was silence for a minute or two, during which Mrs. Boycc was endeavoring to discover whether Miss Dale was laughing at her or not. As she was not quite certain slie thought at last that she would let the suspected fault pass unobserved. "Don't wait for us, INIrs. Boyce," said Lily. " We must remain till Hopkins has sent Gregory to sweep the church out and take away the rubbish. We'll see tliat the key is left at Mrs. Giles's." " Thank you, my dear. Then I may as well go. I thought I'd come in and see that it was all right. I'm sure Mr. Boyce will be very much obliged to you and Miss Crawley. Good- night, my dear." When a parson takes his lay fiiend over his church on a week-day, how much less of the sf>irit of genuflection and head-uncovering the clergy- man will dis])lay than the layman ! The parson pulls about the wood-work and knocks about the stone-work as though it were mere wood and stone ; and talks aloud in the aisle, and treats even the reading-desk as a common thing; whereas the visitor whispers gently, and carries himself as though even in looking at a church he was bound to regard himself as performing some service that was half divine. Now Lily Dale and Grace Crawley were both accustomed to churches, and had been so long at work in this church for the last two days that the building had lost to them much of its sacredness, and they were almost as irreverent as though they were two curates. ' ' I am so glad she has gone, " said Lily. ' ' We shall have to stop here for the next hour, as Gregory won't know what to take away and what to leave. I was so afraid she was going to stop and see us off the ))reniises." "I don't know why you should dislike her." " I don't dislike her. I like her very well," said Lily Dale. "But don't you feel that there are people whom one knows very intimately, who are really friends— for whom if they were dying one would grieve, whom if they were in misfortune one would go far to help, but with whom for all tiiat one can have no sympathy? And yet they are so near to one that they know all the events of one's life, and are justified by unquestioned friendship in talking about things which should never be mentioned except where sympathy exists." "Yes; I understand that." "Every body understands it who has been' unhappy. That woman sometimes says things to me that makes me wish — wish tliat they'd make him bishop of Patagonia. And yet she does it all in friendship, and mamma says that she is quite right." " I like her for standing up for her husband." "But he docs go to sleep — and then he scratches his nose to show that he's awake. I shouldn't have said it, only she is always hint- ing at uncle Christopher. Uncle Christopher certainly does go to sleep when Mr. Boycc preaches, and he hasn't studied any scientific little movements during his slumbers to make the jjeople believe that he's all alive. I gave him a hint one da}', and he got so angry with Good-night, Mrs. Boyce; and be sure you me I" don't let Mr. Swanton be long to-morrow." To | "I shouldn't have thought he could have this parting shot Mrs. Boyce made no rejoinder; been angry with yon. It seems to me from but she hurried out of the church somewhat the | what you say that you may do Avhatcver you quicker for it, and closed the door after her with ' please with him." something of a slam. Of all persons clergymen are the most irrev- erent in the handling of things supposed to be sacred, and next to them clergymen's wives, and after them those other ladies, old or young, "He is very good to me. If you know it all — if you could understand how good he has been! I'll try and tell you some day. It is not what he has done that makes me love him so — but what he has thoroughly understood, THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 73 and what, so understanding, he has not done, and what he has not said. It is a case of sym- patliy. If ever there was a gentleman uncle Christopher is one. And I used to dislike hii^ so at one time!" "And why?" "ChicHy because he would make me wear Lrown frocks when I wanted to have them pink or green. And he kept me for six months from having them long, and up to this day he scolds me if there is half an inch on the ground for iiiin to tread upon." " I sliouldn't mind that if I were you." " I don't — not now. But it used to be se- rious when I was a young girl. And we thought, Bell and I, that he was cross to mamma. He and mamma didn't agree at first, you know, as they do now. It is quite true that he did dis- like mamma when we first came here." "I can't think how any body could ever dis- like Mrs. Dale." " But he did. And then he wanted to make up a marriage between Bell and my cousin Ber- nard. But neither of them cared a bit for thq other, and then he used to scold them — and then — and tlien — and then — Oh, he was so good to me ! Here's Gregory at last. Gregory, we've been waiting this hour and a half." "It aiu't ten minutes since Hopkins let me come with the barrows, miss." " Then Hopkins is a traitor. Never mind. You'd better begin now — up there at the steps. It'll be quite dark in a few minutes. Here's IMrs. Giles with her broom. Come, Mrs. Giles ; we shall liave to pass the night here if you don't make haste. Are you cold, Grace?" " No ; I'm not cold. I'm thinking what they are doing now in the church at Ilogglestock. " " The Ilogglestock church is not pretty — like this ?" " Oh no. It is a very plain brick building, witli something like a pigeon-house for a belfry. , And the pulpit is over the reading-desk, and the reading-desk over the clerk, so that papa, when he preaches, is nearly up to the ceiling. And the whole place is divided into pews, in which the farmers hide themselves when they come to church." " So tiiat nobody can see whether they go to sleep or no. Oli, ilrs. Giles, you mustn't pull that down. That's what we have been putting up all day." "But it be in the way, miss; so that the I minister can't budge in or out o' the door." ' " Never mind. Then he must stay one side or the other. That would be too much after all I our trouble!" And Miss Dale hurried across the chancel to save some prettily arching boughs, whicli, in the judgment of Mrs. Giles, encroach- ed too mncli on the vestry door. " As if it sig- nified which side he was," she said in a whisper to Grace. "I don't suppose they'll have any thing in the church at home," said Grace. " Somebody will stick up a wreath or two, I dare sav." E " Nobody will. There never is any body at Ilogglestock to stick up wreaths, or to do any thing for the prettinesses of life. And now there will be less done than ever. How can mamma look after holly-leaves in her present state ? And yet she will nuss them, too. Poor mamma sees very little that Is jjretty ; but she has not forgotten how pleasant pretty things are." " I wish I knew your mother, Grace." " I think it would be impossible for any one to know mamma now — for any one who had not known her before. She never makes even a new acquaintance. She seems to think that there is nothing left for her in the world but to try and keep papa out of misery. And she does not succeed in that. Poor papa!" " Is he very unhappy about this wicked ac- cusation ?" "Yes; he is very unhappy. But, Lily, I don't know about its being wicked." " But you know that it is untrue." "Of course I know that papa did not mean to take any thing that was not his own. But, you see, nobody knows where it came from ; and nobody except mamma and Jane and I un- derstand how very absent papa can be. I'm sure he doesn't know the least in the world how he came by it himself, or he would tell mamma. Do you know, Lily, I think I have been wrong to come away?" " Don't say that, dear. Remember how anx- ious Mrs. Crawley was that you should come." "But I can not bear to be comfortable here while they are so wretched at home. It seems such a mockery. Every time I find myself smiling at Avhat j'ou say to me I think I must be the most heartless creature in the world." "Is it so very bad with them, Grace?" "Indeed it is bad. I don't think you can imagine what mamma has to go through. She has to cook all that is eaten in the house, and then, very often, there is no money in the house to buy any thing. If you were to see the clothes she wears, even that would make your heart bleed. I, who ha\e been used to being poor all my life — even I' when I am at home, am dismayed by what she has to endure." " What can we do for her, Grace ?" "Y'ou can do nothing, Lily. But when things are like that at home you can understand what I feel in being here." Sirs. Giles and Gregory had now completed their task, or had so nearly done so as to make ISIiss Dale think that she might safely leave the church. " We will go in now," she said ; " for it is dark and cold, and what I call creepy. Do you ever fancy that perhaps you will see a ghost some day ?" " I don't think I shall ever see a ghost ; but all the same I should be half afraid to be licre alone in the dark." " I am often»here alone in the dark, but I am beginning to think I shall never see a gliost now. I am losing all my romance, and getting to be an old woman. Do you know, Grace, THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. I do so liato myself for being such an old maid?" "Butwlio says you're nn old maid, Lily?" " I see it ill ])cople's eyes, and hear it in tlicir voices. And they all talk to me as if I were very steady, and altogether removed from any tiling like fun and frolic. It seems to be ad- mitted that if a girl does not want to fall in love, she ought not to care for any other fun in the world. If any body made out a list of the old ladies in these parts they'd ]iut down Lady Ju- lia, and mamma, and Mrs. Boyce, and mo, and old Mrs. Ilearne. The very children have an awful respect for me, and give over playing di- rectly they see me. Well, mamma, we've done at last, and I have had such a scolding from Mrs. Boycc." " I dare say you deserved it, my dear." '• No, I did not, mamma. Ask Grace if I did." "Was she not saucy to Mrs. Boyee, Miss Crawley?" " She said that I\Ir. Boycc scratches his nose in church," said Grace. " So he docs; and goes to slcc]), too." "If you told Mrs. Boycc that, Lily, I think she was quite right to scold you." Such was I\Iiss Lily Dale, with whom Grace Crawley was st.aying — Lily Dale, with whom Jlr. John Eamcs, of tlie Income-tax Office, had been so long and so steadily in love that he was regai-ded among his fellow-clerks as a miracle of constancy — who had, herself, in former days been so unfortunate in love as to have been re- garded among her friends in the country as the most ill-used of women. As John Eames had been able to be comfortable in life — that is to say, not utterly a wretch — in spite of his love, so had she managed to hold np her head, and live as other young women live, in spite of her misfortune. But as it may be said also that his constancy was true constancy, although he knew how to enjoy the good things of the world, so also had her misfortune been a true misfortune, although she had been able to bear it nithout much outer show of shipwreck. For a few days — for a week or two, when the blow first struck her — she had been knocked down, and the friends who were nearest to her had thought that she would never again stand erect upon her feet. But she had been very strong, stout at heart, of a fixed purpose, and capable of resistance against oppression. Even her own mother had been astonished, and sometimes almost dismayed, by the strength of her will. Her motiier knew well how it was with her now ; but they who saw her frequently, and who did not know her as her mother knew her — the Mrs. Boyces of her ac- quaintance — whispered among themselves that Lily Dale was not so soft of heart as pcojjle used to think. On the next day, Christmas-day, as the read- er will remember, Grace Crawley was taken up to dine at the big house with the old squire. IVIrs. Dale's eldest daughter, with her husband, Dr. Crofts, was to be there ; and also Lily's old friend, who was also especially the old friend of Johnny Eames, Lady Julia l)e Guest. Grace had endeavored to be excused from the ]iarty, ])leading many pleas. But the upshot of all her ]ileas was this — that while her father's j^o- sition was so painful she ought not to go out any where. In answer to this, Lily Dale, cor- roborated by lier mother, assured her that for her father's sake she ought not to exhibit any such feeling; that in doing so she would seem to express a doubt as to her father's innocence. Then she allowed herself to be persuaded, telling her friend, however, that she knew the day would be very miserable to her. "It will be very humdrum, if you jileasc," said Lily. "No- thing can be more humdrtnu than Christmas at the Great House. Nevertheless you must go." Coming out of church Grace was introduced to the old squire. He was a thin old man, /with gray hair, and the smallest jiossible gray whiskers, with a dry, solemn face ; not carrying in his outward gait much of the customary jol- lity of Christmas. He took his hat off to Grace, and said some word to her as to hojiing to have the pleasure of seeing her at dinner. It sound- ed very cold to her, and she becatne at once afraid of him. "I wish I was not going," she said to Lily, again. "I know he thinks I ought not to go. I shall be so thaiikful if you will but let mc stay." " Don't be foolish, Grace. It all comes from your not knowing him, or understanding him. And how should you understand iiiui ? I give you my word that I would tell you if I did not know tliat he wishes you to go." She had to go. " Of course I haven't a dress fit. How should I?" she said to Lily. "How wrong it is of me to put myself up to such a thing as this!" "Your dress is beautifid, child. Wc are none of us going in evening dresses. Pray be- lieve that I will not make you do wrong. If you won't trust me, can't you trust mamma?" Of course she went. When the three ladies entered the drawing-room of the Great House they found that Lady Julia had arrived just be- fore them. Lady Julia immediately took hold of Lily, and led her apart, having a word or two to say about the clerk in the Income-tax Office. I am not sure but what the dear old woman sometimes said a few more words than were ex- pedient, with a view to the object which she had so closely at heart. "John is to be with us the first week in February," she said. "I suppose you'll sec him before that, as he'll probably be with his mother a few days before he comes to me." "I dare say we shall see him quite in time, Lady Julia," said Lily. "Now, Lily, don't be ill-natured." "I'm the most good-natured yomig woman alive. Lady Julia; and as for Johni y, he is al- ways made as welcome at the Sm; 11 House as violets in March. Mamma puri about him when he comes, asking all mann-jr of flattering questions, as though he were a c.ibinet minister THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 75 GEACE CEAWLEV 18 INTRODUCED TO SQUIKE DALE. at least, and I always admire some little nick- nack that he has got, a new ring, or a stud, or a button. There isn't another man in all the world whose buttons I'd look at." " It isn't his buttons, Lily." "Ah, that's just it. I can go as far as his buttons. But come, Lady Julia, this is Christ- mas time, and Christmas should be a holiday." In the mean time Mrs. Dale was occupied with her married daughter and her son-in-law, and the squire had attached himself to poor Grace. " You have never been in this part of the country before, Miss Crawley?" he said. "No, Sir." " It is rather pretty just about here, and Guestwick Manor is a fine place in its way ; but we have not so much natural beauty as you have in Barsetsliire. Chaldicote Chase is, I think, as pretty as any thing in England." " I never saw Chaldicote Chase, Sir. It isn't pretty at all at Ilogglestock, where we live." " Ah, I forgot. No ; it is not very pretty at Hogglestock. That's where the bricks come from." "Papa is clergyman at Hogglestock." "Yes, yes; I remember. Your fatlier is a great scholar. I have often heard of him. I am so sorry he should be distressed by this 76 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. charge tlicy have made. But it will all come riglit at the assizes. They always get at the truth there. I used to he intimate witii a cler- gyman in Barsctshirc of the name of Grantly" — Grace felt tliat her cars were tingling, and that her face was red — "Archdeacon Grantly, His fatiicr was bisiiop of the diocese." "Yes, Sir. Archdeacon Grantly lives at Plumstead." "I was staying once with an old friend of mine, Mr. Thorne of Ullathorne, who lives close to Phmistcad, and saw a good deal of them. I remember thinking Henry Grantly was a very nice lad. He married afterward." "Yes, Sir; but Iiis wife is dead now, and he has got a little girl — Editli Grantly." " Is there no other child ?" "No, Sir; only Edith." "You know him, then?" " Yes, Sir ; I know Major Grantly — and Edith. I never saw Archdeacon Grantly." " Then, my dear, you never saw a very fa- mous pillar of the cluirch. I remember when people used to talk a great deal about Arch- deacon Grantly ; but when his time came to be made a bishop he was not sufficiently new-fan- gled, and so he got passed by. He is much better off as he is, I should say. Bishops have to work very hard, my dear." "Do they, Sir?" " So they tell me. And the archdeacon is a wealthy man. So Henry Grantly has got an only daughter ? I hope she is a nice child, for I remember liking him well." " She is a very nice child indeed, Mr. Dale. She could not be nicer. And she is so lovely !" Then Mr. Dale looked into his young compan- ion's face, struck by the sudden animation of her words, and perceived for the first time that she was very jjretty. After this Grace became accustomed to the strangeness .of the faces round her, and man- aged to eat her dinner without much perturba- tion of spirit. When after dinner the squire proposed to her that they should drink the health of her papa and mamma, slie was almost re- duced to tears, and yet she liked him for doing it. It was teiTible to her to have them men- tioned, knowing as she did tliat every one who mentioned them must be aware of their misery — for the misfortune of her father had become notorious in the country ; but it was almost more terrible to her that no allusion should be made to thenj ; for then slie would be driven to think that her father was regarded as a man whom the world could not afford to mention. " Papa and mamma," she just murmured, rais- ing her glass to her lips. "Grace, dear," said Lily from across the table, " here's papa and mamma, and the young man at Marlborough who is carrying every thing before him." "Yes ; we won't forget the young man at Marlborough," said the squire. Grace felt this to be good-na- tured, because her brother at Marlborough was the one bright spot in her family — and she was comforted. " And we will drink the health of my friend, John Eames," said Lady Julia. "John Eames's health," said the squire, in a low voice. "Johnny's health," said Mrs. Dale ; but Mrs. Dale's voice was not very brisk. "John's health," said Dr. Crofts and Mrs. Crofts in a breath. "Here's the health of Johnny Eames," said Lily ; and her voice was the clearest and the boldest of them all. But she made up her mind that if Lady Julia could not be induced to spare her for the future she and Lady Julia must quarrel. "No one can understand," she said to her mother that evening, " how dreadful it is — this being constantly told before one's family and friends that one ought to marry a certain young man." " She didn't say that, my dear." " I should much prefer that she should, for then I could get up on my legs and answer her off the reel." Of course every body there un- derstood what she meant — including old John Bates, who stood at the side-board and coolly drank the toast liimself. " He always does that to all the family toasts on Christmas-day. Your uncle likes it." "That wasn't a family toast, and John Bates had no right to drink it." After dinner they all played cards — a round game — and the squire put in the stakes. "Now, Grace," said Lily, "you are the visiter and you must win, or else uncle Christopher won't be happy. He always likes a young lady visit- or to win." "But I never plaved a game of cards in my life." " Go and sit next to him and he'll teach you. Uncle Christopher, won't you teach Grace Craw- ley ? She never saw a Pope Joan board in her life before." " Come here, my dear, and sit next to me. Dear, dear, dear! fancy Henry Grantly having a little girl. What a handsome lad he was! And it seems only yesterday." If it was so that Lily had said a word to her uncle about Grace and the major, the old squire had become on a sudden very sly. Be that as it may, Grace Craw- ley thought that he was a pleasant old man ; and though, while talking to him about Edith, slie persisted in not learning to play Poj)e Joan, so that he could not contrive that she should win, nevertheless the squire took to her very kindly, and told her to come up with Lily and see him sometimes while she was staying at the Small House. The squire in speaking of his sister- in-law's cottage always called it the Small House. "Only think of my winning!" said Lady Julia, drawing together her wealth. "Well, I'm sure I want it bad enough, for I don't at all , know whether I've got any income of my own. It's all John Eames's fault, my dear, for he won't go and make those people settle it in Lincoln's Inn Fields." Poor Lily, who was standing on the hearth-rug, touched her mo- THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 77 ther's arm. She knew that Johnny's name was lugged in with refereme to Lady Julia's money alto"ethcr for her benefit. " I wonder whether she ever had a Johnny of her own, " she said to her mother; "and if so, whether she liked it when her friends sent the town-crier round to talk about him." "She means to be good-natured," said Mrs. Dale. ' "Of course she does. But it is such a pity when people won't understand." " My uncle didn't bite you after all, Grace," said Lily to her friend as they were going home at night by the pathway which led from the garden of one house to the garden of the other. "I like Mr. Dale very much," said Grace. "He Mas very kind to me." "There is some queer-looking animal of whom they say that he is better than he looks, and I always think of that saying when I think of my uncle." "For shame, Lily!" said her mother. "Your nncle, for his age, is as good a looking man as I know. And he always looks like just what he is — an English gentleman." "I didn't mean to say a word against his dear old face and figure, mamma ; but his heart, and mind, and general disposition, as they come out in experience and days of trial, are so much better than the samples of them which he puts out on the counter for men and women to judge by. He wears well, and he washes well — if you know what I mean, Grace." " Yes ; I think I know what you mean." " The Apollos of the world — I don't mean in outward looks, mamma — but the Apollos in heart, the men, and the women too — who are so I full of feeling, so soft-natured, so kind, who nev- ! er say a cross word, who never get out of bed j on the wrong side in the morning — it so often turns out tliat they won't wash." Such was the expression of Miss Lily Dale's experience. CHAPTER XVIL MR. CKAWLEY IS SUMMONED TO BARCIIESTEK. The scene which occurred m Hogglestock church on the Sunday after Mr. Thumble's first visit to that parish had not been described with absolute accuracy either by the archdeacon in J his letter to his son, or by Mrs. Thorne. There I had been no footman from the palace in attend- I ance on Mr. Thumble, nor had there been a I battle with the brickmakers ; neither had Mr. j Thumble been put imder the pump. But Mr. i Thumble had gone over, taking his gown and 1 surplice with liim, on the Sunday morning, and I had intimated to Mr. Crawley his intention o^ I performing the service. Mr. Crawley, in an- i swer to this, had assured Mr. Thumble that he I would not be allowed to open his mouth in the I church ; and Mr. Tliumble, not seeing his way to any furtlicr successful action, had contented himself with attending the services in his sur- plice, making tliereby a silent protest that he, and not Mr. Crawley, ought to have been in the reading-desk and the pulpit. When Mr. Thumble reported himself and his failure at the palace, he strove hard to avoid seeing Mrs. Proudie, but not successfully-. He Jvuew something of the palace habits, and did manage to reach the bishop alone on the Sun- day evening, justifying himself to his lordshii) for svtch an interview by the remarkable circum- stances of the case and the importance of his late mission. Mrs. Proudie always went to church on Sunday evenings, making a point of hearing three services and three sermons every Sunday of her life. On week-days she seldom heard any, having an idea that week-day serv- ices were an invention of the High Church en- emy, and that they should therefore be vehe- mently discouraged. Serv'ices on saints' days she regarded as rank papacy, and had been known to accuse a clergyman's wife, to her face, of idolatry, because the poor lady had dated a let- ter St. John's Eve. Mr. Thumble, on this Sun- day evening, was successful in finding the bish- op at home and alone, but he was not lucky enough to get away before Mrs. Proudie re- turned. The bishop, perhaps, thought that the story of the failure had better reach his wife's ears from Mr. Thumble's lips than from his own. "Well, Mr. Thumble?" said Mrs. Proudie, walking into the study, armed in her full Sun- day-evening winter panoply, in which she had just descended from her carriage. The church which Mrs. Proudie attended in the evening was nearly half a mile from the palace, and the coachman and groom never got a holiday on Sunday night. She was gorgeous in a dark brown silk dress of awful stiffness and terrible dimensions ; and on her shoulders she wore a 78 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. short cloak of velvet and fur, very handsome withal, but so swcllinj; in its jiroportions on all sides as necessarily to create more of dismay than of admiration in tiic mind of any ordinary man. And her bonnet >vas a monstrous helmet with the beaver uj), disidaying the awful face of the warrior, always ready for combat, and care- less to j^'uard itself from attack. The lar{:;c con- torted bows which she bore were as a grizzly crest upon her casque, beautiful, doubtless, but ma- jestic and fear-compelling. In her hand she carried her armor all comi)lete, a prayer-book, ft Bible, and a book of hymns. These the foot- man had brought for her to the study door, but she had thought fit to enter her husband's room with them in her own custody. "Well, Mr. Thumble!" she said. ]Mr. Thumhle did not answer at once, tiiink- ing, probably, that the bishop might choose to explain the circumstances. But neither did the bishop say any thing. " Well, Mr. Thumble ?" she said again ; and then she stood looking at the man who had failed so disastrously. "I have explained to the bislioj)," said he. "Mr. Crawley has been contumacious — very contumacious indeed." " But you preached at Ilogglestock ?" "No, indeed, ]\Irs. I'roudie. Nor would it have been possible unless I had had the police to assist mc." "Then you should have had the police. I never heard of any thing so mismanaged in all my life — never in all my life." And she put her books down on the study table, and turned her- self round from Mr. Thumble toward the bishop. "If things go on like this, my lord," she said, "your authority in the diocese will very soon be worth nothing at all." It was not often that Mrs. Troudic called her husband my lord, but when slie did do so it was a sign that terrible times had come — times so terrible that the bish- op would know that he must either fight or fly. He would almost endure any thing rather than descend into the arena for the purpose of doing battle with his wife, but occasions would come now and again when even the alternative of flight was hardly left to him. " But, m_v dear — " began the bishop. "Am I to understand that this man has pro- fessed himself to be altogether indifferent to the bishop's ])rohibition ?" said Mrs. Proudie, inter- rupting her husband and addressing Mr. Thum- ble. " Quite so. He seemed to think that the bishop had no lawful power in the matter at all," said Mr. Thumble. "Do you hear that, my lord?'' said Mrs. Proudie. "Nor have I any," said the bishop, almost weeping as he spoke. " No authority in your own diocese?" "None to silence a man merely by my own judgment. I thought, and still think, that it was for this gentleman's own interest, as well as for the credit of the Church, that some provi- sion should be made for hi.s duties during his ])resent — present — difficulties." " Dilliculties indeed! Every body knows that the man has been a thief." " No, my dear; I do not know it." " You never know any thing, bishop." " I mean to say that I do not know it offi- cially. Of course I have heard the sad story ; and, though I hojic it may not be the — " " There is no doubt about its truth. All the world knows it. lie has stolen twenty pounds, and yet he is to be allowed to desecrate tho Church, and imperil the souls of the people 1" The bishop got up from his chair, and began to walk backward and forward through the room with short, quick steps. "It only wants five days to Christmas-day," continued Mrs. Proudie, " and something must be done at once. I say nothing as to the jiropriety or imjiropricty of his being out on bail, as it is no aftair of ours. When I heard tliat he had been bailed by a beneficed clergyman of this diocese, of course I knew where to look for the man who would act with so much impropriety. Of course I was not surprised when I found that that person be- longed to Framlcy. But, as I have said before, that is no business of ours. I hojjc, Jlr. Thum- ble, that the bishop will never be found interfer- ing with the ordinary' laws of the land. I am very sure that he will never do so by my advice. But when there comes a question of inliibiting a clergyman who has committed himself as this clergyman unfortunately has done, then I say that that clergyman ought to be inhibited." The bishop walked up and down the room throughout the whole of this speech, but grad- ually his steps became quicker, and his turns became shorter. " And now here is Christmas- day upon us, and what is to be done ?" With these words Mrs. Proudie finished her speech. " jNIr. Thumble," said the bishop, "perhaps you had better now retire. I am very sorry that you should have had so thankless and so disagreeable a task." "Why should Mr. Thumble retire?" asked Mrs. Proudie. "I think it better," said the bishop. "Mr. Thumble, good-night." Then Mr. Thumble did retire, and Mrs. Proudie stood forth in her full Ijanoply of armor, silent and awful, with her hel- met erect, and vouchsafed no recognition what- ever of the parting salutation with which Mr. Thumble greeted her. " My dear, the truth is you do not undei'stand the matter," said the bishop as soon as the door was closed. "You do not know how limited is my power." "Bishop, I understand it a great deal better than some peojde ; and I understand also what is due to myself and the manner in which I ought to be treated by you in the presence of the subordinate clergy of the diocese. I shall not, howevei-, remain here to be insulted cither in the presence or in the absence of any one." Then the conquered Amazon collected together the weajjons which she had laid ujjon the table, and took her departure with majestic step, and THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 79 !i. "Notliing wliatevcr, my lord," said Mv. Crawley. " Hut, hisiiop, I think that you have," said Mrs. I'roudie. "The judgment formed hy the magistrates as to the conduct of one of your clerfiynien makes it iini)criitivc upon you to act in the matter." "Yes, my dear, yes; I am coming to that. What Mrs. Prondie says is i)erfectly true. I have been constrained most nnwilliiij:;ly to take action in this matter. It is undoubtedly the fact tliat you must at the next assizes surrender yourself at the court-house yonder, to be tried for this oflcnse against the laws." "That is true. If I be alive, my lord, and have strength sufficient, I shall be there." "You must be there," said Mrs. Proudie. "The police will look to that, M\: Crawley." She was becoming very angry in that the man would not answer her a word. On this occasion again he did not even look at her. "Yes; you will be there," said the bishop. "Now that is, to say the least of it, an unseem- ly position for a beneficed clergyman." " You said before, my lord, that it was an un- fortunate position, and the word, methinks, was better chosen." "It is very unseemly, very unseemly indeed," said ]Mrs. Proudie ; " nothing could possibly be more unseemly. The bishop might very prop- erly have used a much stronger word." "Under these circumstances," continued the bishop, " looking to the welfare of your parish, to the welfare of the diocese, and allow me to say, jMr. Crawley, to the welfare of yourself also — " "And especially to the souls of the people," said IMrs. Proudie. The bishop shook his head. It is hard to be impressively eloquent when one is interrupted at every best turned period, even by a support- ing voice. " I'es ; and looking, of course, to the religious interests of your people, Mr. Craw- ley, I came to the conclusion that it would be expedient that you should cease your ministra- tions for a while." The bishop paused, and Mr. Crawley bowed his head. " I therefore sent over to you a gentleman with whom I am well ac- quainted, Mr. Thumble, with a letter from my- self, in which I endeavored to impress upon you, Avithout the use of any severe language, what my convictions were." "Severe words are often the best mercy," said Mrs. Proudie. jMr. Crawley had raised his hand, with his finger out, preparatory to an- swering tiie bishop. But as Mrs. Pi'ondie had spoken he dropped his finger and was silent. "Mr. Thumble brought me back your written reply," continued the bishop, "by which I was grieved to find that you were not willing to sub- mit yourself to my counsel in the matter." "I was most unwilling, my lord. Submis- sion to authority is at times a duty — and at times opposition to authority is a duty also." "Oi)position to just authority can not be a duty, Mr. Crawley." " Opposition to usurped authority is an im- l)erative duty," said Mr. Crawley. "And who is to be the judge?" demanded Mrs. Proudie. Then there was silence for a wliilc ; when, as ^Ir. Crawley made no repl}', the lady repeated her question. " Will you be pleased to answer my question. Sir? Who, in such a case, is to be the judge ?" But Mr. Crawley did not please to answer her question. "The man is obstinate," said Mrs. Proudie. "I had better proceed," said the bishop. "Mr. Thumble brought me back your reply, which grieved me greatly." "It was contumacious and indecent," said Mrs. Proudie. The bishop again shook his head, and looked so unutterably miserable that a smile came across Mr. Crawley's face. After all, others besides himself had their troubles and trials. Mrs. Proudie saw and understood the smile, and be- came more angry than ever. She drew her chair close to the table, and began to fidget with her fingers among the papers. She had never before encountered a clergyman so contuma- cious, so indecent, so unreverend, so upsetting. She had had to do with men diflicult to man- age — the archdeacon, for instance ; but the arch- deacon had never been so impertinent to her as this man. She had quarreled once openly with a chaplain of her husband's, a clergyman whom she herself had introduced to her husband, and who had treated her very badly — but not so bad- ly, not with such unscrupulous violence, as she was now encountering from this ill-clothed, beg- garly man, this perpetual curate, with his dirty broken boots, this already half-convicted thief! Such was her idea of Mr. Crawley's conduct to her while she was fingering the papers — simply because Mr. Crawley would not speak to her. "I forget where I was," said the bishop. " Oh ! Mr. Thumble came back, and I received your letter — of course I received it. And I was surprised to learn from that, that in spite of what had occurred at Silverbridge, you were still anxious to continue the usual Sunday min- istrations in your church." "I was determined that I would do my duty at Ilogglestock as long as I might be left there to do it," said Mr. Crawley. "Duty !" said INIrs. Proudie. "Just a moment, my dear," said the bishop. " When Sunday came, I had no alternative but to send Mr. Thumble over again to Iloggle- stock. It occurred to us — to me and Mrs. Prou- die — " "I will tell Mr. Crawdey just now what has occurred to me," said Mrs. Proudie. "Yes; just so. And I am sure that he will take it in good part. It occurred to me, Mr. Crawley, that your first letter might have been written in haste." " It was written in haste, my lord ; your mes- senger was waiting." " Yes ; just so. Well ; so I sent him again, THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 85 hoping that he might be accepted as a messen- ger of peace. It was a most disagreeable mis- sion for any gentleman, Mr. Crawley." "Most disagreeable, my lord." "And you refused him permission to obey tlie instructions which I had given him ! You would not let him read from your desk or preach from your pulpit." "liad I been Mr. Thumblc," said Mrs. Prou- die, " I would have, read from that desk, and I would have preached from that pulpit." Mr. Crawley waited a moment, thinking that the bishop might perhaps speak again ; but as he did not, but sat expectant as though he had finislied his discourse, and now expected a re- ply, Mr. Crawley got up from his scat and drew near to the table. "My lord," he began, "it has all been just as you have said. I did an- swer your first letter in haste." "The more shame for you !" said Mrs. I'rou- die. "And therefore, for aught I know, my letter to your lordship may be so worded as to need some apology." "Of course it needs an apology," said Mrs. Proudie. "But for the matter of it, my lord, no apol- ogy can be made, nor is any needed. I did re- fuse to your messenger permission to perform the services of my church, and if you send twenty more I shall refuse them all — till the time may come when it will be your lordship's duty, in accordance with the laws of the Church ■ — as borne out and "backed by the laws of the land, to provide during my constrained absence for the spiritual wants of those poor people at Hogglestock." "Poor people, indeed!" said Mrs. Proudie. " Poor wretches !" " And, my lord, it may well be that it shall ; soon bo your lordsliip's duty to take due and '. legal steps for depriving me of my benefice at Hogglestock — nay, probably, for silencing me ,; altogether as to the exercise of my sacred pro- :i fession ! " ! " Of course it will. Sir. Your gown will be ]i taken from you," said Mrs. Proudie. The I bishop was looking with all his eyes up at the ! great forehead and great eyebrows of the man, I; and was so fascinated by the power that was exercised over him by the other man's strength that he hardly now noticed his wife. " It may well be so," continued Mr. Crawley. "The circumstances are strong against me; and, though your lordship has altogether mis- understood the nature of the duty performed by the magistrates in sending my case for trial — although, as it seems to me, you have come to conclusions in this matter in ignorance of the very theory of our laws — " "Sir!" said Mrs. Proudie. " Yet I can foresee the probability that a jury may discover me to have been guilty of theft." "Of course the jury will do so," said Mrs. Proudie. " Should such verdict be given, then, my lord, your interference will be legal, jiropcr, and necessary. And you will find that, even if it be within my power to oppose obstacles to your lordship's authority, I will oppose no such ob- stacle. There is, I believe, no appeal in crim- inal cases." "None at all," said Mrs. Proudie. "Thercv is no appeal against your bishop. You should have learned that before." " But till that time shall come, my lord, I shall hold my own at Hogglestock as you hold your own here in Barchester. Nor have you more power to turn me out of my pulpit by your mere voice than I have to turn you out of your throne by mine. If you doubt me, my lord, your lordship's ecclesiastical court is open toj'ou. Try it there." " You defy us, then ?" said Mrs. Proudie. "My lord, I grant your authority as bishop to be great, but even a bishop can only act as the law allows him." " God forbid that I should do more !" said the bishop. ■ " Sir, you will find that your wicked threats will fall back upon your own head," said Mrs. Proudie. "Peace, woman!" Mr. Crawley said, ad- dressing her at last. The bishop jumped out of his chair at hearing the wife of his bosom called a woman. But he jumped rather in ad- miration than in anger. He had ajready begun to perceive that Mr. Crawley was a man who had better be left to take care of the souls at Hogglestock, at any rate till the trial should come on. "Woman!" said Mrs. Proudie, rising to her feet as though she really intended some personal encounter. "Madam," said Mr. Crawlej', "you should not interfere in these matters; You simply de- base your husband's high ofHcc. The distaff were more fitting for you. My lord, good- morning." And before either of them could speak again he was out of the room, and through the hall, and beyond the gate, and standing bc- neatli the towers of the cathedral. Yes, he had, he thought, in truth crushed tlie bishop. He had succeeded in crumpling the bisliop up with- in the clutch of his fist. He started in a spirit of triumjih to walk back on his road toward Hogglestock. He did not think of the long distance before him fur the first hour of his journey. He had had his vic- tory, and the remembrance of that braced his nerves and gave elasticity to his sinews, and he went stalking along the road with rajid strides, muttering to himself from time to time as he went along some word about ISIrs. Proudie and her distaff. Mr. Thumble would not, he thought, come to him again — not, at any rate, till the assizes were drawing near. And he had re- solved what he would do then. When the day of his trial was near he would himself write to the bishop, and beg that provision might be made for his church in the event of the verdict 86 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. poinp; apuinst him. His fricnJ, Dcnn Arabin, was to be lioinc before tliat time, and the idea had occurred to him oi askinj; tlic dean to sec to this; but now the otlier would be tlic more in- dei)eudeut course, and tlic better. And there was a matter as to which lie was not altoj^ether well pleased with the dean, although he was so conscious of his own ]>eculiarities as to know that he could hardly trust himself for a judg- ment. But, at any rate, he would api)ly to the bishop — to the bishop whom he had just left jirostratc in his palace — when the time of his trial should be close at hand. Full of such thoughts as these he went alonp; almost gayly, nor felt the fatigue of the road till lie had covered the first five miles out of Bar- chcstcr. It was nearly four o'clock, and the thick gloom of the winter evening was making itself felt. And then he began to be fatig\icd. He had not as yet eaten since he had left his home in tlie morning, and he now ])ulled a crust out of liis pocket and leaned against a gate ns he crunched it. There were still ten miles before him, and he knew that such an addition to the work he had already done would task him very severely. Farmer Mangle had told him that he would not leave Framlcy J\Iill till five, and he had got time to reach Framlcy ]\Iill by that time. But he had said that he would not return to Framley Mill, and he remembered his suspicion that his wife and farmer IVIangle be- tween theni had cozened him. No ; he would persevere and walk — walk, though he should drop upon the road. He was now nearer fifty than forty years of age, and hardships as well as time had told u]>on him. He knew that though his strength was good for the commence- ment of a hard day's work, it would not hold out for him as it used to do. He knew that the last four miles in the dark night would be very sad witli him. But still he persevered, endeav- oring, as he went, to cherish himself with the remembrance of his triumph. He passed the turning going down to Fram- lcy with courage, but when he came to the fin*- thcr turning, by which the cart would return from Framley to the Hogglestock road, he look- ed wistfully down the road for farmer Mangle. But farmer Mangle was still at the mill, wait- ing in expectation that Mr. Crawley might come to him. But the poor traveler ])aused here ba. for a minute, and then went on, stumbling ' ough the mud, striking his ill-cov-' ered feet against the rough stones in the darkj sweating in his weakness, almost tottering at times, and calculating whether his remaining strength would serve to carry him home. He had almost forgotten the bishop and his wife before at last he grasped t'lc wicket-gate lead- ing to his own door. "Oh, mamma, here is papal" "But where is the cart? I did not hear the wheels," said Mrs. Crawley. " Oh, mamma, I think papa is ill." Then the wifa took her drooping husband by both arms and strove to look him iu the face. ' ' He has walked all the way, and he is ill," said Jane. " No, my dear, I am very tired, but not ill. Let inc sit down, and give me some bread and tea, and I shall recover myself." Then Mrs. Crawley, from some secret hoard, got him a small modicum of spirits, and gave him meat and tea, and he was docile ; and, obeying her behests, allowed himself to be taken to his bed. "I do not think the bishop will send for me again, " he said, as she tucked the clothes around him. CHAPTER XIX. AVIIKKIO DID IT COMK FEOTI ? WiiicN Christmas morning came no emis- sary from the 1)ishop api)eared at Hogglestock to interfere with the ordinary performance of the day's services. "I think we need fear no further disturbance," Mv. Crawley said to his wife — and there was no further disturbance. On the day after his walk from Framley to Barchcstcr, and from Barchcster back to Hog- glestock, IMr. Crawley had risen not much the worse for his labor, and had gradually given to his wife a full account of what had taken place. "A poor weak man," he said, s])eaking of the bishop. " A poor weak creature, and much to be pitied." "I have always heard that she is a violent woman." "Very violent, and very ignorant; and most intrusive withal." "And you did not answer her a word ?" "At last my forbearance with her broke down, and I bade her mind her distaff." "What — really? Did you say those words to her?" "Nay; as for my exact words I can not re- member them. I was thinking more of the words with which it might be fitting that I should answer the bishop. But I certainly told her that she had better mind her distaff." " And how did she behave then ?" " I did not wait to see. The bishop had spoken, and I had replied ; and why should I tarry to behold the woman's violence? I had told him that he was wrong in law, and that I at least would not submit to usurped authority. There was nothing to keep me longer, and so I went without much ceremony of leave-taking. There had been little ceremony of greeting on their part, and there was less in the making of adieux on mine. They had told me that I was a thief — " " No, Josiah — surely not so? They did not use that very word?" " I say they did ; they did use the very word. But stop. I am wrong. I wrong his lordship, and I crave pardon for having done so. If my memory serve me, no expression so harsh es- caped from the bishop's mouth. He gave me, indeed, to understand more than once that the action taken by the magistrates was tantamount tHE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 87 to a conviction, and that I must be guilty be- cause tlicy liad decided tliat there was evidence sufficient to justify a trial. But all that arose from my lord's ignorance of tlie administration of the laws of his country. lie was very igno- rant — jHizzle-patcd, as yon may call it — led by the nose by his wife, weak as water, timid, and vacillating. But he did not wish, I think, to be insolent. It was Mrs. Proudic who told me to my fticc that I was a — thief." "May she be jjunished for the cruel word!" said Mrs. Crawley. "May the remembrance that she has spoken it come, some day, heavily upon her heart ! " "'Vengeance is mine. I will repay,' saith the Lord," answered Mr. Crawley. "Wc may safely leave all that alone, and rid our minds of such wishes, if it be possible. It is well, I think, that violent offenses, when committed, should be met by instant rebuke. To turn the other cheek instantly to the smiter can hardly be suitable in these days, when the hands of so many are raised to strike. But the return blow should be given only while the smart remains. She hurt me then; but what is it to me now that she called me a thief to my face ? Do I not know that, all the country round, men and women are calling me the same behind my back ?" "No, Josiah, yon do not know that. They say that the thing is very strange — so strange that it requires a trial ; but no one thinks yon liave taken that which was not yonr own." "I think I did. I myself think I took that which was not my own. JNIy poor head suffers so — so many grievous thoughts distract me, that I am like a child, and know not what I do." As he spoke tiius he put both hands up to his head, leaning forward as though in anxious thought — as though he were striving to bring his mind to bear with accuracy upon past events. "It could not have been mine, and yet — " Then he sat silent, and made no effort to con- tinue his speech. "And yet?" — said his wife, encouraging him to proceed. If she could only learn the real truth, she thought that she might perha])3 yet save him, with assistance tVom their friends. "When I said that I had gotten it from that man I must have been mad." " From which mau, love ?" "From the man Soames — he who accuses me. And yet, as the Lord hears me, I thought so then. The truth is, that there are times when I am not — sane. I nm not a tliiof — not before God; but I am — mad at times." These last words he spoke very slowly, in a whisper — with- out any excitement — indeed with a composure which was horrible to witness. And what he said was the more terrible because she was so well convinced of tlie truth of his words. Of course lie was no thief. She wanted no one to tell her that. As he himself had expressed it, he was no thief before God, however the money might have come into his possession. That there were times when his reason, once so fine and clear, could not act, could not be trusted to guide him right, slie had gradually come to know with fear and trembling. But he himself had never before hinted his own consciousness of this calamity. Indeed he had been so un- willing to speak of himself and of his own state that she had been unable even to ask him a question about the money — lest he should sus- pect that she suspected him. Now he was speak- ing — but speaking with such heart-rending sad- ness that she could hardly urge him to go on. " You have sometimes been ill, Josiah, as any of US may be," she said, "and that has been the cause." " There are different kinds of sickness. There is sickness of the body, and sickness of the heart, and sickness of the spirit — and then there is sick- ness of the mind, the worst of all." "With yon, Josiah, it has chiefly been the first." "With me, Mary, it has been all of them — every one ! My spirit is broken, and my mind has not been able to keep its even tenor amidst the ruins. But I ijill strive. I will strive. I will strive still. And if God helj s me, I will prevail." Then he took np his hat and cloak, and went forth among the lanes; and on this occasion his wife was glad that he sliould go alone. This occurred a day or two before Cliristmas, and Mrs. Crawley during those da}s said no- thing more to her husband on the subject which he had so unexpectedly discussed. She asked him no questions about the money, or as to the possibility of his exercising his memory, nor did she counsel him to plead that the fiilse excuses given by him for his possession of the check had been occasioned by the sad slip to whicli sorrow had in those days subjected his memory and his intellect. But the matter had always been on her mind. Might it not be her paramount duty to do something of this at the present moment? Might it not be that his acquittal or conviction would depend on what she might now learn from him ? It was clear to her that he was brighter in spirit since his encounter with the Proudics than he had ever becTi since the accu- sation had been first made against him. And she knew Avell that his present mood would not be of long continuance. He would fall again into his moody, silent ways, and then the chance of learning aught from him would ' ^last, and perhaps forever. , He performed the Christmas services with nothing of special despondency in his tone or manner, and his wife thought that she had nev- er heard him give the sacrament with more im- pressive dignity. After the service he stood a while at the chnrcih-yard gate, and exchanged a word of courtesy as to the season with such of the families of the farmers as had staid for the Lord's supper. "I waited at Framlcy fur your reverence till arter six — so I did," said farmer Mf ngle. " I kept the road and walked the whole Avay," said Mr. Crawler. "I think I told vou that I 88 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. should not return to the mill. But I am not ihe less ul)liy;eil by your {^reiit kindness." ** iSay nowt o' that," said the fanner. " No doubt I had business at the mill — lots to do at Ihe mill." Nor did he think that the lib he was lolling was at all iuconii)atihle with the Holy bacrameut in which lie had just taken a j)art. The Ciiristnias dinner at the parsonage was not a rejiast tliat did nuich honor to the sea- son, hut it was a better dinner than the inhab- itants of that house usually saw on the board before them. Tiiere was roast ])ork and niincc- jiies, and a bottle of wine. As Mrs. Crawley with her own hand put the meat u])on the table, and then, as was her custom in their house, pro- ceeded to cut it up, she looked at her husband's face to sec whether he was scrutinizing the food with painful eye. It was better that she should tell the truth at once than that she should be made to tell it in answer to a question. Every thing on the table, except the bread and potatoes, had come in a basket from Framlcy Court. I'ork had been sent instead of beef, because peo- ple in tlic country, when th(^' kill their pigs, do sometimes give each other pork — but do not exchange joints of beef when they slay their oxen. All this was understood by Mrs. Craw- ley, but she almost wished that beef had been sent, because beef would have attracted less at- tention. He said, however, notliing to the meat ; but when his wife proposed to him that he should eat a mince-pic he resented it. "The bare food," said he, "is bitter enough, coming as it does ; but that would choke me." She did not press it, but ate one herself, as otherwise her girl would have been forced also to refuse the dainty. Tliat evening, as soon as Jane was in bed, she resolved to ask him some further questions. "You will have a lawyer, Josiah, will you not?" she said. "Why should I have a lawyer?" "Because he will know what questions to ask, and how questions on the other side should be answered." "I have no questions to ask, and there is only one way in which questions should be an- swered. I have no money to jiay a lawyer." " But, Josiah, in such a case as this, where your honor, and our very life depend upon it — " ' ' Depend on what ?" " On your acquittal." " I shall not be acquitted. It is as well to look it in the face at once. Lawyer, or no law- yer, they will say that I took the money. Were I upon the jury, trying the case myself, know- ing all that I know now" — and as he said this he struck forth with his hands into the air — " I think tliat I should say so myself. A lawyer will do no good. It is here. It is here." And again he put his hands up to his head. So ftir she had been successful. At this mo- ment it had in truth been her object to induce him to speak of his own memory, and not of the aid that a lawyer might give. The proposition of the lawyer had been brought in to introduce the subject. " But, Josiah—" "Well?" It was very hard for her to speak. She could not bear to torment him by any allusion to his own deficiencies. She could not endure to make him think that she suspected him of any frailty either in intellect or thouglit. Wifelikc, she desired to worship him, and that he should know that she worshiped him. But if a word might save him! "Josiah, where did it come from ?" " Yes," said he; "yes; that is the question. Where did it come from ?" and he turned sharp upon her, looking at her with all the ))ower of his eyes. "It is because I can not tell you where it came from that I ought to be — either in Bedlam as a madman, or in the county jail as a thief." The words were so dreadful to her that she could not utter at the moment anotlier syllable. " How is a man — to think himself — fit — for a man's work, when he can not answer his wife such a jilain question as tliat ?" Then he paused again. "They should take me to Bedlam at once — at once — at once. That would not disgrace the children as the jail will do." Mrs. Crawley could ask no further questions on that evening. CHAPTER XX. AVIIAT MR. WALKKR THOUGHT ABOUT IT. It had been suggested to Mr. Robarts, the parson of Framlcy, that he should endeavor to induce his old acquaintance, Mr. Crawley, to femjjloy a lawyer to defend him at his trial, and Mr. Robarts had not forgotten the commission which he had undertaken. But there were difficulties in the matter of which he was well aware. In the first place, Mr. Crawley was a man whom it had not at any time been easy to THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 89 advise on matters private to liimself; and, in tlie next place, this was a matter on wliicli it was veiy liard to speak to the man implicated, let him be who he would. !Mr. Robarts had come roxmd to the generally accepted idea that Mr. Crawley had obtained ])ossession of the check illegally — acquitting his friend in his own mind of theft, simply by supposing that he was wool-gathering when tlie check came in his way. i But in speaking to Mr. Crawley it would be necessary — so he thought — to pretend a con- viction that Mr. Crawley was as innocent in foct as in intention. He had almost made up his mind to dash at the subject when he met Mr. Crawley walking througli Framley to Barchester ; but he had ab- stained, chiefly because Mr. Crawley had been too quick for him, and had got away. After that he resolved that it would be almost useless for him to go to work imless he should be pro- vided with a lawyer ready and willing to under- take the task ; and as he was not so provided at present he made ^ap his mind that he would go into Silverbridge and see Mr. Walker, the attor- ney there. Jlr. Walker always advised every body in those parts about every thing, and would be sure to know what would be the proper thing to be done in this case. So Mr. Robarts got into his gig and drove himself into Silverbridge, passing very close to Mr. CraAvley's house on his road. He drove at once to Mr. Walker's ofBce, and on arriving there found that the attorney was not at that moment within. But Mr. Win- tlirop was within. Would Mr. Robarts see Mr. Winthrop ? Now seeing Mr. Winthrop was a very difFerent thing from seeing Mr. AValker, al- though the two gentlemen were partners. But still Mr. Robarts said that he would see Mr. , Winthrop. Perhaps Mr. Walker niiglit return while he was there. "Is there any thing I can do for you, Mr. Robarts?" asked Mr. Winthrop. Mr. Robarts said that he had wished to see Mr. Walker about that poor fellow Crawley. "Ah. yes ; \ery sad case ! So much sadder being a clergyman, Mr. Robarts. We are really quite sorry for him — we are indeed. We wouldn't have touched the case ourselves if we could have helped ourselves. We wouldn't indeed. But w^e are obliged to take all that business here. At any rate, he'll get nothing but fair usage from us." " I am sure of that. You don't know wheth- ' er he has employed any lawyer as yet to defend ihim?" "I can't say. We don't know, you know. I should say he had — probably some Barchester attorney. Borleys and Bonstock in Barchester are very good people — very good people indeed — for that sort of business I mean, Mr. Robarts. I don't suppose they have much county property in their hands." Mr. Robarts knew that Mr. Winthrop was a fool, and that he could get no useful advice from him. So he suggested that he would take his gig down to the inn, and call back again be- fore long. " You'll find that Walker knows no more than I do about it," said Mr. Winthrop ; " but of course he'll be glad to see you if he happens to come in." So Mr. Robarts went to the inn, put up his horse, and then, as he saun- tered back up the street, met Mr. Walker coming out of the private door of his house. "I've been at home all the morning," he said, " but I've had a stiff job of work on hand, and told them to say in the oflice that I was not in. Seen Winthrop, have you? I don't suppose he did know that I was here. The clerks often know more than the partners. About Mr. Crawley, is it? Come into my dining-room, Mr. Robarts, where we shall be alone. Yes — it is a bad case ; a very bad case. The pity is that any body should ever have said any thing about it. Lord bless me ! if I'd been Soames I'd have let him have the twenty pounds. Lord Lufton would never have allowed Soames to lose it." " But Soames wanted to find out the truth."' "Yes; that was just it. Soames couldn't bear to think that he should be left in the dark, and then, when the poor man said that Soames had paid the check to him in the way of busi- ness — it was not odd that Soames's back should have been up, was it? But, Mr. Robarts, I should have thought a deal about it before I should have brought such a man as Mr. Craw- ley before a bench of magistrates on that charge." "But between you and me, Mr. Walker, did he steal the money ?" "Well, Mr. Robarts, you know how I'm placed." " Mr. Crawley is my friend, and of course I want to assist him. I was under a great obliga- tion to Mr. Crawley once, and I wish to befriend him, whether he took the money or not. But I could act so much better if I felt sure one way or tlie other." "If you ask me, I think he did take it." "What!— stole it?" "I think he knew it was not his own when he took it. You see I don't think he meant to tise it when he took it. He perhaps had some queer idea that Soames had been hard on him, or his lordship, and that the money was fairly his due. Then he kept the check by him till he was absolutely badgered out of his life by the butcher up the street there. That was about the long and the short of it, Mr. Robarts." "I suppose so. And now what had he bet- ter do ?" ' ' Well ; if yon ask me — • He is iu rery bad health, isn't he?" "No; I should say not. He walked to Bar- chester and back the other day." " Did he ? But he's very queer, isn't he ?" " Very odd-mannered Indeed." "And does and says all manner of odd things?"' "I think you'd find the bishop would say so after that interview." " Well ; if it would do any good you might have the bishop examined." 90 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. "Examined for what, Mr. Walker?" "If you could show, you know, that Crawley has got a bcc in his bonnet ; that the mens sana is not there, in short — I think you might man- age to have the trial postponed. " "But tlicn somebody must take charge of his living." "You parsons could manage that among you — you and the dean and tlio archdeacon. The archdeacon has always got half a dozen curates about somewlierc. And then — after the assizes, Mr. Crawley might come to his senses ; and I think — mind, it's only an idea — but I think the committal might be quashed. It ■vvould have been tcm])orary insanity, and though, mind, I don't give my word for it, I think he might go on and keep his living. I think so, Mr. Robarts." " That has never occurred to me." " No ; I dare say not. You see the difficulty is this. He's so stitf-necked — will do nothing himself. "Well, that will do for one proof of temporary insanity. The real truth is, Mr. Ro- barts, he is as mad as a hatter." "Upon my word I've often thought so." "And you wouldn't mind saying so in evi- dence — would you ? Well, you see, there is no helping such a man in any other way. He won't even employ a lawyer to defend him." " That was what I had come to you about." " I'm told he won't. Now a man must be mad who won't employ a lawyer when he wants one. You see, the point we should gain would be this — if we tried to get him through as being a little touched in the upper story — whatever we could do for him, we could do against his own will. The more he opposed us tlic stron- ger our case would be. He would swear he was not mad at all, and we should say that that was the greatest sign of his madness. But when I say we, of course I mean you. I must not appear in it." " I wish you could, Mr. Walker." "Of course I can't; but that won't make any difference." "I suppose he must have a lawyer?" " Yes, he must have a lawyer — or rather his friends must." "And who should employ him, ostensibly?" "Ah! there's the difficulty. His wife wouldn't do it, I suppose? She couldn't do him a bet- ter turn." "He would never forgive her. And she would never consent to act against him." " Could you interfere?" "If necessary I will — but I hardly know him well enougli." "Has he no father or mother, or uncles or aunts? He must have somebody belonging to him," said Mr. Walker. Then it occun-ed to Mr. Robarts that Dean Arabin would be the proper person to interfere. Dean Arabin and Mr. Crawley had been inti- mate friends in early life, and Dean Arabin knew more of him than did any man, at least in those parts. All this JMr. Robarts explained to Mr. Walker, and Mr. Walker agreed with him tliat the services of Dean Arabin should if possi- ble be obtained. Mr. Robarts would at onco write to Dean Arabin and explain at length all the circumstances of the case. "The worst of it is, he will hardly be home in time," said Mr. Walker. "Perhaps he would come a littlo sooner if you were to press it ?" "But we could act in his name in his ab- sence, I suppose? — of course with his author- ity?" " I wish he could be here a month before tho assizes, Mr. Robarts. It would be better." "And in the mean lime shall I s.iy any thing to Mr. Crawley, myself, about employing a law- yer?" "I think I would. If he turns upon you, as like enough he may, and abuses you, that will help us in oneway. If he should consent, and perhajis lie may, that would hel]) us in the other way. I'm told he's been over and upset the whole coach at the palace." " I shouldn't think the bishoi> got much out of him," said the parson. "I don't like Crawley the less for speaking his mind free to the bishop," said the attorney, laughing. "And he'll speak it free to you too, Mr. Robarts." " He won't break any of my bones. Tell me, Mr. Walker, what lawyer shall I name to him?" " You can't have a better man than Mr. Ma- son, up the street there." " Winthrop proposed Borleys at Barchester." " No, no, no. Borleys and Bonstock arc cap- ital people to push a fellow through on a charge of horse-stealing, or to squeeze a man for a little money ; but they arc not the people for Mr. Crawley in such a case as this. Mason is a better man ; and then Mason and I know each other." In saying which Mr. Walker winked. There was then a discussion between them whether Mr. Robarts should go at once to Mr. Mason ; but it was decided at last that he should see Mr. Crawley and also write to the dean be- fore he did so. The dean might wish to em- ploy his own lawyer, and if so the double ex- pense should be avoided. " Alwaj^s remember, Mr. Robarts, that when you go into an attor- ney's office door, you will have to pay for it, first or last. In here, you see, the dingy old mahogany, bare as it is, makes you safe. Or else it's the salt-cellar, which will not allow it- self to be polluted by six-and-eightpenny con- siderations. But there is the other kind of tax to be paid. You must go up and see Mrs. Walker, or you won't have her help in this mat- ter." Mr. Walker returned to his work, either to some private den within his house, or to his of- fice, and Mr. Robarts was taken up stairs to the di'awing-room. Tliere he found Mrs. Walker and her daughter, and Miss Anne Prcttyman, who had just looked in, full of the story of Mr. Crawley's walk to Barchester. Mr. Thumble had seen one of Dr. Tempest's curates, and had told the whole story ; he, Mr. Thumble, having THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET, 91 heard jrrs. Prouclic's version of what had oc- curred, and having, of course, drawn his own deductions from her premises. And it seemed that Mr. Crawley had been watched as lie pass- ed through the close out of Barchester. A mi- nor canon had seen him, and had declared that be was going at the rate of a hunt, swinging his arms on high and speaking very loud, though — as the minor canon said with regret — the words were hardly audible. But there had been no doubt as to the man. IMr. Crawley's old hat, and short, rusty cloak, and dirty boots had been duly observed and chronicled by the minor can- on ; and Mr. Thumble had been enabled to put together a not altogether false picture of what had occurred. As seon as the greetings be- tween IMr. Robarts and the ladies had been made, Jliss Anne Prcttyman broke out again, just where she had left off when Mr. Robarts came in. " They say that Mrs. Proudie declared that she will have him sent to Botany Bay !" "Luckily Mrs. Proudie won't have much to do in the matter," said Miss Walker, who ranged herself, as to church matters, in ranks altogether opposed to those commanded by Mrs. Pi'oudie. "She will have nothing to do with it, my dear," said Mrs. Walker; " and I dare say Mrs. Proudie was not foolish enough to say any thing of the kind." " IMamma, she would be fool enough to say any thing. Would she not, Mr. Robarts ?" " You forget. Miss Walker, that Mrs. Proudie is in authority over me." " So she is, for the matter of that," said the }-oung lady; "but I know yery well what you all think of her, and say of her too, at Framley. Your friend, Lady Lufton, loves her dearly. I wish I could have been hidden behind a cur- tain in the palace to hear what Mr. Crawley said to her." " Mr. Smillie declares," said Miss Anne Pret- tyraan, " that the bishop has been ill ever since. Mr. Smillie went over to his mother's at Bar- chester for Christmas, and took part of the ca- thedral duty, and we had Mr. Spooner over here in his place. So Mr. Smillie of course heard all about it. Only fancy poor Mr. Crawley walking all the way from Hogglestock to Bar- chester and back ; and I am told he hardly had a shoe to his foot! Is it not a shame, Mr. Robarts?" " I don't think it was quite so bad as you say, Miss Pretty man ; but, upon the whole, I do think it is a shame. But what can we do?" "I suppose there are tithes at Hogglestock. Why are they not given up to the church, as they ought to be?" "]\Iy dear Miss Prettyman, that is a very large subject, and I am afraid it can not be set- tled in time to relieve our poor friend from his distress." Then Mr. Robarts escaped from the ladies in Mr. Walker's house, who, as it seemed to him, were touching upon dangerous ground, and went back to tlie yard of the George Inn for his gig — the George and Vulture it was properly called, and was the house in which the magistrates had sat when they committed Mr. Crawley for trial. "Footed it every inch of the way, blowed if he didn't!" the hostler was saying to a gentle- man's groom, whom Mr. Robarts recognized to be the servant of his friend, Major Grantly; and Mr. Robarts knew that they also were talk- ing about Mr. Crawley. Every body in the county was talking about Mr. Crawley. At home, at Framley, there was no other subject . of discourse. Lady Lufton, the dowager, was full of it, being firmly convinced that Mr. Craw- ley was innocent, because the bishop was sup- posed to regard him as guilty. There had been a family conclave held at Framley Court over that basket of provisions which had been sent for the Christmas cheer of the Hogglestock par- sonage, each of the three ladies, the two Lady Luftons and Mrs. Robarts, having special views of tlieir own. How the pork had been substi- tuted for the beef by old Lady Lufton, young Lady Lufton thinking that after all the beef would be less dangerous, and how a small tur- key had been rashly suggested by Mrs. Robarts, and how certain small articles had been inserted in the bottom of the basket which Mrs. Crawley had never shown to her husband, need not here be told at length. But Mr. Robarts, as he heard the two grooms talking about Mr. Crawley, be- gan to feel that Mr. Crawley had achieved at least celebrity. The groom touched his hat as Mr. Robarts walked up. " Has the major returned home yet ?" ]\Ir. Robarts asked. The groom said that his master was still at Plumstead, and that he was to go over to Plumstead to fetch the major and Miss Edith in a day or two. Then Mr. Robarts got into his gig, and as he drove out of the yard he heard the words of the men as they returned to the same subject. " Footed it all the way," said one. "And yet he's a gen- 'leman, too," said the other. Mr. Robarts thought of this as he drove on, intending to call at Hogglestock on that very day on his way home. It was undoubtedly the fact that Mr. Crawley was recognized to be a gentleman by all who knew him, high or low, rich or poor, by those who thought well of him and by those who thought ill. These grooms, who had been tell- ing each other that this parson, who was to be tried as a thief, had been constrained to walk from Hogglestock to Barchester and back, be- cause he could not afford to travel in any oth- er Avay, and that his boots were cracked and his clothes ragged, had still known him to be a gen- tleman ! Nobody doubted it ; not even they who thought he had stolen the money. Mr. Robarts himself was certain of it, and told him- self that he knew it by evidences which his own education made clear to him. But how was it that the grooms knew it? For my part I think that there are no better judges of the arti- cle than tlie grooms. Thinking still of all which he had heard, Mr. Robarts found himself at Mr. Crawley's gate at Hogglestock. 92 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. CHAPTER XXI. MR. ROHARTS (IN HIS EM15ASSY. Mr. Robarts was not nltogctlicr easy in his mind as lie approaclied Mr. Crawley's honse. He wns aware that the task hofore him was a very ilillicult one, aiul he had not confidence in himself — that he was exactly the man fitted for the ])erfi>rmancc of such a task. lie was a lit- tle afraid of Mr. Crawloy, acknowledging tacitly to himself that the man had a power of ascend- ency with which he would hardly be able to copo successfully. In old days lie had once been re- buked by Mr. Crawley, and had been cowed by the rebuke ; and though there was no touch of rancor in his heart on this account, no slightest remaining venom — but rather increased resj)ect and friendship — still he was unable to overcome the remembrance of the scene in wliich the per- petual curate of Ilogglestock had undoubtedly liad tlic mastery of him. So, when two dogs have fought and one has conquered, the con- quered dog will always show an unconscious submission to the conqueror. He hailed a boy on the road as he drew near to the house, knowing that he would find no one at tlie parsonage to hold his horse for him, and was thus able without delay to walk through the garden and knock at the door. "Papa was not at home," Jane said. "Papa was at the school. But papa could certainly be summoned. She herself would run across to the school if ]\Ir. Robarts would come in." So Mr. Robarts entered, and found Mrs. Crawley in the sitting- room. Mr. Crawley would be in directly, she said. And then, hurrying on to the subject with confused haste, in order that a word or two miglit be spoken before her husband came back, she expressed her thanks and his for the good things which had been sent to them at Chiistmas-tide. "It's old Lady Lufton's doings," said Mr. Rjbarts, trying to laugh the matter over. "I knew that it came from Framley, Mr. Robarts, and I know how good you all are there. I have not written to thank Lady Lufton. I thought it better not to write. Your sister will understand why, if no one else does. But you will tell tjiem from me, I am sure, that it was, as tliey intended, a comfort to us. Your sister knows too much of us for me to suppose that our great poverty can be secret from her. And, as far as I am concerned, I do not now much care who knows it." "There is no disgrace in not being rich," said Mr. Robarts. " No ; and the feeling of disgrace which does attach itself to being so poor as we are is dead- ened by the actual suffering which such poverty brings with it. At least it has become so with me. I am not ashamed to say that I am very grateful for what you all have done for us at Framley. But you must not say any thing to liim about that." " Of course I will not, Sirs. Crawley." "His spirit is higher than mine, I think, and he suffers more from the natural disincli- nation which we all have to receiving alms. Are you going to speak to him about this affair of the — check, Mr. Robarts?" "I am going to ask him to put his case into some lawyer's hands." " Oh ! I wish he would !" "And will ho not?" "It is very kind of you, your coming to ask him, but — " "Has he so strong an objection?" " He will tell you that he has no money to pay a lawyer." " But surely, if he were convinced that it was absolutely necessary for the vindication of his innocence, he would submit to charge him- self with an expense so necessary, not only for himself, but for his family ?" "He will say it ought not to be necessary. You know, Mr. Robarts, that in some respects he is not like other men. You will not let what I say of him set you against him ?" "Indeed no." " It is most kind of you to make the attempt. Ho will be here directly, and when he comes I will leave you together." While she was yet speaking his stc]) was heard along the gravel-path, and he hurried into the room with quick steps. " I crave your pardon, Mr. Robarts," he said, " that I should keep you waiting." Now Mr. Robarts had not been there ten minutes, and any such asking of pardon was hardly necessary. And, even in his own house, Mr. Crawley affected a mock humility, as though, either through his own debasement or because of the superior station of the othet clergyman, he were not entitled to put himself on an equal footing with his visitor. He would not have shaken hands with Mr. Robarts — in- tending to indicate that he did not presume to do so while the present accusation Avas hanging over him — had not the action been forced upon him. And then there was something of a pro- test in his manner, as though remonstrating against a thing that was unbecoming to him. Mr. Robarts, without analyzing it, understood it all, and knew that behind the humility there was a crushing pride — a pride which, in all probability, would rise up and crush him before he could get himself out of the room again. It was, perhaps, after all, a question whether the man was not served rightly by the extremities to which he was reduced. There was something radically wrong within him, which had ]iut him into antagonism with all the world, and which produced these never-dying grievances. There were many clergymen in the country with in- comes as small as that which had fallen to the lot of Mr. Crawley, but they managed to get on without displaying their sores as Mr. Crawley displayed his. They did not wear their old rusty cloaks with all that ostentatious bitterness of ])0verty which seemed to belong to that gar- ment when displayed on Mr. Crawley's shoul- ders. Such, for a moment, were Mr. Robarts's thoughts, and he almost repented himself of hia THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 93 present mission. But then he thouglit of Mrs. Crawley, and remembering that lier sufferings were at any rate undeserved, determined that he would persevere. JMrs. Crawley disappeared almost as soon as her husband appeared, and Mr. Kobarts found himself standing in front of his friend, who re- mained fixed on the spot, with his hands folded over each other and his neck slightly bent for- ward, in token also of humility. "I regret," he said, "that your horse should be left there, exposed to the inclemency of the weather ; but—" "The horse won't mind it a bit," said Mr. Eobarts. "A parson's horse is like a butcher's, and knows that he mustn't be particular about waiting in the cold." "I never have had one myself," said Mr. Crawley. Now Mr. Robarts had had more horses than one before now, and had been thought by some to have incurred greater expense than was befitting in his stable con)forts. The subject, therefore, was a sore one, and he was worried a little. "I just wanted to say a few words to you, Crawley," he said, "and if I am not oc- cuj)\ing too much of your time — " " Jly time is altogether at your disposal. "Will you be seated ?" Then Mr. Robarts sat down, and, swinging his hat between his legs, bethought himself how he should begin his work. " We had the arch- deacon over at Framley the other day," he said. " Of course you know the archdeacon ?" "I never had the advantage of any acquaint- ance with Dr. Grantly. Of course I know him well by name, and also personally — that is, by sight." "And by chai-acter?" " Nay ; I can hardly say so much as that. But I am aware that his name stands high with many of his order." "Exactly ; that is what I mean. You know that his judgment is thought more of in clerical matters than that of any other clergyman in the county." "By a certain party, Mr. Robarts." " Well, yes. They don't think much of hini, I suppose, at the palace. But that won't lower him in your estimation." "I by no means wish to derogate from Dr. Grantly's high position in his own archdeaconry — to which, as you are aware, I am not attach- ed — nor to criticise his conduct in any respect. It would be unbecoming in me to do so. But I can not accept it as a point in a clergyman's favor that he should be opposed to his bishop." Now this was too much for Mr. Robarts. After all that he had heard of the visit paid by Mr. Crawley to the palace — of the venom dis- played by Mrs. Proudie on that occasion, and of the absolute want of subordination to episcopal authority which 'Mr. Crawley himself was sup- posed to have shown — Mr. Robarts did feel it hard that his friend the archdeacon should be snubbed in this way because he was deficient in reverence for his bishop! "I thought, Craw- ley," he said, "that you yourself were inclined to dispute orders coming to you from the pal- ace. The world at least says as much concern- ing you." " What the world says of me I have learned to disregard very mucli, Mr. Robarts. But I hope that I shall never disobey the authority of the Ciiurch when properly and legally exer- cised." " I hope with all my heart you never will ; nor I either. And the archdeacon, who knows, to the breadth of a hair, what a bishop ought to do and what he ought not, and what he may do and what he may not, will, I should say, be the last man in England to sin in that way." "Very probably. I am far from contradict- ing you there. Pray understand, Mr. Robarts, that I bring noaccusation against the archdeacon. Why should I ?" " I didn't mean to discuss him at all." ' ' Nor did I, Mr. Robarts." "I only mentioned his name because, as I said, he was over with us the other day at Framley, and we were all talking about your affair." "My aff'air!" said Mr. Crawley. And then came a frown upon his lirow, and a gleam of fire into his eyes, which cffectiuilly banished that look of extreme humility wiiich he had assumed. "And may I ask why the archdeacon was dis- cussing — my affair?" " Simply from the kindness which he bears to you." "I am grateful for the archdeacon's kindness, as a man is bound to be for any kindness, wheth- er dis])laycd wisely or unwisely. But it seems to me that my affair, as you call it, Mr. Robarts, is of tliat nature that they who wish well to me will better further their wishes by silence than by any discussion." " Then I can not agree with you." Mr. Craw- ley shrugged his shoulders, opened his hands a little and then closed them, and bowed his head. lie could not have declared more clearly by any words that he ditfered altogether from BIr. Ro- barts, and that as tlie subject was one so pecu- liarly his own he had a right to expect that his opinion should be allowed to prevail against that of any other person. "If you come to that, you know, how is any body's tongue to be stopped?" "ThatA-ain tongues can not be stopped I am well aware. I do not exjjcct that people's tongues should be stopped. I am not saying what men will do, but wiiat good wishes should dictate." " Well, perhaps you'll hear me out for a min- ute." Mr. Crawley again bowed his head. " Whether we were wise or unwise, we were dis- cussing this affair." "Whether I stole Mr. Soames's money ?" "No; nobody supposed for a moment you had stolen it." "I can not understand how they should suji- pose any thing else, knowing, as they do, that the mngistrates have committed me for the theft, 94 THE LAST CKRONICLE OF BxiESET. This took place at Framley, yon say, and prob- ably in Lord Lufton's presence." " Exactly." "And Lord Lufton was chairman at the sit- ting of the magistrates at which I was commit- ted. How can it be that he should think other- wise ?" " I am sure he has not an idea that you were guilty. Nor yet has Dr. Thorne, who was also one of the magistrates. I don't suj)posc one of them then thought so." '•Then their action, to say tiie least of it, was very strange." "It was all because you h.id nobody to man- age it for you. I thoroughly believe that if you liad placed the matter in the hands of a good lawyer you would never have heard a word more about it. That seems to be the opinion of every body I speak to on the sub- ject." "Then in this country a man is to be pun- ished or not, according to his ability to fee a lawyer!" " I am not talking about punishment." " And jiresuming an innocent man to have the ability and not the will to do so, he is to be ]iunished, to be ruined root and branch, self and family, character and pocket, simply be- cause, knowing his own innocence, he does not choose to depend on the mercenary skill of a man whose trade he abhors for the establish- ^ ment of that wliich sliould be clear as the sun at noonday ! You say I am innocent, and yet you tell me I am to be condemned as a guilty man, have my gown taken from me, be torn from my wife and cliildren, be disgraced bcfoie the eyes of all men, and be made a by-wovd and a thing horrible to be mentioned, because I will not fee an attorney to fee another man to come and lie on my behalf, to browbeat witnesses, to make false appeals, and perhaps shed false tears in defending me. You have come to me ask- ing me to do this, if I understand you, telling me that the archdeacon would so advise me." "That is my object." ]Mr. Crawley, as he had spoken, had in his vehemence risen from his seat, and Mr. Robarts was also standing. i " Then tell the archdeacon," said Mr. Craw- | ley, "that I will have none of his advice. I will have no one there paid by me to obstruct the course of justice or to hoodwink a jury. I have been in courts of law, and know what is the work for which these gentlemen are hired. I will have none of it, and I will thank yon to tell the archdeacon so, witli my respectful ac- knowledgments of his consideration and conde- scension. I say nothing as to my own inno- cence or my own guilt. But I do say that if I am dragged before that tribunal, an innocent man, and am falsely declared to be guilty be- cause I lack money to bribe a lawyer to speak for me, then the laws of this country deserve but little of that reverence which we are accus- tomed to pay to them. And if I be guilty — " " Noliody supposes you to be guilty." "And if I be guilty," continued Mr. Craw- [ ley, altogether ignoring the interruption, except by the rej)Ctition of his words and a slight rais- ing of his voice, "I will not add to my guilt by hiring any ope to prove a falsehood or to dis- prove a truth." " I'm sorry that you should say so, !Mr. Craw- ley." "I speak according to what light I have, Mr. Robarts ; and if I have been over-warm with you — and I am conscious that I have been in fault in that direction — I must pray you to re- member that I am somewhat hardly tried. IVfy sorrows and troubles are so great that they rise against me and disturb me, and drive me on — whither I would not be driven." "But, my friend, is not that just the reason why you should trust in this matter to some one who can be more calm than yourself?" " I can not trust to any one in a matter of conscience. To do as you would have me is to me wrong. Shall I do wrong because I am unhappy?" "You should cease to think it wrong when so advised by persons you can trust." " I can trust no one with my own conscience — not even the archdeacon, great as he is." "The archdeacon has meant only well to TOU." " I will presume so. I will believe so. I do think so. Tell the archdeacon from me that I humbly tliank him ; that in a matter of church question I might probably submit mj' judgment to his, even though he might have no authority over me, knowing as I do that in such matters his experience has been great. Tell him also, that though I would fain that tliis unfortunate atlair might burden the tongue of none among my neighbors — at least till I shall have stood before the judge to receive the verdict of the jury, and, if needful, his lordship's sentence — still I am convinced that in what he has spoken, as also in what he has done, he has not yielded to the idleness of gossip, but has ex- ercised his judgment with intended kindness." " He has certainly intended to do you a serv- ice ; and as for its not being talked about, that is out of the question." "And for yourself, ^Mr. Robarts, whom I have ever regarded as a friend since circumstances brought me into your neighborhood — for you, whose sister I love tenderly in memory of past kindness, though now she is removed so far above my sphere as to make it unfit that I should call her my friend — " " She does not think so at all." "For yourself, as I was saying, pray believe me that thougli from the roughness of my man- her, being now unused to social intercourse, I seem to be ungracious and forbidding, I am grateful and mindful, and that in the tablets of my heart I have written you down as one in whom I could trust — were it given to me to trust in men and women." Then he turned round with his face to the wall and his back to his visitor, and so remained till ^Ir. Robarts had left him. "At any rate I wish you well THE LAST CHEONICLE OF BARSET. 95 through your trouble," said Robarts ; and as he spoke he found that liis own words were nearly choked by a sob tliat was rising in his throat. lie went away without another word, and got out to his gig without seeing Mrs. Crawley. During one period of the interview he had been very angry with the man — so angry as to make him almost declare to himself that he would take no more trouble on his behalf. Then he had been brought to acknowledge that Mr. Walker was right, and that Crawley was cer- tainly mad. Ho was so mad, so far removed from the dominion of sound sense, that no jury could say that he was guilty, and that he ought to be punished for his guilt. And, as he so re- solved, he could not but ask himself the ques- tion, whether the charge of the parish ouglit to be left in the hands of such a man ? But at last, just before he went, these feelings and these convictions gave way to pity, and he re- membered simjily the troubles which seemed to have been heaped on the head of this poor victim to misfortune. As he drove home he re- solved that there was nothing left for him to do but to write to the dean. It was known to all who knew them both that the dean and Mr. Crawley had lived together on the closest inti- macy at college, and that that friendship had been maintained through life — though, from the peculiarity of Mr. Crawley's character, the two had not been much together of late years. Seeing how things were going now, and hearing how pitiful was the plight in which Mr. Craw- ley was placed, the dean would no doubt feel it to be his duty to hasten his return to England. He was believed to be at this moment in Jerusa- lem, and it would be long before a letter could reach him ; but there still wanted three months to the assizes, and his return might be probably effected before the end of Pebruary. " I never was so distressed in my life," Mark Robarts said to his wife. •' And you think you have done no good ?" " Only this, that I have convinced myself that the poor man is not responsible for what he does, and that for her sake as well as for his own some person should be enabled to interfere for his protection." Then he» told Mrs. Ro- barts what Mr. Walker had said ; also the mes- sage which Mr. Crawley had sent to the arch- deacon. But they both agreed that that mes- sage need not be sent on any further. CHAPTER XXII. MAJOR GRAKTLY AT HOME. Mks. Thorne had spoken very plainly in the advice which she had given to Major Grantly; " If I were you, I'd be at AUington before twelve o'clock to-morrow." That had been Mrs. Thoi-ne"s advice ; and though Major Grantly had no idea of making the journey so rapidly as the lady had proposed, still he thought that he would make it before lon^, and follow the ad- vice in spirit if not to the letter. Mrs. Thorne had asked him if it was fair that the girl should bo punished because of the father's fault ; and the idea had been sweet to him that the infliction or non-infliction of such punishment should be in his hands. "You go and ask her," Mrs. Thorne had said. Well ; he would go and ask her. If it should turn out at last that he had married the daughter of a thief, and that he was disinherited for doing so— an arrangement of circumstances which he had to teach himself to regard as very probable— he would not love Grace the less on that account, or allow him- self for one moment to repent what he had done. As he thought of all this he became somewhat in love with a small income, and im- agined to himself what honors would be done to him by the Mrs. Thornes of the county when they should come to know in what way he had sacrificed himself to his love. Yes; they would go and live at Pau. He thought Pan would do. lie would have enough of income for that ; and Edith would get lessons cheaply, and would learn to talk Prench fluently. He certainly would do it. He would go down to AUington, and ask Grace to be his Avife ; and bid her un- derstand that if she loved him she could not be justified in refusing him by the circumstances of her father's positiori. Blithe must go to Plumstead before he could go to AUington. He was engaged to spend his Christmas there, and must go now at once. There was not time for the journey to Ailing- ton before he was due at Plumstead. And, moreover, though he could not bring himself to resolve that he would tell his father what he was going to do — " It would seem as though I were asking his leave!" he said to himself — he tliought that he would make a clean breast of it to his mother. It made him sad to think that he should cut the rope which fastened his own boat among the other boats in the home harbor at Plumstead, and that he should go out all alone into strange waters — turned adrift alto- gether, as it were, from the Grantly fleet. If he could only get the promise of his mother's sym- pathy for Grace, it would be something. He understood — no one better than he — the tenden- cy of all his family to an uprising in the world, which tendency was almost as strong in his mo- ther as in his father. And he had been by no means without a similar ambition himself, though with him the ambition had been only fitful, not enduring. He had a brother, a cler- gyman, a busy, stirring, eloquent London preacher, who got churches built, and was heard of far and wide as a rising man, who had mar- ried a certain Lady Anne, the daughter of an earl, and who was already mentioned as a can- didate for high places. How his sister was the wife of a marquis, and a leader in the fashion- able world, the reader already knows. The archdeacon himself was a rich man, so power- ful that he could atford to look down upon a bishop; and INIrs. Grantly, thougli there was left about her something of an old softness of 96 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET, nature, a touch of the former life vliich had been Iiers before the stream of her days had run gold, yet she, too, had taken kindly to wealth and liigh standing, and was by no means one of those who construe literally tliat passage of Scripture which tells us of the camel and the needle's eye. Our Henry Grantly, our major, knew himself to be his mother's favorite child — knew himself to have become so since some- thing of coolness had grown up between her and her august daughter. The augustness of the daughter had done mucli to reproduce the old freshness of which I have spoken in the mother's lieart, and had sj)ecia]ly endeared to her the son who, of all her children, was the least sub- ject to the family failing. The clergyman, Cliarles Grantly — he who had married the Lady Anne — was his father's darling in these days. The old archdeacon would go up to London and be (|uite hapjiy in his son's house. He met there the men wliom ho loved to meet, and heard the talk which he loved to hear. It was very fine, having the Marquis of Ilartletop for his son-in-law, but he had never cared to bo much at Lady Hartletop's house. Indeed, the archdeacon cared to be in no house in which tliosc around him were supposed to be bigger than himself. Such was the little family fleet from out of which Henry Grantly was now pro- posing to sail alone with his little boat — taking Grace Crawley with him at the helm. " My father is a just man at the bottom," he said to liimself, " and though he may not forgive me, he will not punish Edith." But there was still left one of tlie family — not a Grantly, indeed, but one so nearly allied to tliem as to have his boat moored in the same harbor — who, as the major well knew, would thoroughly sympathize with him. This was old Mr. Harding, his mother's father— the fa- ther of his mother and of his aunt Mrs. Arabin — whose home was now at the deanery. He was also to be at Plumstead during this Christ- mas, and he at any rate would give a ready as- sent to such a marriage as that which the major was ])roposing for himself. But then poor old Mr. Harding had been thoroughly deficient in that ambition which had served to aggrandize the family into which his daughter had married. He was a poor old man who, in spite of good friends — for the late bishop of the diocese had been his dearest friend— had never risen liigh in Iiis profession, and had fallen even from the moderate altitude which he had attained. But he was a man whom all loved who knew him ; and it was much to the credit of liis son-in-law, the arclideacon, that, with all his tendencies to love rising suns, he had ever been true to Mr. Harding. Major Grantly took his daughter with him, and on his arrival at Plumstead she of course was the first object of attention. Mrs. Grantly dechired that she had grown immensely. The archdeacon complimented her red cheeks, and said that Cosby Lodge was as healthy a jilace as any in the county, while Mr. Harding, Edith's great-grandfather, drew slowly from his pocket sundry treasures with which he had come pre- jiared for the deliglit of the little girl. Charles Grantly and Lady Anne had no children, and the heir of all the Ilartletops was too august to have been trusted to the embraces of her mo- ther's grandfather. Edith, therefore, was all that he had in that generation, and of Edith he was ])repared to be as indulgent as he had been, in their time, of his grandchildren the Grantlys, and still was of his grandchildren the Arabins, and had been before that of his own daughters. "She's more like Eleanor than any one else," said the old man, in a plaintive tone. Now Eleanor was Mrs. Arabin, the dean's wife, and was at this time — if I were to say over forty I do not think I should be uncharitable. No one else saw the special likeness, but no one else re- membered, as Mr. Harding did, wliat Eleanor had been when she was three years old. "Aunt Nelly is in Erance," said the child. "Yes, my darling, aunt Nelly is in Erance, and I wish she were at home. Aunt Nelly has been away a long time." "I suppose she'll stay till the dean picks her up on his way home ?'' said Mrs. Grantly. "So she says in her letters. I heard from her yesterday, and I brought the letter, as I thought you'd like to see it." Mrs. Grantly took the letter and read it, while her father still played with the child. The archdeacon and the major were standing together on the rug discuss- ing the shooting at Cbaldicotes, as to which the archdeacon had a strong ojiinion. "I'm quite sure that a man with a place like that docs more good by preserving than by leaving it alone. The better head of game he has the richer the county will be generally. It is just the same with jiheasants as it is with sheep and bullocks. A pheasant doesn't cost more than he's worth any more than a barn-door fowl. Besides, a man who preserves is always respected by the poachers, and the man who doesn't is not." "There's something in that, Sir, certainly," said the major. "More than you think for, perhaps. Look at poor Sowerby, who went on there for years witliout a shilling. How he was respected, be- cause he lived as the ])coi)le around him expect- ed a gentleman to live. Tiiornc will have a bad time of it if he tries to change tilings." "Only think," exclaimed Mrs. Grantly, " when Eleanor wrote she had not heard of that affair of poor Mr. Crawley's." " Does she say any thing about him ?" asked the major. " I'll read what she says. ' I see in Calirj- nani that a clergyman in Barsetshirc has l)een committed for theft. Pray tell me who it is. Not the bishop, I hope, for the credit of the di- ocese.' " " I wish it were," said the archdeacon. "For shame, my dear," said his wife. "No shame at all. If we are to have a thief •among us, I'd sooner find him in a bad man than a good one. Besides, we should have a THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 97 "she's mo:if. liaK ei.k.vno--; than any one else." chanpc at the palace, ■\vliicli would be a great thing." " But is it not odd that Eleanor should have heard nothing of it?" said Mrs. Grantly. "It's odd that you should not have mention- ed it youi'self." "I did not, certainly; nor you, papa, I sup- pose?" Mr. Harding acknowledged that he had not spoken of it, and tlien they calculated that per- haps she might not have received any letter from her husband written since the news had reached him. " Besides, why should he have mentioned U?" said the major. "He only knows as yet of the inquiry about the check, and can have heard nothing of what was done by the magis- trates." "Still it seems so odd that Eleanor should not have known of it, seeing that we have been talking of nothing else for the last week," said Mrs. Grantly. For two days the major said not a word of Grace Crawley to any one. Nothing could be more courteous and complaisant than was his father's conduct to him. Any thing that he wanted for Edith was to be done. For himself there was no trouble which would not be taken. His hunting, and his shooting, and his fishing 98 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. seemed to have become matters of pnramonnt consideration to his fatlicr. And then the areli- deacon became very confidential about money- matters — not offering any thing to his son, whicli, ns he well knew, would have been seen through as paljjable bribery and corruption — but telling him of tliis little scheme and of that, of one in- vestment and of another — how he contemi)lated buying a small property here, and sjtending a few thousands on building there. "Of course it is all for you and your brother," said the arch- deacon, with that benevolent sadness which is used habitually by fiitliers on such occasions; "and I like you to know what it is tlnit I am doing. I told Charles about the London prop- erty the last time I was up," said the archdea- con, "and there shall be no difference between him and you, if all goes well." This was very good-natured on the archdeacon's l)art, and was not strictly necessary, as Charles was the eldest son ; but tlie major understood it perfectly. "There shall be an elysium opened to you, if only you will not do that terrible thing of which you spoke when last here." The archdeacon uttered no such words as these, and did not even allude to Gi'ace Crawley ; but the words were as good as spoken, and had they been spoken ever so plainly the major could not have under- stood them more clearly. He was quite awake to the loveliness of the elysium o])ened before liim. He had had his moment of anxiety vhether his father would or would not make an elder son of his brother Charles. The whole thing was now put before him plainly. Give up Grace Crawley, and you shall share alike with your brother. Disgrace }'ourself by marrying her, and your brother shall have every thing. There was the choice, and it was still open to him to take which side he pleased. "Were he never to go near Grace Crawley again no one would blame him, unless it were ^liss Pretty man or Mrs. Thorne. "Fill your glass, Henry," said the archdeacon. ' ' You'd better, I tell you, for there is no more of it left. " Then the major filled his glass and sipped the wine, and swore to himself that he would go down to Allington at once. What ! Did his father think to bribe him by giving him '20 port? He would cer- tainly go down to Allington, and he would tell his mother to-morrow morning, or certainly on the next day, what he was going to do. "Pity it should be all gone, isn't it, Sir?" said the archdeacon to his father-in-law. " It has lasted my time," said Mr. Harding, "and I'm very much obliged to it ! Dear, dear ! how well I remember your father giving the order for it ! There were two pipes, and somebody said it was a heady wine. * If the prebendaries and reetoi-s can't drink it, ' said your father, ' tlic curates will.' " "Curates, indeed!" said the archdeacon. "It's too good for a bishop, unless one of the riglit sort." "Your father used to say those things, but with him the poorer the guest the better the cheer. When he had a few clergymen round him how he loved to make them happy I" "Never talked shop to them — did ho?" said the archdeacon. "Not after dinner, at any rate. Goodness gracious, when one thinks of it ! Do you re- member how we used to play cards?" "Every night regularly — threepenny points, and sixpence on the rubber," said the archdea- con. "Dear, dear! How things are changed! And I remember when the clergymen did more of the dancing in Barchester tlian all the other young men in the city put together." " And a good set they were — gentlemen every one of them. It's well that some of them don't dance now — that is, for the girls' sake." "I sometimes sit and wgndcr," said Mr.' Harding, "whether your father's spirit ever comes back to the old house and sees the changes — and if so whether he a]i])roves them." "Approves them!" said the archdeacon. "Well — yes. I think he would upon the whole. I'm sure of this : he would not disap- prove, because the new ways are changed from liis ways. He never thought himself infallit)le. And do you know, my dear, I am not sure that it isn't all for the best. I sometimes think that some of us were very idle when we were young. I was, I know." "I worked hard enougli," said the arch- deacon. " Ah, yes ; you. But most of ns took it very easily. De.ir, dear! When I think of it, and see how hard they work now, and remember what pleasant times we used to have — I don't feel sometimes quite sure." "I believe the work was done a great deal better than it is now," said the archdeacon. " There wasn't so much fuss, but there was more reality. And men were men, and clergymen were gentlemen." "Yes — they were gentlemen." " Such a creature as that old woman at the palace couldn't have held his head up among us. That's what has come from Reform. A reformed House of Commons makes Lord Brock Prime Minister, and then your Prime Minister makes Dr. Proudio a bishop ! Well — it will last my time, I suppose." "It has lasted mine — like the wine," said Mr. Harding. "There's one glass more, and you shall have it. Sir." Tlien Mr. Harding drank the last glass of the 1820 port, and they Avent into the drawing-i'oom. • On the next morning after breakfast the ma- jor went out for a walk by himself. His father had suggested to him that he should go over to shoot at Framley, and had offered him the use of every thing tiie archdeaconry possessed in the way of horses, dogs, guns, and carriages. But the major would have none of these things. He would go out and walk by himself. " He's not thinking of her; is he?" said the archdeacon to his wife, in a whisper. "I don't know. I think he is," said Mrs. Grantly. "It will be so much the better for Charles if he does," said THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 99 thtj nrchdoacon, grimly ; and the look of his f;icc ns he sjjoke was by no means pleasant. " You viil do nothing unjust, arclideacon," said his •wife. "I will do as I like witli my own," said he. And then he also went out and took a walk by himself. Tiiat evening after dinner there was no 1820 port, and no recollections of old days. They were rather dull, the three of them, as they sat together — and dullness is always more unen- durable than sadness. Old Mr. Harding went to sleep, and the archdeacon was cross. "Henry," he said, "you haven't a word to throw to a dog." "I've got rather a headache tills evening. Sir," said the major. The arch- deacon drank two glasses of wine, one after an- other, quickly. Tlien he woke his father-in-law gently, and went ot^'. "Is there any thing the matter ?" asked the old man. " Nothing partic- ular. My fiither seems to be a little cross." "Ah! I've been to sleep and I oughtn't. It's my fault. We'll go in and smootli iiim down." But t!ic arclideacon wouldn't be smoothed down on tliat occasion. lie would let his son see the dirt'eronce between a fatlier pleased and a father displeased — or rather between a father pleasant and a father unpleasant. " He hasn't said any thing to you, has he ?"' said the archdeacon that night to his wife. "Not a word — as yet." "If he does it without the conrngc to tell us, I shall think him a cur," said the iirL-hdeacon. "But he did tell you," said Mrs. Grantly, standing up for her favorite son; "and, for the matter of that, he has courage enough for any thing. If 1 he docs it, I shall always say that he has been driven to it by your threats." I "That's sheer nonsense," said the arch- ie deacon. I "It's not nonsense at all," said Mrs. Grantly. i "Then I suppose I was to hold my tongue and say nothing?" said the archdeacon ; and as I he spoke he banged the door between his dress- Jing-room and Mrs. Grantly's bedroom. On the first day of the new year Major Grant- |ly spoke his mind to his mother. Thearclidea- ; con had gone into Barchester, having in vain ) attempted to induce his son to go with him. iMr. Harding was in the library reading a little, and sleeping a little, and dreaming of old days and old friends, and perhaps, sometimes, of the old wine. Mrs. Grantly was alone in a small sitting-room which she frequented up stairs, when suddenly her son entered the room. " Motlicr," he said, "I think it better to tell you that I am going to Allington." "To Allington, Henry?" She knew very well who was at Allington, and what must be the business which would take him there. "Yes, mother. Miss Crawley is there, and there are circumstances which make it incum- bent on me to see her without delay." " What circumstances, Henry ?" " As I intend to ask her to be my wife, I think it best to do so now. I owe it to her and t((||nyself that she should not think that I am deterred by her father's position." "But would it not bo reasonable that you should be deterred by her father's position?" "No, I think not. I think it would be dis- honest as well as ungenerous. I can not bring myself to brook such delay. Of course I ain alive to the misfortune which has fallen U)i0u her— upon her and me, too, should she ever be- come my wife. But it is one of those burdens which a man should have shoulders broad enoiigii to bear." " Quite so, if she were your wife, or even if you were engaged to her. Then honor would require it of you, as well as affection. As it is, your honor does not reqtiire it, and I think a ou should hesitate, for all our sakes, and especially for Edith's." " It will do Edith no harm ; and, mother, if you alone were concerned, I think you would feel that it would not hurt you." "I was not thinking of myself, Henry." "As for my father, the very threats which he has used make me conscious that I have only to measure the price. He has told me that he will stop my allowance." "But that may not be the worst. Think how you are situated. You are the younger son of a man who will be held to be justified in making an elder son, if he thinks fit to do so." "I can only hope that he will be fair to Edith. If you will tell him that from me, it is all that I will ask you to do." " But you will see him j-ourself ?" "No, mother; not till I have been to Alling- ton. Then I will see him again or not, just as he pleases. I shall stop at Guestwick, and will write to you a line from thence. If my father decides on doing any thing, let me know at once, as it will be necessary that I should get rid of the lease of my house." "Oh, Henry!" "I have thought a great deal about it, mo- ther, and I believe I am right. Whether I am right or wrong, I shall do it. I Avill not ask you now for any promise or pledge ; but should Miss Crawley become my wife I hope that you at least will not refuse to see her as your daugh- ter." Having so spoken, he kissed his mother, and was aboiit to leave the room ; but she held him by his arm, and he saw that her eyes were full of tears. " Dearest mother, if I grieve you I am son-y indeed." "Not me, not me, not me," she said. " For my father, I can not help it. Had he not threatened me I should have told him also. As he has done so, you must tell him. But give him my kindest love." " Oh, Henry ! you will be ruined. You will, indeed. Can you not wait? Remember how headstrong your father is, and yet how good ; and how he loves yen ! Think of all that he has done for you. When did he refuse you any thing?" "He has been good to me, but in this I can not obey him. He should not ask me." " You are wrong. Y'ou arc indeed. He has 100 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAESET. a rii^ht to expect tlmt you will not bring dis- grace upon the family." "Nor will I; except such disgrace as may attend upon poverty. Good -by, mother. I wish you could have said one kind word to me." " Have I not said a kind word ?" " Not as yet, mother." "I would not for worlds speak unkindly to you. If it were not for your father I would bid you bring whom'you pleased home to me as your wife ; and I would be as a mother to her. And if tliis girl should become your wife — " "It shall not be my fault if she does not." " I will try to love her — some day." Tiien the major went, leaving Edith at the rectory, as requested by his mother. His own dog-cart and his servant were at Plumstead, and he drove himself home to Cosby Lodge. When the archdeacon returned tlie news was told to him at once. "Henry has gone to Al- lington to propose to Miss Crawley," said Mrs. Grantly. " Gone — without speaking to me!" "He left his love, and said that it was use- less his remaining, as he knew he should only offend you." "He has made his bed, and he must lie upon it," said tlic archdeacon. And then there was not another word said about Grace Crawley on that occasion. CHAPTER XXIII. MISS LILY dale's RESOLfTIOX. The ladies at the Small House at Allington breakfasted always at nine — a liberal nine ; and the postman whose duty it was to deliver letters in that village at half past eight, being also lib- eral in his ideas as to time, always arrived punc- tually in the middle of breakfast, so that Mrs. Dale expected her letters, and Lily hers, just before their second cup of tea, as though the letters formed a part of the morning meal. Jane, the maid-servant, always brought them in, and handed them to Mrs. Dale — for Lily had in these days come to preside at the break- fast-table ; and then there would be an exam- ination of the outsides before the envelopes were violated, and as each knew pretty well all the circumstances of the correspondence of the oth- er, there would be some guessing as to what this or that epistle might contain ; and after that a reading out loud of passages, and not unfre- quently of the entire letter. But now, at the time of which I am speaking, Grace Crawley was at the SmalMIouse, and therefore the com- mon practice was somewhat in abeyance. On one of the first days of the new year Jane brought in the letters as usual, and handed them to Mrs. Dale. Lily was at the time occupied with the tea-pot, but still she saw the letters, and had not her hands so full as to be debarred from the expression of her usual anxiety. — "Jlamma, I'm sure I see two there for me," she said. "Only one for you, Lily," said ]Mrs, Dale. Lily instantly knew from the tone of the voice that some letter had come which by the very aspect of the handwriting had disturbed | her mother. " There is one for you, my dear," said Mrs. Dale, throwing a letter across tlie ta- ble to Grace. " And one for you, Lily, from Bell. The others are for me." "And whom are yours from, mamma?" asked Lily. "One is from Mrs. Jones ; the other, I think, is a let- ter on business." Then Lily said nothing far- ther, but she observed that her mother only open- ed one of her letters at the breakfast-table. Lily was very patient — not by nature, I tliink, but by exercise and practice. She had, once in her life, been too mucli in a hurry; and having then burned herself grievously, she now feared the fire. She did not therefore follow her mo- ther after breakfast, but sat with Grace over the fire, hemming diligently at certain articles of clothing which were intended for use in the Hogglcstock parsonage. The two girls were making a set of new shirts for Mr. Crawley, "But I know he will ask where they come' from," said Grace; "and then mamma will be scolded." "But I hope he'll wear them," said Lily. "Sooner or later he will," said Grace; "because mamma manages generally to have her way at last." Then they went en for an hour or so, talking about the home aflairs at Hogglestock. But during the whole time Lil3''s mind was intent upon iier mother's letter. Nothing was said about it at lunch, and no- thing when they walked out after lunch, for Lily was very ])atient. But during the walk Mrs. Dale became aware that her daughter was ; uneasy. These two watched each other uncon- sciously with a closeness which hardly allowed a glance of the eye, certainly not a tone of the voice, to j)ass unobserved. To Mrs. Dale it was every thing in the world that her daughter siioiid i be, if not happj' at heart, at least tranquil ; and THE LAST CIIRONIC):.E OF BAKSET. 101 to Lily, who knew that her mother was always thinking of her, and of her alone, lier motlier was the only human divinity now worthy of ad- oration. But nothing was said about tlie let- ter during the walk. When they came home it was nearly dusk, and it was their habit to sit up for a while without candles, talking, till the evening had in truth set in and the unmistakable and enforced idle- ness of remaining without candles was apparent. During this time Lily, demanding patience of IierseU' all the while, was thinking what she would do, or rather what she would say, about the letter. That nothing could be done or said in tlie presence of Grace Crawley was a matter of course, nor would she do or say any thing to get rid of Grace. She would be very patient; but she would, at last, ask her mother about the letter. And then, as luck would have it, Grace Craw- ley got up and left the room. Lily still waited for a few minutes, and, in order that her patience miu'ht be thoroughly exercised, she said a word or two about her sister Bell; how the eldest oliild's whooping-cough was nearly well, and how the baby was doing wonderful things with its fii,st tooth. But as ]\Irs. Dale had already seen Bell's letter, all tliis was not intensely interest- in-. At last Lily came to the point and asked her ([ucstion. "Mamma, from whom was that other letter which you got this morning?" Our story will perhaps be best told by com- municating the letter to the reader before it was diseiissed with Lily. The letter was as follows : '' General Committee Office, — January^ 1S6-." I should have said that Mrs. Dale had not opened the letter till she had found herself in the solitude of her own bedroom; and that then, before doing so, she liad examined the handwriting with anxious eyes. When she first received it she thought she knew the writ- er, but was not sure. Then she had glanced at the impression over the fastening, and had known at once from whom the letter had come. It was from Mr. Crosbie, the man who had brought so much trouble into her house, who had jilted her daughter; the only man in the ivorld whom she had a right to regard as a posi- tive enemy to herself. She had no doubt about t as she tore the envelope open ; and yet, when the address given made her quite sure, a new feeling of shivering came upon her, and she isked herself whether it might not be better ;hat she should send his letter back to him with- out reading it. But she read it. "Madam" — the letter began — " You will be i^ery much surprised to hear from me, and I am juite aware that I am not entitled to the ordi- lary courtesy of an acknowledgment from you, ;hould you be pleased to throw my letter on one side as unworthy of your notice. But I can not 'efrain from addressing you, and must leave it ^^ou to reply to me or not, as you may think ^I will only refer to that episode of my life with which you are acquainted, for the sake of acknowledging my great fault and of assuring you that I did not go unpunished. It would be useless for me now to attempt to explain to you the circumstances which led me into that difiiculty which ended in so great a blunder; but I will ask you to believe that my folly was greater than my sin. "But I will come to my point at once. You are, no doubt, aware that I married a daughter of Lord de Courcy, and that I was separated from my wife a few weeks after our unfortunate marriage. It is now something over twelve months since she died at Baden-Baden in her mother's house. I never saw her since the day we first parted. I have not a word to say against her. The fault was mine in marrying a woman whom I did not love and had never loved. W^hen I married Lady Alexandrina I loved, not her, but your daughter. " I believe I may venture to say to you that your daughter once loved me. From the day on which I last wrote to you that terrible letter which told you of my fate I have never men- tioned the name of Lily Dale to human ears. It has been too sacred for my mouth — too sa- cred for the intercourse of any friendship with which I have been blessed. I now use it for the first time to you, in order that I may ask whether it be possible that her old love should ever live again. Mine has lived always — has never faded for an hour, making me miserable during the years that have passed since I saw her, but capable of making me very happy if I may be allowed to see her again. " You will understand my purpose now as well as though I were to write pages. I have no scheme formed in my head for seeing your daughter again. How can I dare to form a scheme, when I am aware that the chance of success must be so strong against me? But if you will tell me that there can be a gleam of hope I will obey any commands that you can put upon me in any way that you may point out. I am free again — and she is free. I lovo her with all my heart, and seem to long for no- thing in the world but that she should become my wife. Whether any of her old love may still abide with her you will know. If it do, it may even yet prompt her to forgive one wlio, in spite of falseness of conduct, has yet been true to her in heart. " I have the honor to be. Madam, " Your most obedient seiTant, "Adolpiius Ckosbik." This was the letter which Mrs. Dale had re- ceived, and as to which she had not as yet said a word to Lily, or even made up her mind whether she would say a word or not. Dearly as the mother and daughter loved each other, thorough as was the confidence between them, yet the name of Adolphus Crosbie had not been mentioned between them oftcner, perhaps, than half a dozen times since the blow had been struck. Mrs. Dale knew that their feelings X 102 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAHSET. about tlic iiinn wore altogether ditVcrent. She, herself, not only contlemncd him for what he had done, believing it to be impossible that any shadow of excuse could be urged for his of- fense, thinking tiiat the fault liad shown tlie man to bo mean beyontl redemjition, but she had allowed herself actually to hate him. lie liad in one sense murdered her daughter, and she believed that she could never forgive him. But Lily, as her mother well knew, had for- given this man altogether, had made excuses for him which cleansed his sin of all its black- ness in her own eyes, and was to this day anx- ious as ever for his welfare and his happiness. Mrs. Dale feared that Lily did iu truth love him still. If it was so, was she not bound to show licr this letter ? Lily was old enough to judge for herself — old enough, and wise enough too. Mrs. Dale told herself half a score of times that morning that she could not be justified in keep- ing the letter from her daughter. But yet she much wished that the letter had never been written, and would have given very much to be able to put it out of the way without injustice to Lily. To her thinking it would be impossible that Lily should be happy in marry- ing such a, man. Such a marriage now would be, as Mrs. Dale thought, a degradation to her daughter. A terrible injury had been done to her; but such reparation as this ^vt)uld, in Mrs. Dale's eyes, only make the injury deeper. And yet Lily loved the man ; and, loving him', how could she resist the temptation of his offer? "Mamma, from whom was that letter which you got this morning?" Lily asked. For a few moments Mrs. Dale remained silent. ' ' Mamma," continued Lily, "I think I know whom it was from. If you tell me to ask nothing further of course I will not." " No, Lil}' ; I can not tell you that." " Then, mamma, out with it at once. What is the use of shivering on the brink?" "It was from Mr. Crosbie." "I knew it. I can not tell you why, but I knew it. And now, mamma — am I to read it ?" " You shall do as you please, Lily." "Then I please to read it." "Listen to me a moment first. For myself, I wish that the letter had never been written. It tells badly for the man, as I think of it. I can not understand how any man could have brought himself to address either you or me aft- er having acted as he acted." "But, mamma, we differ about all that, you know." ' ' Now he has written, and there is the letter — if you choose to read it." Lily had it in her hand, but she still sat mo- tionless, holding it. "You think, mamma, I ought not to read it?" "You must judge for yourself, dearest." "And if I do not read it, what shall you do, mamma ?" " I shall do nothing — or, perhaps, I should in such a case acknowledge it, and tell him that we have nothing more to say to him." " That would be very stern." " He has done that which makes some stern- ness necessary." Then Lily was again silent, and still she sat motionless, with the letter in her hand. "Mamma," she said, at last, " if you tell me not to read it, I will give it you back unread. If you bid me exercise my own judgment, I shall take it up stairs and read it." " You must exercise your own judgment," said Mrs. Dale. Then Lily got up from her chair and walked slowly out of the room, and went to her mother's chamber. The thoughts which j)asscd through Mrs. Dale's mind while her daughter was reading the letter were very sad. She could find no comfort anywhere. Lily, she told herself, would surely give way to this man's renewed expressions of aifection, and she, Mrs. Dale herself, would be called upon to give her child to a man whom she could neither love nor respect — whom, for aught she knew, she could never cease to hate. And she could not bring herself to believe that Lily would be happy with such a man. As for lier own life, desolate as it would be — she cared little for that. IMothers know that their daughters will leave them. Even widowed mothers, mothers with but one child left — such a one as was this mother — are awai'e that they will be left .alone, and they can bring themselves to welcome the sacrifice of themselves with something of satisfaction. Mrs. Dale and Lily had, indeed, of late become bound together especially, so that the mother had been justified in regarding the link which joined then^ as being firmer than that by which most daugh- ters are bound to their mothers — but in all that she would have found no regret. Even now, in these very days, she was hoping that Lily might yet be brought to give herself to John Eames. But she could not, after all that was come and gone, be happy in thinking that Lily should be given to Adolphus Crosbie. When Mrs. Dale went up stairs to her own room before dinner Lily was not there ; nor were they alone together again that evening, except for a moment, when Lily, as was usual, went into her mother's room when she -was undressing. But neither of them then said a word about the letter. Lily during dinner and throughout the evening had borne herself well, giving no sign of special emotion, keeping to herself entirely her own thoughts about the proposition made to her. And afterward she had progressed dili- gently with the fivbrication of Mr. Crawley's shirts, as though she had no such letter in her pocket. And yet there w-as not a moment in which she was not thinking of it. To Grace, just before she went to bed, she did say one word. " I wonder whether it can ever come tp a person to be so placed that there can be no doing right let what will be done — that, do or not do, as you may, it must be wrong ? " I hope you are not in such a condition," said Grace. "I am something near it," said Lily perhaps if I look long enough I shall see the li iifl." H THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAR3ET. 103 "I hope it will be a happy lightat last," said Grace, wlio thought that Lily was referring only to John Eames. At noon on the next day Lily had still said nothing to her mother about the letter ; and then what she said was very little. "When must you answer Mr. Crosbie, mamma?" "When, my dear?" "I mean how long may you take? It need not be to-day." " No ; certainly not to-day." " Then I will talk over it with you to-mor- row. It wants some thinking — does it not, mamma?" "It w-ould not want much with me, Lily." "But then, mamma, you arc not I. Believ- ing as I believe, feeling as I feel, it wants some thinking. That's what I mean." " I wish I could help you, my dear." "You shall help me — to-morrow." The morrow came and Lily was still very patient ; but she had prepared herself, and had prepared the time also, so that in the hour of the gloam- ing slie was alone with her mother, and sure that she might remain alone with her for an hour or so. "Alamma, sit there," she said ; "Iwill sit down here, and then I can lean against 3-ou and be comfortable. You can bear as much of me as that — can't you, mamma?" Then JMrs. Dale put her arm over Lily's shoulder, and em- braced her daughter. " And now, mamma, we will talk about this wonderful letter." ■ "I do not know, dear, that I have any thing [ to say about it." ' "But you must have something to say about I it, mamma. You must bring yourself to have something to say — to have a great deal to say." "You know what I think as well as though I talked for a week." " That won't do, mamma. Come, you must not be hard with me." "Hard, Lily!" "I don't mean that you will hurt me, or not give me any food — or that you will not go on caring about me more than any thing else in the whole world ten times over — " And Lily as she spoke tightened the embrace of her mother's arm round her neck. "I'm not afraid you'll be hard in that way. But you must soften your heart so as to be able to mention liis name and talk about him, and tell me what I ought to do. You must see with my eyes, and hear with my ears, and feel with my heart ; and then, when I know that you have done that, I must judge with your judgment." "I wish you to use your own." "Yes; because you won't see with my eyes and hear with my cars. That's what I call be- ing hard. Though you should feed me with blood from your breast, I should call you a hard pelican unless you could give me also the sym- pathy which I demand from you. You see, mamma, we have never allowed ourselves to SDeak of this man." ^■What need has there been, dearest?" ^ Only because we have been thinking of him. Out of the full heart the mouth speaketh ; that is, the moutli does so when the full heart is allowed to have its own way comfortably." "There are things which should be forgotten." "Forgotten, mamma!" "The memory of which should not be fos- tered by much talking." "I have never blamed you, mamma; never, even in my heart. I have known how good and gracious and sweet you have been. But I have often accused myself of cowardice because I have not allowed his name to cross my lips either to you or to Bell. To talk of forgetting such an accident as that is a farce. And as for fostering the memory of it — ! Do you think that I have ever spent a night from that time to this without thinking of him ? Do you imagine that I have ever crossed our own lawn, or gone down through the garden-path there, witliout thinking of the times when he and I walked there together? There needs no fostering for such memories as those. They are weeds which will grow rank and strong though nothing be done to foster them. There is the earth and the rain, and that is enough for them. You can not kill them if j'ou would, and tliey certainly will not die because you are careful not to hoe and rake the ground." " Lily, you forget how short the time has been as yet:" "I have thought it very long; but the truth is, mamma, that this non-fostering of memories, as you call it, has not been the real cause of our silence. We have not spoken of Mr. Crosbie because we have not thought alike about him. Had you spoken you would have spoken with an- ger, and I could not endure to hear him abused. That has been it." "Partly so, Lily." "Now j-ou must talk of him, and you must not abuse him. We must talk of him, because something must be done about his letter. Even if it be left unanswered, it can not bo so left without discussion. And yet you must say no evil of him." "Am I to think that he behaved well?" "No, mamma; you arc not to think that; but you arc to look upon his fault as a fault that has been forgiven." "It can not be forgotten, dear." "But, mamma, when you go to heaven — " "My dear!" "But you will go to heaven, mamma, and why should I not speak of it? You will go to heaven, and yet I suppose you have been very wicked, because we are all very wicked. But you won't be told of your w^ickedness there. You won't be hated there because you were this or that when you were here." "I hope not, Lily; but isn't your argument almost profane?" " No ; I don't think so. We ask to be for- given just as we forgive. That is the way in which we hope to be forgiven, and therefore it is the way in which we ought to forgive. When you say that prayer at night, mamma, do you 104 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. ever ask yourself whetlier you have forgiven him?" "I forgive him as far as humanity can for- give. I would do him no injury." "But if you and I are forgiven only after that fashion we shall never get to heaven." Lily paused for some further answer from her mo- ther, but as Mrs. Dale was silent she allowed that portion of the subject to pass as completed. "And now, mamma, what answer do you think we otijiht to send to his letter?" " My dear, how am I to say ? You know I have said already that if I could act on my own judgment I would send none." "But that was said in the bitterness of gall." "Come, Lily, say wliat you think yourself. We sliall get on better when you have brouglit yourself to sj)eak. Uo you think that you wish to sec liim again?" "I don't know, mamma. Upon the whole, I think not." "Then in Heaven's name let me write and tell him so." "Stop a moment, mamma. There are two persons here to be considered — or rather three." "I would not have you think of me in such a question." "I know you would not ; but never mind, and let me go on. The three of us arc concerned, at any rate ; you, and he, and I. I am think- ing of him now. We have all suffered, but I do believe that hitherto he has had the worst of it." "And who has deserved the worst?" " Mamma, how can you go back in that way ? We have agreed that that should be regarded as done and gone. He has been very unhappy, and now we see what remedy he proposes to him- self for his misery. Do I flatter myself if I al- low myself to look at it in that way?" " Perhaps he thinks he is offering a remedy for your misery." As this was said Lily turned round slowly and looked up into her mother's fiice. " Mamma," she said, " that is very cruel. I did not think you could be so cruel. How can you, who be- lieve him to be so selfish, think that?" " It is very hard to judge of men's motives. I have never supposed him to be so black that he would not wish to make atonement for the evil he has done." "If I thought that there certainly could be but one answer." " Who can look into a man's heart and judge all the sources of his actions ? There are mixed feelings there, no doubt. Remorse for what he has done ; regret for what he has lost — some- thing, perhaps, of the purity of love." " Yes, something — I hope something — for his sake." " But when a horse kicks and bites you know his nature and do not go near him. When a man has cheated you once you think he will cheat you again, and you do not deal with him. You do not look to gather grapes from thistles after vou have found that thev are thistles." "I still go for the roses though I have often torn my hand with thorns in looking for tliem." "But you do not pluck those that have be- come cankered in the blowing." "Because he was once at fault will he be cankered always ?" " I would not trust him." " Now, mamma, see how different we are ; or, rather, how different it is when one. judges for one's self or for another. If it were simply myself, and my own future fate in life, I would trust him with it all to-morrow without a word. I should go to him as a gambler goes to the gambling-table, knowing that if I lost every thing I could hardly be jioorer than I was before. But I should have a better hope than the gam- bler is justified in having. That, however, is not my difficulty. And when I think of him I can sec a prospect of success for the gambler. I think so well of myself that, loving him, as I do — yes, mamma, do not be uneasy — loving him, as I do, I believe I could be a comfort to him. I think that he might be better witli me than without me. That is, he would be so if he could teach himself to look back upon the past as I can do, and to judge of me as I can judge of him." "He has nothing, at least, for which to con- demn you." "But he would have were I to marry him now. He would condemn me because I had forgiven him. He would condemn me because I had borne what he had done to me and had still loved him — loved him through it all. He would feel and know the weakness — and there is weakness. I have been weak in not being able to rid myself of him altogether. He would recognize this after a while, and would despise me for it. But he would not see what there is of devotion to him in my being able to bear the taunts of the world in going back to him, and your taunts, and my own taunts. I should have to bear his also — not spoken aloud, but to be seen in his face and heard in his voice — and that I could not endure. If he despised me,, and he would, that would make us both unhappy. Therefore, mamma, tell him not to come ; tell him that he can never come ; but, if it be possi- ble, tell him this tenderly." Then she got up and walked away, as though she were going out of the room ; but her mother had cauglit her before tlie door was opened. "Lily," she said, "if you think you can be happy with him, he shall come." "No, mamma, no. I have been looking for the light ever since I read his letter, and I think I see it. And now, mamma, I will make a clean breast of it. From the moment in which I heard that that poor woman was dead I have been in a state of flutter. It has been weak of me, and silly, and contemptible. But I could not help it. I kept on asking myself whether he would ever think of me now. Well ; he has answered the question ; and has so done it that he has forced upon me the necessity of a resolu- tion. I have resolved, and I believe that I s]M0 be the better for it." H THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. lot: Tlic letter wliicli ]\Irs. Dale wrote to Sir. Crosbic, was as follows ; " Mks. Dale presents her com]ilimcnts to Mr. Crosbie, and begs to assure liiin that it will not now be possible that he should renew the relations which were broken off" three years ago between him and Mrs. Dale's faniil}'." It was very short, certainly, and it did not by any means satisfy Mrs. Dale. But she did not know how to say more without saying too much. The object of her letter was to save hitn the trouble of a futile perseverance, and them from the annoyance of persecution ; and this she wished to do without mentioning her daugliter's name. And she was determined that no word should escajie her in which tliere was any touch of severity, any hint of an accusation. So much she owed to Lily in return for all that Lily was prepared to abandon. "There is my note," she said at last, offering it to her daughter. "I did not mean to see it," said Lily, " and, mamma, I will not read it now. Let it go. I know yon have been good and have not scolded him." "I have not scolded him, certainly," said Mrs. I)ale. And then the letter was sent. CHAPTER XXIV. MRS. DOUI5S BROUGHTON's DINNEK-PARTY. Mr. John Eames, of the Income-tax Office, had in these days risen so high in the world that people in the West End of town, and very respectable people too — ])cople living in South Kensington, in neighborhoods not far from Bel- gravia, and in very handsome houses round Bayswater — were glad to ask him out to dinner. Money had been left to him by an earl, and ru- mor had of course magnified that monej-. He was a private secretary, which is in itself a great advance on being a mere clerk. And he had become the particularly intimate friend of an artist who Iiad pushed liimself into higli fashion during the last year or two — one Conway Dal- rymple, \shom the rich English world was be- ginning to pet and pelt with gilt sugar-plums, and who seemed to take very kindly to petting and gilt sugar-plums. I don't know whether tlie friendship of Conway Dalrymjile had not done as much to secure John Eames his position at the Bayswater dinner-tables as had either the private secretaryship or the earl's money ; and yet, when they had first known each other, now only two or three years ago, Conway Dalrymple had been the poorer man of the two. Some chance had brought them together, and they had lived in the same rooms for nearly two years. This arrangement had been broken up, and the Conway Dalrymple of these days had a studio of his own, somewhere near Kensington Palace, where he painted portraits of young countesses, and in which he had even painted a young duch- ess. It was the peculiar merit of his pictures — fWk at least said the art-loving world — that though me likeness Vas alwavs good, the stiff"ness of G the modern portrait was never there. There was also ever some story told in Dalrymple's pic- tures over and above the story of the portraiture. This countess was drawn as a fairy with wings, that countess as a goddess with a helmet. The thing took for a time, and Conway Dalrymjile was picking up his gilt sugar-plums with con- siderable rapidity. On a certain day he and John Eames were to dine out together at a certain house in that Bays- water district. It was a large mansion, if not made of stone yet looking very stony, with thir- ty windows at least, all of them with cut-stone frames, requiring, let me say, at least four thou- sand a year for its maintenance. And its own- er, Dobbs Broughton, a man very well known both in the city and over the grass in Northamp- tonshire, was supposed to have a good deal more than four thousand a year. Mrs. Dobbs Brough- ton, a very beautiful woman, who certainly was not yet thirty-five, let her worst enemies say what they might, had been painted by Conw.ay Dalrymple as a Grace. There were, of course, three Graces in the picture, but each Grace was Mrs. Dobbs Broughton repeated. We all know how Graces stand sometimes ; two Graces look- ing one wa}-, and one the other. In this pic- ture Mrs. Dobbs Broughton as centre' Grace looked you full in the f;ice. The same lady looked away from you, displaying her left shoul- der as one side Grace, and displaying her right shoulder as the other side Grace. For this pretty toy Mr. Conway Dalrymple had jiicked up a gilt sugar-plum to the tune of six hundred pounds, and had; moreover, won the heart both of Mr. and Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. "LTpon my word, Johnny," Dalrymple had said to his friend, "he's a deuced good fellow, has really a good glass of claret — which is getting rarer and rarer every day — and will mount you for a day, whenever you please, down at Market llar- boro'. Come and dine with them." Johnny Eames condescended, and did go and dine with My. Dobbs Broughton. I wonder whether he remembered, when Conway Dalrymjjle was talk- ing of the rarity of good claret, how much beer the young painter used to drink when they were out together in the country, as they used to be oc- casionally, three years ago ; and how the paint- er had then been used to complain that bitter beer cost threepence a glass, instead of twoiience, which had hitherto been the recognized price of the article. In those days the sugar-plums had not been gilt, and had been much rarer. Johnny Eames and his friend went together to the house of Mr. Dobbs Broughton. As Dalrymple lived close to the Broughtons, Eames picked him up in a cab. "Filthy things these cabs are," said Dalrymple, as he got into the Hansom. "I don't know about that," said Johnny. "They're pretty good, I think." "Foul things," said Conway. "Don't j-ou feel what a draught comes in here because the glass is cracked ? I'd have one of my own, onlv I should never know what to do with it." 106 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. " Tlic fjreatest nuisance on earth, I should tliink," said Jolinny. '•If you could always have it standing ready round the corner," said the artist, "it would be delijjlitfiil. IJut one would want half a dozen horses, anil two or tlirec men for that." '• I think the stands are the best," said Johnny. Tiiey were a little late — a little later than they should have been had they considered that Eanies was to he introduced to his new ac- (luaintanccs. But he had already lived long enough before the world to be quite at his ease in swell circumstances, and he entered Mrs. Brougiiton's drawing-room with iiis ))lcasantest smile upon his face. But as he entered he saw a siglit which made him look serious in spite of hisetlorts to the contrary. Mr. Adol|)hus Cros- bie, Secretary to the Board at the General Committee Office, was standing on the rug be- fore the fire. "Who will be there?" Eames had asked of his friend when the suggestion to go and dine with Dobbs Broughton had been made to him. "Impossil)lc to say," Conway had replied. " A certain horrible fellow of the name of Mus- selboro, will almost certainly be tliere. He al- ways is when tliey have any thing of a swell din- ner-party, lie is a sort of partner of Brough- ton's in tlie city. lie wears a lot of cliains, and has elaborate whiskers, and an elaborate waist- coat, whicli is worse ; and he doesn't w^ash his hands as often as he ought to do." "An objectionable party, rather, I should say," said Eames. "Well, yes; Musselboro is objectionable. He's very good-humored, you know, and good- looking in a sort of way, and goes every where ; that is among people of this sort. Of course he's not hand-and-glove with Lord Derby ; and I wish he could be made to wash his hands. They haven't any other standing dish, and you may meet any body. Tlie}' always have a Mem- ber of Parliament; tliey generally manage to catch a baronet; and I have met a Peer there. On that august occasion Musselboro was absent." So instructed, Eames, on entering the room, looked round at once for Mr. INIusselboro. "If I don't see the whiskers and cliain," he had said, "I shall know there's a peer." Mr. Mus- selboro was in the room, but Eames had descried INIr. Crosbie long before he had seen INIr. Mus- selboro. There was no reason for confusion on his part in meeting Crosbie. They had both loved Lily Dale. Crosbie might have been successful but f jr his own fault. Eames had on one occasion been thrown into contact with him, and on that occasion had quarreled with him and had beat- en him, giving him a black eye, and in this way obtaining some mastery over him. There ^^■as no reason why he should bo ashamed of meeting Crosbie; and yet, when he saw him, the blood mounted all over his face, and he for- got to make any further search for Mr. Mussel- boro. "I am so much obliged to Mr. Dalrymplo for bringing you," said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, very sweetly, " only he ought to have come soon- er. Naughty man! I know it was his fault. Will you take Miss Demolines down? JMiss Demolines — Mr. Eames." Mr. Dobbs Broughton was somewhat sulky, and had not welcomed our hero very cordially. lie was beginning to think that Conway Dal- rymple gave liimself airs, and did not sufficiently understand thatu man who had horses at Mark- et llarboro' and '41 Lafitte was at any rate as good as a painter who was pelted with gilt sugar- plums for painting countesses. But he was a man whose ill-humor never lasted long, and he was soon pressing his wine on Johnny Eames as though he loved him dearlv. But there w-as yet a few minutes before they went down to dinner, and Johnny Eames, as he endeavored to find something to say to Miss Demolines — which was difficidt, as he did not in the least know Miss Demolines's line of con- versation — was aware that his effiarts were im- peded by thoughts of Mr. Crosbie. The man looked older than when he had last seen him — • so much older that Eames was astonished. He was bald, or becoming bald ; and his whiskers were gray, or were becoming gray, and he was much fatter. Johnny Eames, who was always thinking of Lih^ Dale, could not now keep him- self from thinking of Adoli)lius Crosbie. He saw at a glance that the man was in mourning, though there was nothing but his shirt-studs by which to tell it ; and he knew that he ^^■as in mourning for his wife. "I wish she might have lived forever," Johnny said to himself. He had not yet been definitely called upon by the entrance of the servant to offer his arm to Miss Demolines, when Crosbie walked across to him from the rug and addressed him. " ]Mr. Eames," said he, " it is some time since we met." And he offered his hand to Johnny. " Yes, it is," said Johnny, accepting the prof- fered salutation. "I don't know exactly how long, but ever so long." "I am very glad to have the opportunity of shaking hands with you," said Crosbie; and then he retired, as it had become his duty to wait with his arm ready for ^Mrs. Dobbs Brough- ton. Having married an earl's daughter he was selected for that honor. There was a barrister in the room, and Mrs. Dobbs Broughton ought to have known better. As she professed to be guided in such matters by the rules laid down by the recognized authorities, she ought to have been aware that a man takes no rank from his wife. But she was entitled, I think, to merciful consideration for her error. A woman situated as was Mrs. Dobbs Broughton can not altogether ignore these terril)le rules. She can not let her guests draw lots for precedence. She must se- lect some one for the honor of her own arm. And amidst the intricacies of rank how is it pos- sible for a woman to learn and to rememb^|^ every thing? If Providence would only send THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 107 "l Ail VEUY GLAD TO UAVE TUE OPPOETCNITY OF SUAKING UAKDS WITU YOU." Mrs. Dobbs Broughton a Peer for every dinner- party the thing would go more easily ; but what woman will tell me, off- hand, which should go out of a room first — a C.B., an Ad- miral of the Blue, the Dean of Barchester, or the Dean of Arches? Who is to know who was every body's father? How am I to re- member that young Thompson's progenitor was made a baronet and not a knight when he was Lord Mayor? Perha])s ]\Irs. Dobbs Broughton ought to have known that Mr. Crosbic could have gained nothing by his wife's rank, and the baiTister may be considered to have been not immoderately severe when he simply spoke of her aftenvard as the silliest and most ignorant old woman he had ever met in his life. Eamcs with the lovely Miss Demolines on his arm was the last to move before the hostess. I\Ir. Dobbs Broughton had led the way energetically with old Lady Demolines. There was no doubt about Lady Demolines, ns his wife had told him, because her title marked her. Her bus- 108 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAESET. band liail been a jilivsician in Paris, and liad been knighted in conse(iueiK-e of some benefit sup- jiosed to Iiave been done to some French scion of royalty, wlien siicli scions in France were royal and not imperial. Lady Demolincs's rank was not much, certainly ; but it served to mark her, and was beneficial. As he went down stairs Fames was still think- ing of his meeting with Crosbie, and had as yet hardly said a word to his neighbor, and his neighbor had not said a word to him. Now Johnny nnderstood dinners quite well enough to know that in a party of twelve, among wliom six are ladies, every thing depends on your next neighbor, and generally on the next neighbor who specially belongs to you ; and as he took his seat he was a little alarmed as to his pros- ]iect for the next two hours. Ou his other liand sat Mrs. Ponsonby, the barrister's wife, and he did not much like the look of IMrs. Pon- sonby. Slie was fat, heavy, and good-looking j witli a broad space between her eyes, and light, smooth hair : a youthful British matron every inch of her, of whom any barrister with a young family of children might be proud. Now Miss IJemolines, though she was hardly to be called beautiful, was at any rate remarkable. She had large,, dark, well-shaped eyes, and very dark hair, which she wore tangled about in an ex- traordinary manner, and she had an expressive face — a face made expressive by the owner's will. Such power of expression is often at- tained by dint of labor — though it never reaches to the expression of any thing in particular She was almost sufiiciently good-looking to be justified in considering herself to be a beauty. But Miss Demolines, though she had said nothing as yet, knew her game very well. A lady can not begin conversation to any good purpose in the drawing-room, when she is seat- ed and the man is standing — nor can she know then how the table may subsequently arrange itself. Powder may be wasted, and often is wasted, and the spirit rebels against the neces- sity of commencing a second enterprise. But Miss 13emolines, when she found herself seated, and perceived that on the other side of her was Mr. Ponsonby, a married man, commenced her enterprise at once, and our friend John Fames was immediately aware that he would have no difhculty as to conversation. "Don't you like winter dinner-parties ?" be- gan Miss Demolines. This was said just as Johnny was taking his seat, and he had time to declare that he liked dinner-parties at all pe- riods of the year if the dinner was good and the jieople pleasant before the host had muttered something which was intended to be understood to be a grace. " But I mean especially in win- ter," continued ^liss Demolines. " I don't think daylight should ever be admitted at a dinner-ta- ble ; and though you may shut out the daylight, you can't shut out the heat. And then there are always so many other things to go to in May and June and July. Dinners should be stopped by Act of Parliament for tliose three months. I don't care what people do afterward, because we always fly away on the first of August." "That is good-natured on your i)art." " I'm sure what I say would be for the good of society ; but at this time of the year a din- ner is warm and comfortable." "Very comfortable, I think." "And i)eoi)lc get to know each other;" in saying which Miss Demolines looked very pleas- antly u\y into Johnny's face. " There is a great deal in that," said he. "I wonder whether you and I will get to know each other?" "Of course wc shall; that is, if I'm worth kno\\ing." "There can be no doubt about that, I should say. " "Time alone can tell. But, Mr. Fames, I see that Mr. Crosbie is a friend of yours." "Hardly a friend." " I know very well that men are friends when they step up and shake hands with each other. It is the same as when women kiss." " When I see women kiss I always think that there is deep hatred at the bottom of it." "And there may be deep hatred between you and Mr. Crosbie for any thing I know to the contrary," said Miss Demolines. "The very deepest," said Johnny, pretending to look grave. " Ah ! then I know he is your bosom friend, and that you will tell him any thing I say. What a strange history that was of his mar- riage!" " So I have heard ; but he is not quite Ijosom friend enough with me to have told me all the particulars. I know tliat his wife is dead." "Dead; oh yes; she has been dead these two years, I should say." "Not so long as that, I should think." "Well — i)erhaps not. But it's ever so long ago — quite long enough for him to be married again. Did you know her ?" " I never saw her in my life." " I knew her — not well indeed ; but I am in- timate with her sister. Lady Amelia Gazebee, and I have met her there. None of that fam- ily have married what j'ou may call well, And now, Mr. Fames, pray look at the menu and tell me what I am to eat. Arrange for me a little dinner of my own, out of lii:; great bill of fare provided. I always expect some gentleman to do that for me. Mr. Crosbie, you know, only lived witli his wife for one month." " So I've been told." "And a terrible month they had of it. I used to hear of it. IIo doesn't look that sort of man, does he?" "Well — no. I don't think he does. But what sort of man do you mean ?" "Why, such a regular Bluebeard ! Of course you know how he treated another girl before he married Lady Alexandrina. She died of it — with a broken heart ; absolutely died ; and there he is, inditferent as possible — and would treat me in the same wav to-morrow if I would let him." THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 109 Johnny Eames, finding it impossible to talk to Miss Demolines about Lily Dale, took uptiic card of the dinner and went to work in earnest, recommending his neighbor what to eat and what to pass bJ^ "But yon've skipped tlic pate','' she said, with energy. " Allow me to ask yon to choose mine for me instead. You are much more fit to do it." And she did choose his dinner for him. They were sitting at a ronnd table, and in order that the ladies and gentlemen sliould al- ternate tlicmselves properly, Mr. Musselboro was opposite to the host. Next to him on his right was old Mrs. Van Sievcr, the widow of a Dutch merchant, who was very rich. She was a ghast- ly thing to look at, as well from the quantity as from the nature of the wiggeries which she wore. She had not only a false front, but long false curls, as to which it can not be conceived that she would suppose that any one would be igno- rant as to their falseness. Slie was ver}' thin too, and very small, and putting aside her wig- geries, you would think her to be all eyes. She was a ghastly old woman to the sight, and not altogetlicr pleasant in her mode of talking. She seemed to know Mr. Musselboro very well, for she called him by his name without any prefix. He had, indeed, begun life as a clerk in her husband's ofiice. " Why doesn't What's-his-namc have real silver forks?" she said to him. Now Mrs. What's-his-narae — Mrs. Dobbs Broughton wc will call her — was sitting on the other side of Mr. Musselboro, between him and Mr. Crosbie ; and, so placed, Mr. Musselboro found it rather hard to answer the question, more especially as I he was probably aware that other questions would follow. "What's the use?" said Mr. Musselboro. "Every body has these plated things now. What's the use of a lot of capital lying dead ?" " Ev-cry body doesn't. I don't. You know as well as I do, Musselboro, that the appear- ance of the thing goes for a great deal. Capi- tal isn't lying dead as long as people know that you've got it." Before answering this Mr. Musselboro was driven to reflect that Mrs. Dobbs Broughton would probably hear his reply. "You won't find that there is any doubt on that head in the City as to Broughton," he said. "I sha'n't ask in the City, and if I did, I should not believe what people told me. I think there are sillier folks in the City than any where else. What did he give for tliat picture up stairs which the young man painted?" "What, Mrs. Dobbs Broughton's portrait?" "You don't call that a portrait, do you? I mean the one with the three naked Avomen?" Mr. IMusselboro glanced round with one eye, and felt sure that Mrs. Dobbs Broughton had heard the'qucstion. But the old woman was determined to have an answer. " How much did he give for it, Musselboro?" "Six hundred pounds, I believe," said Mr. Musselboro, looking straight before him as he answered, and pretending to treat the subject with ])erfect inditt'ercnce. "Did he indeed, now? Six hundred pounds I And yet he hasn't got silver spoons. How things are changed ! Tell me, Musselboro, who was that young man who came in with the painter?" Mr. Rrusselboro turned round and asked Mrs. Broughton. "A Mr. John Eames, Mrs. "Van Siever," said Mrs. Broughton, whispering across the front of Mr. Musselboro. "He is private secretary to Lord — Lord — Lord — I forget who. Some one of the Ministers, I know. And he .had a great fortune left him the other day by Lord — Lord — Lord somebody else." " All among the lords, I see," said Mrs. Van Siever. Then Mrs. Dobbs Broughton drew her- self back, remembering some little attack which had been made on her by Mrs. Van Siever when she herself had had the real lord to dine with her. There was a Miss Van Siever there also, sit- ting between Crosbie and Conway Dalrymple. Conway Dalrymple had been specially brought there to sit next to Miss Van Siever. " There's no knowing how much she'll have," said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, in the warmth of lier friend- ship. "But it's all real. It is, indeed. The mother is awfully rich." "But she's awful in another way, too," said Dalrymple. "Indeed she is, Conway." Mrs. Dobbs Brougiiton had got into a way of calling her young friend by his Christian name..- "All the world calls him Conway," she had said to her husband once when her husband caught her doing so. " She is awful. Her husband made the business in the City, when things were very different from what they are now, and I can't help having her. She has transactions of busi- ness with Dobbs. But there's no mistake about the money." " She needn't leave it to her daughter, I sup- pose ?" "But why shouldn't she? She has nobody else. You might ofter to paint her, you know. She'd make an excellent picture. So much character. You come and see her." Conway Dalrymple had expressed his willing- ness to meet Miss Van Siever, saying something, however, as to his present position being one which did not admit of any matrimonial specu- lation. Then Mrs. Dobbs Broughton had told him, with much seriousness, that he was alto- gether wrong, and that were he to forget him- self, or commit himself, or misbehave himself, there must be an end to their pleasant intimacy. In answer to which Mr. Dalrymple had said that his Grace was surely of all Graces the least gracious. And now he had come to meet Miss Varf Siever, and was seated next to her at table. Miss Van Siever, who at this time had per- haps reached her twenty-fifth year, was certainly a handsome young woman. She was fair and large, bearing no likeness whatever to her mo- ther. Her features were regular, and her full, clear eves hnd a brilliance of their own, looking 110 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. at yoii always steadfastly and boldly, though very seldom j)leasantly. llcr mouth would have been beautiful had it not been too strong for feminine beauty. Her teeth were perfect — too perfect — looking like miniature walls of carved ivory. She knew the fault of this perfection, and sliuwcd her teeth as little as siie could. Her nose and chin were finely ciiiseled, and her head stood well upon her shoulders. But there was something hard about it all which repelled you, Dalrymjile, when he saw her, recoiled from her, not outwardly, but inwardly. Yes, she was handsome, as may be a horse or a tiger; but there was about her nothing of feminine softness. He could not bring himself to think of taking Clara Van Sicver as the model that was to sit before him for the rest of his life. He certainly could make a picture of her, as had been suggested by his friend, Mrs. Broughton, but it must be as Judith with the dissevered head, or as Jael using her hammer over the temple of Sisera. Yes — he thought she Avould do as Jael ; and if Mrs. Van Siever would throw him a sugar-plum — for he would want the sugar- plum, seeing that any other result was out of the question — the thing might be done. Such was the idea of Mr. Conway Dalrymple respecting Miss Van Siever — before he led her down to dinner. At first he found it hard to talk to her. She answered him, and not with monosyllables. But she answered him without sympathy or apparent pleasure in talking. Now the young artist was in the habit of being flattered by ladies, and ex- pected to have his small talk made very easy for him. He liked to give himself little airs, and was not generally disposed to labor very hard at the task of making himself agreeable. "Were you ever painted yet ?" he asked her, after they had both been sitting silent for two or three minutes. " Was I ever — ever painted ? In what way ?" "I don't mean rouged, or enameled, or got np by Madame Rachel ; but have you ever had your portrait taken ?" "I have been photographed, of course." "That's why I asked you if you had been painted — so as to make some little distinction between the two. I am a painter by profession, and do portraits." " So Mrs. Broughton told me." "I am not asking for a job, you know." "I am quite sure of that." "But I should have thought you would have been sure to have sat to somebody." "I never did. I never thought of doing so. One does those things at the instigation of one's intimate friends — fathers, mothers, uncles, and aunts, and the like." " Or husbands, perhaps — or lovers?" "Well, yes; my intimate friend is my mo- ther, and she would never dream of such a thing. She hates pictures." "Hates pictures!" "And especially portraits. And I'm afraid, Mr. Dalrymple, she hates artists." "Good Heavens! how cruel! I suppose there is some story attached to it. There hag been some fatal likeness — some terrible picture — something in her early days?" "Nothing of the kind, Mr. Dalrymple. It i& merely the fact that her sympathies arc with ugly things rather than with pretty things. I think she loves the mahogany dinner-table bet- ter than any thing else in the house ; and she likes to have every thing dark, and plain, and solid." "And good?" "Good of its kind, certainly." "If every body was like your mother, how would the artists live ?" "There would be none." "And the world, you think, would be none the poorer?" " I did not speak of myself. I think the world would be very much the poorer. I am very fond of the ancient masters, though I do not suppose that I understand them." "They are easier understood than the mod- ern, I can tell you. Perhaps you don't care for modern pictures?" "Not in comparison, certainly. If that is uncivil, you have brought it on yourself. But I do not in truth mean any thing derogatory to the painters of the day. When their pictures are old, they — that is the good ones among them — will be nice also." "Pictures are like wine, and want age, you think?" "Yes, and statues too, and buildings above all things. The colors of new paintings are so glaring, and the faces are so bright and self- conscious, that they look to me wlien I go to the exhibition like colored prints in a child's new picture book. It is the same thing with buildings. One sees all the points, and nothing is left to the imagination." " I find I have come across a real critic." ' ' I hope, at any rate, I am not a sham one ;" and Miss Van Siever as she said this looked very savage. "I shouldn't take you to be a sham in any thing." "Ah, that would be saying a great deal for myself. Who can undertake to say that he is not a sham in any thing ?" As she said this the ladies were getting up. So Miss Van Siever also got up, and left Mr. Conway Dalrymple to consider whether he could say or could think of himself that he was not a sham in any thing. As regarded Miss Clara Van Siever, he began to think that he should not object to paint her portrait, even though there might be no sugar-plum. He would certainly do it as Jael ; and he would, if he dared, insert dimly in the back-ground some idea of the face of the mother, half-appearing, half-vanishing, as the spirit of the sacrifice. He was -compos- ing his picture while Mr. Dobbs Broughton was arranging himself and his bottles. " Musselboro," he said, "I'll come up be- tween you and Crosbie. Mr. Eames, though I THE LAST CHKONICLE OF BARSET. Ill run away from you, the claret shall remain ; or, rather, it shall flow backward and forward as rapidly as you will." " I'll keep it moving," said Johnny. "Do ; there's a good follow. It's a nice glass of wine, isn't it ? Old llamsby, who keeps as good a stock of stuff as any wine-merchant in London, gave me a hint, three or four years ago, that he had a lot of tidy Bordeaux. It's '■41, you know. He had ninety dozen, and I took it all." "What was the figure, Broughton?" said Crosbie, asking the question which he knew was expected. " Well, I only gave one hundred and four for it then ; it's worth a hundred and twenty now. I wouldn't sell a bottle of it for any money. Come, Dalrymple, pass it round ; but fill your glass first." "Thank you, no; I don't like it. I'll drink sherry. " " Don't like it!" said Dobbs Broughton. "It's strange, isn't it? but I don't." " I thought you particularly told me to drink liis claret ?" said Johnny to his friend afterward. " So I did," said Conwaj'' ; " and wonderfully good wine it is. But I make it a rule never to eat or drink any thing in a man's house when he praises it himself and tells me the price of it." "And I make it a rule never to cut the nose off my own face," said Johnny. Before they went Johnny Eames had been specially invited to call on Lady Demolines, and had said that he would do so. " We live in Porchester Gardens," said Miss Demolines. "Upon my word, I believe that the farther London stretches in that direction the farther mamma will go. She thinks the air so much better. I know it's a long way." "Distance is nothing to me," said Johnny; "I can always set off overnight." Conway Dalrymple did not get invited to call on Mrs. Van Siever, but before he left the house he did say a word or two more to his friend Mi's. Broughton as to Clara Van Siever. " She is a fine young woman," he said ; " she is in- deed." " You have found it out, have you ?" "Yes, I have found it out. I do not doubt that some day she'll murder her husband or her mother, or startle the world by some newly-in- vented crime ; but that only makes her the more interesting." " And when you add to that all the old wo- man's money," said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, "you think that she might do ?" "For a picture, certainly. I'm speaking of her simply as a model. Could we 'not manage it? Get her once here without her mother knowing it, or Broughton, or any one. I've got the subject — Jael and Sisera, you know. I should like to put Musselboro in as Sisera, with the nail half driven in." Mrs. Dobbs Brough- ton declared that the scheme was a great deal too wicked for her participation, but at last she promised to think of it. "You might as well come up and Iiave a ci- gar," Dalrymple said, as he and his friend left Mr. Broughton's house. Johnny said that he would go up and have a cigar or two. "And now tell me what you think of Mrs. Dobbs Broughton and her set," said Conway. " Well ; I'll tell you what I think of them, I think they stink of money, as the people say ; but I'm not sure that they've got any all tlie same." "I should suppose he makes a large income." " Very likely, and perhaps spends more than he makes. A good deal of it looked to me like make-believe. There's no doubt about the clar- et, but the Champagne was execrable. A man is a criminal to have such stuff handed round to his guests. And there isn't the ring of real gold about the house." "I hate the ring of the gold, as you call it," said the artist. " So do I — I hate it like poison ; but if it is there, I like it to be true. There is a sort of persons going now — and one meets them out here and there every day of one's life — who are downright Brummagem to the ear and to the touch and to the sight, and we recognize them as such at the very first moment. My honored lord and master. Sir Raffle, is one such. There is no mistaking him. Clap him down upon the counter, and he rings dull and untrue at once. Pardon me, my dear Conway, if I say the same of your excellent friend, ^Ir. Dobbs Broughton." " I think you go a little too far, but I don't deny it. What you mean is, that he's not a gentleman." " I mean a great deal more than that. Bless you, when you come to talk of a gentleman, who is to define the word? How do I knov/ whether or no I'm a gentleman myself. When I used to be in Burton Crescent I was hardly a gentleman then — sitting at the same table with Mrs. Roper and the Lupexes — do you remem- ber them, and the lovely Amelia?" "I suppose you were a gentleman then, as well as now." " You, if you had been painting duchesses then, with a studio in Kensington Gardens, would not have said so if you had happened to come across me. I can't define a gentleman, even in my own mind ; but I can define the sort of man with whom I think I can live pleas- antly." ' "And poor Dobbs doesn't come within the line?" "N — o, not quite; a very nice fellow, I'm quite sure, and I'm very much obliged to you for taking me there." "I never will take you to any house again. And what did you think of his wife ?" " That's a horse of another color altogether. A pretty woman, with such a figure as hers, has got a right to be any thing she pleases. I see you are a great favorite." " No, I'm not ; not especially. I do like her. She wants to make up a match between me and 112 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. that Miss Van Sicver. Miss Vnn is to have goUl by the ingot, and jewels bv the bushel, anJ a hatful of bank sliares, and a whole mine in Cornwall for her fortune." "And is very handsome into the bargain." " Yes ; she's handsome." " So is her mother," said Johnny. " If you take the daughter, I'll take the mother, and see if I can't do you out of a mine or two. Good- night, old fellow! I'm only joking about old Dobbs. I'll go and dine there again to-mor- row, if von like it." CHAPTER XXV. MISS MADALINA DEMOLIXES. "I bon't think yon care two straws about her," Conway Dalrymple said to his friend John Earacs, two days after the dinner-part}' at Mrs. Dobbs Broughton's. The painter was at work in his stndio, and the private secretary from tiie Income-tax Office, who was no doubt en- gaged on some special mission to the West End on the part of Sir Raffle Buffle, was sitting in a lounging-chair and smoking a cigar. " Because I don't go about with my stockings cross-gartered, and do that kind of business?" "Well, yes; because you don't do that kind of business, more or less." " It isn't in my line, my dear fellow. I know what you mean very well. I dare say, artistic- ally speaking — " "Don't be an ass, Johnny." " Well then, poetically, or romantically, if you like that better — I dare say that poetically or romantically I am deficient. I eat my din- ner very well, and I don't suppose I ought to do that; and, if you'll believe me, I find myself laughing sometimes." " I never knew a man who laughed so much. You're always laughing." " And that, you think, is a bad sign?'' " I don't believe you really care about her. I think you are aware that yon have got a love- afVair on liand, and that you hang on tn it rather persistently, having in some way come to a reso- lution that yon would be i)ersistent. But there isn't much heart in it. I dare say tliere was once." "And that is your ojiinion." "You are just like some of those men who for years past have been going to write a book on some new subject. The intention has been sincere at first, and it never altogether dies away. But the would-be author, though he still talks of his work, knows that it will never be executed, and is very patient under the dis- :i]ipoiutmeiit. All enthusiasm about the thing is gone, but he is still known as the man who is going to do it some day. You are the man Avho means to marry Miss Dale in five, ten, or twenty years' time." " Now, Conway, all that is thoroughly unfair. The would-be author talks of his would-be book to every body. I have never talked of 3.1iss Dale to any one but you and one or two very old family friends. And from year to year, and from month to month, I have done all that has been in my power to win her. I don't think I sliall ever succeed, and yet I am as determined about it as I was when I first began it — or rath- er much more so. If I do not marry Lily I shall never marry at all, and if any body were to tell mc to-morrow that she had made up her mind to have mo I should well-nigh go mad for joy. But I am not going to give up all my life for love. Indeed, the less I can bring myself to give up for it the better I shall think of myself. Now I'll go away and call on old Lady Demo- lines." "And fiirt with her daughter." " Yes ; fiirt with her daughter, if I get the opportunity. Why shouldn't I fiirt with her daughter?" "Why not, if you like it?" "I don't like it — not particularly, that is; because the young lady is not very pretty, nor yet very graceful, nor yet very wise." " She is pretty after a fashion," said the art- ist, "and if not wise, she is at any rate clever." "Nevertheless I do not like her," said John Eames. "Then why do you go there?" "One has to be civil to peo])lc though they are neitlier ]n'ctty nor wise. I don't mean to insinuate that Miss Demolines is particularly bad, or indeed that she is worse than young la- dies in general. I only abused her because there was an insinuation in what you said, that I was going to amuse myself with Miss Demo- lines in the absence of Miss Dale. The one tiling has nothing to do with the other thing. Nothing that I shall say to Miss Demolines will at all militate against my loyalty to Lily." "All right, old fellow — I didn't mean to put THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 113 you on your purgation. I want you to look at that sketch. Do you know for whom it is in- tended?" Johnny took up a scrap of paper, and having scrutinized it for a minute or two declared that he had not the sliglitest idea who was represented. " You know the suhject — tlie story that is intended to be told ?" said Dai- ry m pie. " Upon my word I don't. There's some old fellow seems to he catching it over the head ; but it's all so confused I can't make much of it. The woman seems to be uncommon angry." " Do you ever read your Bible ?" "Ah, dear! not as often as I ought to do. Ah, I see ; it's Sisfera. I never could quite be- lieve tliat story. Jael might have killed Cap- tain Sisera in his sleep — for wliich, by-the-by, she ought to have been hung, and she might possibly have done it with a hammer and a nail. But she could not have driven it through, and staked him to tlie ground." "I've warrant enough for putting it into a picture, at any rate. Bly Jael there is intend- ed for Miss Van Sicver." "^Ijss Van Siever! Well, it is like her. Has .she sat for it?" " Oh dear, no ; not yet. I mean to get her to do so. There's a strength about her which would make her sit the part admirably. And I fancy she would like to be driving a nail into a fellow's head. I think I shall take Mussel- boro for a Sisera." "You're not in earnest?" " He would .just do for it. But of course I sha'n't ask him to sit, as my Jael would not like it. She would not consent to operate on so base a subject. So you really are going down to Guestwick?" ' ' Yes ; I start to-morrow. Good-by, old fel- low ! I'll come and sit for Sisera if you'll let me ; only Miss Van Jael shall have a blunted nail, if you please." Then Johnny left the artist's room and walk- ed across from Kensington to Lady Demolines's house. As he went he partly accused himself and partly excused himself in that matter of his love for Lily Dale. There were moments of his life in which he felt that he would willingly die for her — that life was not worth having witliout her — in which he went about inwardly reproaching fortune for having treated him so cruelly. Why should she not be his? He half believed that she loved liim. She had al- most told him so. She could not surely still love that other man who had treated her with such vile falsehood? As he considered the question in all its bearings he assured himself over and over again that there would be now no fear of that rival ; and yet he had such fears, and hated Crosbie almost as much as ever. It was a thousand pities, certainly, that the man should have been made free by the death of his wife. But it could hardly be that he should seek Lily again, or that Lily, if so sought, should even listen to him. But yet there he was, free once more — an odious being. whom Johnny was determined to sacrifice to his vengeance if cause for such sacrilice should occur. And thus thinking of the real truth of his love, he endeavored to excuse himself to himself from that clu\rge of vagueness and lax- ness which his friend Conway Dalrymple had brouglit against him. And then again he ac- cused himself of the same sin. If he had been positively in earnest, with do^\Tlright manly earnestness, would he have allowed the thing to drag itself on with a weak uncertain life, as it had done for the last two or three years? Lily Dale had been a dream to him in his boy- hood ; and lie had made a reality of liis dream as soon as he had become a man. But before he had been al)le, as a man, to tell his love to the girl whom he had loved as a child, another man had intervened, and his prize had been taken from him. Then the wretched victor had tlirown his treasure away, and he, John Eames, had been content to stoop to pick it up — was content to do so now. But there was sometiiing wliich he felt to be unmanly in the constant stooping. DaliTm])le had told him that he was like a man who is ever writing a book and yet never writes it. He would make another attempt to get Iws book written — an at- tempt into which he would throw all his strength and all his heart. He would do. his very best to make Lily las own. But if he failed now, he would have done with it. It seemed to him to be below his dignity as a man to be always coveting a tiling which he could not^obtain. Johnny was informed by the boy in buttons, who opened the door for him at Lady Demo- lines, that the ladies were at home, and he was shown up into the drawing-room. Here he was allowed full ten minutes to explore tlic nick-nacks on the table, and open the photo- graph book, and examine the furniture, before Miss Demolines made her appearance. When she did come, her hair was tangled more mar- velously even than when he saw her at the din- ner-party, and her eyes were darker, and her cheeks tliiimcr. "I'm afraid mamma won't be able to come down," said Miss Demolines. "She will be so sorry; but she is not quite well to-day. The wind is in the east, she says, and when she says the wind is in the east she always refuses to be well." "Then I should tell her it was in the west." "But it is in the east." "Ah! there I can't help you. Miss Demo- lines. I never know which is east and which west ; and if I did, I shouldn't know from which point the wind blew." "At any rate, mamma can't come down stairs, and you must excuse her. What a very nice woman INIrs. Dobbs Broughton is !" John- ny acknowledged that ]Mrs. I)obbs Broughton was charming. "And Mr. Broughton is so good-natured!" Johnny again assented. "I like him of all things," said Miss Demolines. " So do I," said Johnny ; " I never liked any body so much in my life. I suppose one is bound to sav tliat kind of thing." "Oh! vou 114 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. ill-natnvod mnn," said Miss Deniolincs. "I PU})iiosc you tliiiik tliut i)oor Mr. 15rou{:;liton is a little — ^jiist a little — you know what I mean." "Not exactly," said Johnny. " Yes, you do ; you know very well what I mean. And of course he is. IIow can he he)]) it?" " I'oor fellow ! No. I don't suppose he can help it, or he would ; wouldn't he ?" "Of course Mr. 15rouj:;liton had not the ad- vantage of birth or much early education. All liis friends know that, and make allowance ac- cordingly. When she married him she was aware of his deficiency, and made up her mind to put up with it." "It was very kind of her; don't you think so?" "I knew Maria Cluttcrbuck for years before she was married. Of course slic was very much my senior, but, nevertheless, we were friends. I think I was hardly more than twelve years old when I first began to correspond with ]\Iaria. She was then past twenty. So you see, Mr. Eames, I make no secret of my age." " Why should yon ?" "But never mind that. Every body knows that Maria Clutterbuck was very much ad- mired. Of course I'm not going to tell you or any other gentleman all her histor}'." "I was in hopes you were." "Then certainly your hopes will be frus- trated, Mr. Eames. But undoubtedly when she told us that she was going to take Dobbs Broughton, we were a little disappointed. Maria Clutterbuck had been used to a better kind of life. You understand what I mean, Mr. Eames ?" "Oh, exactly; and yet it's not a bad kind of life either." "No, no; that is true. It has its attrac- tions. She keeps her carriage, sees a good deal of company, has an excellent house, and goes abroad for six weeks every year. But you know, Mr. Eames, there is, perhaps, a little un- certainty about it." "Life is always uncertain, Miss Demolines." "You're quizzing now, I know. But don't you feel now, really, that City money is always very chancy? It comes and goes so quick." " As regards the going, I think that's the same witli all money," said Johnny. "Not with land, or the funds. Mamma has every shilling laid out in a first-class mortgage on land at four per cent. That does make one feel so secure ! The land can't run away." "But you think poor Broughton's money may ?" " It's all speculation, you know. I don't be- lieve she minds it ; I don't, indeed. She lives that kind of fevered life now that she likes ex- citement. Of course we all know that Mr. Dobbs Broughton is not what we can call an educated gentleman. His manners are against him, and he is very ignorant. Even dear Maria would admit that." "One would perhaps let that pass without asking her opinion at all." " She has acknowledged it to me twenty times. But lie is very good-natured, and lets her do pretty nearly any thing that she likes. I only hope she won't trespass on his good-na- ture. I do, indeed." "You mean spend too much money?" " No ; I didn't mean that exactly. Of course she ought to be moderate, and I hope she is. To that kind of fevered existence j^rofuso ex- penditure is perhaps necessary. But I was thinking of something else. I fear she is a little giddy." "Dear me! I should have thought she was too — too — too — " " You mean too old for any thing of that kind. Maria Broughton must be thirty-three if she's a day." " That would make j'ou just twenty-five," said Johnny, feeling perfectly sure as he said so ihat the lady whom he was addressing was at any rate past thirty ! "Never mind my age, Mr. Eames; whether I am twenty-five, or a hundred and five, has nothing to do with poor Maria Clutterbuck. But now I'll tell you why I mention all this to you. You must have seen how foolish she is about your friend Mr. Dalrymple." " Upon my word I haven't." " Nonsense, Mr. Eames ; you have. If she were your wife, would you like her to call a man Conway ? Of course you would not. I don't mean to say that there's any thing in it. I know Maria's principles too well to suspect that. It's merely because she's flighty and fevered." "That fevered existence accounts for it all," said Johnny. " No doubt it does," said Miss Demolines, with a nod of her head, which was intended to show that she was willing to give her friend the full benefit of any excuse which could be oft'ered for her. "But don't you think you could do something, Mr. Eames?" " I do something?" " Yes, you. You and Mr. Dalrymple are such friends ! If you were just to point out to him, you know — " " Point out what ? Tell him that he oughtn't to be called Conway? Because, after all, I suppose that's the worst of it. If you mean to say that Dalrymple is* in love with Mrs. Brough- ton, vou never made a greater mistake in your life.'' " Oh no; not in love. That would be terri- ble, you know." And Miss Demolines shook her head sadly. "But there may be so much mischief done without any thing of that kind ! Thoughtlessness, you know, Mr. Eames — ])ure thoughtlessness! Think of what I have said, and if you can speak a word to your friend, do. i And now I want to ask you something else. I'm so glad you are come, because circumstances have seemed to make it necessary that j-ou and I should know each other. We may be of so much use if we put our heads together." John- ny bowed when he heard this, but made no im- mediate reply. "Have you heard any thing about a certain picture that is being planned ?" THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 115 Johnny did not wish to answer this question, but Miss Demolincs paused so long and looked so earnestly into his face that he found Ijimsclf forced to say sometliing. "What picture?" "A certain picture that is — or, perhaps, that is not to be, painted by Mr. Dalrymple?" ♦' I hear so much about Dalrymple's pictures ! You don't mean the portrait of Lady Glencora Palliser ? That is nearly finished, and will be in the Exhibition this year." '* I don't mean that at all. I mean a picture that has not yet been begun." "A portrait, I suppose?" "As to that I can not quite say. It is at any rate to be a likeness. I am sure you have heard of it. Come, Mr. Eames ; it would be better that we should be candid with each other. You remember Miss Van Siever, of course ?" "I remember that she dined at the Brough- tons'." "And you have heard of Jael, I suppose, and Sisera?" " Yes ; in a general way — in the Bible." "And now will you tell me whether you have not heard the names of Jael and Miss Van Sie- ver coupled together ? I see you know all about it." " I have heard of it, certainly." "Of course you have. So have I, as you perceive. Now, Mr. Eames" — and Miss Dcmo- lines's voice became tremulously eager as she ad- dressed him — "it is your duty, and it is my duty, to take care that that picture shall never be painted." "But why should it not be painted?" "You don't know Miss Van Siever yet."' "Not in the least." "Nor Mrs. Van Siever." " I never spoke a word to her." "I do. I know them both — well." There was something almost grandly tragic in Miss Demolines's voice as she thus spoke. "Yes, Mr. Eames, I know them well. If that scheme be continued, it will work terrible mischief. You and I must prevent it." "But I don't see what harm it will do." "Think of Conway Dalrymple passing so many hours in Maria's sitting-room up stairs! The picture is to be painted there, you know." " But Miss Van Siever will be present. Won't that make it all right? What is there wrong about Miss Van Siever ?" " I won't deny that Clara Van Siever has a certain beauty of her own. To me she is cer- tainly the most unattractive woman that I ever came near. She is simply repulsive!" Here- upon Miss Demolines held up her hand as though she were banishing Miss Van Siever forever from her sight, and shuddered slightly. " Men think her handsome, and she is handsome. But she is false, covetous, malicious, cruel, and dis- honest." "What a fiend in petticoats!" "You may say that, Mr. Eames. And then her mother ! Her mother is not so bad. Her mother is very different. But the mother is an odious woman, too. It was an evil day for Ma- ria Clntterbuck when she first saw either the mother or the daughter. I tell you that in con- fidence." "But what can I do?" said Johnny, who be- gan to be startled and almost interested by the eagerness of the woman. "I'll tell you what you can do. Don't let your friend go to Mr. Broughton's house to paint the picture. If he does do it, there will mischief come of it. Of course you can pre- vent him." "I should not think of trying to prevent him unless I knew why." " She's a nasty proud minx, and it would set her up ever so high — to think that she was be- ing painted by Mr. Dalrymple ! But that isn't the reason. Maria would get into terrible trouble about it, and there would be no end of mischief. I must not tell you more now, and if you do not believe me I can not help it. Surely, Mr. Eames, my word may be taken as going for some- thing? And when I ask you to help me in this I do expect that you will not refuse me." By this time Miss Demolines was sitting close to him, and had more than once put her hand upon his arm in the energy of her eloquence. Then as he remembered that he had never seen Miss Demo- lines till the other day, or Miss Van Siever, or even Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, he bethought him- self that it was all very droll. Nevertheless he had no objection to Miss Demolines putting her hajid upon his arm. "I never like to interfere in any thing that does not seem to be my own business," said Johnny. "Is not your friend's business your own bus- iness? What does friendship mean if it is not so ? And when I tell you that it is my business, mine of right, does that go for nothing with you ? I thought I might depend upon you, IVIr. Eames; I did indeed." Then again she put her hand upon his ami, and as he looked into her eyes he began to think that after all she was good-look- ing in a certain way. At any rate she had fine eyes, and there was something picturesque about the entanglement of her hair. "Think of it, and then come back and talk to me again," said Miss Demolines. "But I am going out of town to-morrow." ' ' For how long ?" "For ten days." "Nothing can be done during that time. Clara Van Siever is going away in a day, and will not be back for three weeks. I happen to know that ; so we have plenty of time for work- ing. It would be very desirable that she should never even hear of it ; but that can not be hoped, as Maria has such a tongue ! Couldn't you see Mr. Dalrymple to-night ?" " Weli, no; I don't think I could." " Mind, at least, that you come to me as soon as ever you return." Before he got out of the house, which he did after a most affectionate farewell, Johnny felt IIG THE LAST CIIKOXICLE OF BAllSET. himself coni]iclloil to ]:romisc that he would come to Miss Deinolincs again as soon as he got back to town ; and as the door was closed he- hind him by the boy in buttons he made up his mind that ho certainly would call as soon as he returned to London. "It's as pood as a play," ho said to himself. Not that he cared in the least fur i\Iiss Dcmolines, or that he would take an}' steps with the intention of preventing the painting of the ])icture. !Miss Demolines had some battle to fight, and he would leave her to fight it with her own weapons. If his friend chose to i)aint a jiicture of Jacl, and take Miss Van Sicver as a model, it was no business of his. Nevertheless he would certainly go and sec Miss Demolines again, because, as he said, she Avas as good as a phiy. CHAPTER XXVI. THE PICTUEE. On that same afternoon Conway Dalrym])lc rolled up his sketch of Jael and Sisera, put it into his pocket, dressed himself with some consider- able care, putting on a velvet coat which he was in the habit of wearing out of doors Avhen he did not intend to wander beyond Kensington Gar- dens and the neighborhood, and which was sup- posed to become him well, yellow gloves, and a certain Spanish hat of which he was fond, and slowly sauntered across to the house of his friend Mrs. Djbbs Brougliton. When the door was opened to him he did not ask if the ladywci'Gat liome, but muttering some word to the servant, made his way through the hall, up stairs, to a certain small sitting-room looking to the north, which was much used by the mistress of the house. It was quite clear that Conway Dal- rymple had arranged his visit beforehand, and that he was expected. He opened the door without knocking, and, though the servant had followed him, he entered without being an- nounced. "I'm afraid I'm late," he said, as he gave his hand to Mrs. Broughton ; " but for the life I could not get away sooner." "You arc quite in time," said tlie lady, "for any good that you are likely to do." "What does that mean?" "It means this, my friend, that you had bet- ter give the idea up. I have been thinking of it all day, and I do not approve of it." "What nonsense !" " Of course you will say so, Conway. I have obsen'cd of late that whatever I say to you is called nonsense. I suppose it is the new fashion that gentlemen should so express themselves, but I am not quite sure that I like it." " You know what I mean. I am very anx- ious about this picture, and I shall be much dis- appointed if it can not be done now. It was you put it into my head first." "I regret it very much, I can assure you; but it will not be generous in you to urge that against me." "But whv shouldn't it succeed?" "There are many reasons — some personal tu myself." " I do not know what they can be. You hint- ed at something which I only took as having been said in juke." " If you mean about Miss Van Siever and yourself, I was quite in earnest, Conway. I do not think you could do better, and I sliould be glad to see it of all things. Nothing would please me more than to bring Miss Van Siever and you together." "And nothing would please me less." "And why so ?" J ' ' Because — because — I can do nothing but t6ll you the truth, carina ; because my heart is tiot free to present itself at Miss Van Siever's feet." "It ought to be free, Conway, and you must make it free. It will be well that you should be married, and well for others besides yourself. I tell you so as your friend, and you have no truer friend. Sit where you are, if you please. Y'ou can say any thing you have to say without stalking about the room." "I was not going to stalk— as you call it." " You will be safer and quieter while you arc sitting. I heard a knock at the door, and I do not doubt that it is Clara. She said she would be here." " And yon have told her of the picture ?" "Yes; I have told her. She said that it would be impossible, and that her mother would not allow it. Here she is." Then Miss Van Sicver was shown into the room, and Dalrym- ple perceived that she was a girl the peculiarity of whose complexion bore daylight better even than candle-light. There was something in her countenance which seemed to declare that she could bear any light to which it might be subjected Mithout flinching from it. And her bonnet, which was very plain, and her simple brown morning-gown suited her well. She was one who required none of the circumstances of studied dress to carry oft' aught in her own ap- pearance. She could look her best when other women look their worst, and could dare to be seen at all times. Dalrymple, with an artist's eye, saw this at once, and immediately confessed to himself that there was something great about her. He could .not deny her beauty. But there was ever present to him that look of hard- ness which had struck him when he first saw her. He could not but fancy that though at times she might be playful, and allow the fur of her coat to be stroked Avith good-humor — she would be a dangerous plaything, using her claws un])leasantly when the good-humor should have passed away. But not the less was she beautiful, and — beyond that, and better than that for his purpose — she was picturesque. " Clara," said Mrs. Broughton, "here is this mad painter, and he says that he Avill have you on his canvas, cither with your will or without it." ] " Even if he could do that, I am sure he would not," said Miss Van Siever. "To prove to you that I can I think I need THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 117 "VVUAT DO YOU THINK OK IT, ME8. CROUGUTON ?" only show you the sketch," said Dalrymple, talc- I " Eames says that it is confused," said the ing the drawing out of his pocket. "As re- artist. gards the face, I know it so well by heart al- | "I don't sec that at all," said Mrs. Brough- ready that I feel certain I could produce a like- ' ton. ness without even a sitting. What do you think j " Of course a sketch must be rough. Tliis of it, Mrs. Brouijhton ?" i one has been rubbed about and altered — but I "It is clever," said she, looking at it with all think there is something in it." that entliusiasm wliicli women are able to throw into their eyes on such occasions ; " very clever. The subject would just suit her. I have never 'doubted that." " An immense deal," said Mrs. Broughton. "Don't you think so, Clara?" " I am not a judge." "But you can see the woman's fixed purpose; 118 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAESET. and hor stcahhiness ns well — and the mJn sleeps like a log. What is that dim outline?" "Nothing in particular," said Dalryniple. Jlnt flie dim outline •was intended to represent Mrs. Van Siever. "It is very pood — unquestionably good," said Mrs. Dohhs IJroughton. "I do not for a mo- ment doubt that you would make a great pic- ture of it It is just the subject for you, Con- way ; so much imagination, and yet such a scope for portraiture. It would be full of ac- tion, and yet such perfect repose And the lights and shadows would be exactly in your line. I can see at a glance how you would manage the light in the tent, and bring it down just on the nail. And then the pose of the wo- man would be so good, so much strength and yet such grace ! You should have the bowl he drank tlie milk out of, so as to tell the whole story. No painter living tells a story so well as you do, Conway." Conway Dalrymjde knew that the woman was talking nonsense to him, and yet he liked it, and liked her for talking it. "But Mr. Dali'ymi)le can paint his Siscra without making me a Jacl," said ISIissVan Sie- ve r. "Of course he can," said Jlrs. Broughton. "But I never will," said tlie artist. " I con- ceived the subject as connected with you, and I will never disjoin the two ideas." "I think it no compliment, I can assure you," said Miss Van Siever. "And none was intended. But you may observe that artists in all ages have sought for higher types of models in painting women who have been violent or criminal than have suf- ficed for them in their portraitures of gentle- ness and virtue. Look at all the Judiths, and the Lucretias, and the Charlotte Cordays ; how much finer the women are than the Madonnas and the Saint Cecilias." "After that, Clara, you need not scruple to be a Jael," said Mrs. Broughton. "But I do scruple — very much , so strongly that I know I never shall do it. In tlie first place I don't know why Mr. Dalrymple wants it." ' ' Want it !" said Ccnway. " I want to pamt a striking jiicture." "But you can do that without putting me into it." "No; not this picture. And why should 3'ou object? It is the commonest thing in the world for ladies to sit to artists in that man- ner." " People would know it " " Nobody would know it so that A'ou need care about it. What would it matter if every ■ body knew it ? We are not proposing any thing improper — are we, Mrs. Broughton ?" "She shall not be pressed if she does not like it," said Mrs. Broughton. "You know I told you before Clara came in that I was afraid it could not be done." "And I don't like it," said Miss Van Siever, with some little hesitation in her voice. "I don't see any thing improper in it, if you mean that," said Mrs. Broughton. "But mamma!" "Well, yes; that is the difficulty, no doubt. The only question is, whether your mother h not so very singular as to make it impossible that you should comply with her in every thing." "I am afraid that I do not comply with her in very much," said Miss Van Siever, in her gentlest voice. "Oh, Clara!" "You drive me to say so, as otherwise I should be a hypocrite. Of course I ought not to have said it before Mr. Dalrymjde." "You and Mr. Dalrymple will understand all about that, I dare say, before the picture is finished," said Mrs. Broughton. It did not take much persirasion on the part of Conway Dalrymple to get the consent of the younger lady to be painted, or of the elder to Htlow the sitting to go on in her room. When the question of easels and other apparatus came to be considered Mrs. Broughton was rather flustered, and again declared with energy that the whole thing must fall to the ground ; but a few more words from the painter restored her, and at last the arrangements were made. As Mrs. Dobbs Broughton's dear friend Madalina Demolines had said, Mrs. Dobbs Broughton liked a fevered existence. " What will Dobbs say ?" she exclaimed more than once. And it was decided at last that Dobbs should knoAV nothing about it as long as it could be kept from him, "Of course he shall be told at last," said his wife. "I wouldn't keep any thing from the dear fellow for all the world. But if he knew it at first it would be sure to get through Mus- selboro to your mother." "I certainly shall beg that Mr. Broughton may not be taken into confidence if Mr. Mus- selboro is to follow." said Clara. "And it must be understood that I must cease to sit imme- diately, whatever may be the inconvenience, should mamma speak to me about it." This stipulation was made and conceded, and then Miss Van Siever went away, leaving the artist with Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. "And now, if you please, Conway, you had better go too," said the lady, as soon as there had been time for Miss Van Siever to get down stairs and out of the hall door. "Of course you are in a hurry tx) get rid of me." "Yes, I am." "A little while ago I improperly said that some suggestion of yours was nonsense, and you rebuked me for my blunt incivility. Might not I rebuke you now with equal justice?" "Do so, if you will, but leave me. I tell you, Conway, that in these matters you must either be guided by me, or you and I must cease to see each other. It does not do that you should remain hero with me longer than the time usually allowed for a morning call. Clara has come and gone, and you also must go. I am sorry to disturb you, for you seem to be so very comfortable in that chair." THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 119 "I am comfortable — and I can look at you. Come ; there can be no harm in saying tliat, if I say nothing else. Well; there, now I am gone." Whereupon he got up from liis arm- chair. " But you arc not gone while you stand there." "And you would really wish mc to marry that girl?" "I do — if you can love her." "And what about her love?" "You must win it, of course. She is to be won, like any other woman. Tlie fruit won't fall into your mouth merely because you open your lips. You must climb the tree." " Still climbing trees in the Hesperides," said Conway. "Love does that, you know; but it is hard to climb tlie trees without the love. It seems to mc tiiat I have done my climbing — have clomb as high as I knew how, and that the boughs are breaking with me, and that I am likely to get a fall. Do you understand mc ?" " I would leather not understand you;" "Tliat is no answer to my question. Do you understand that at this moment I am get- ting a fall which will break every bone in my skin and put any other climbing out of the question as far as I am concerned? Do you understand that?" "No; I do not," said Mrs. Broughton, in a tremulous voice. "Then I'll go and make love at once to Clara Van Sicver. There's enough of pluck left in mc to ask her to marry me, and I sup- pose I could manage to go through the ceremo- ny if she accepted me." "But I want you to love her," said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. " I dare say I should love her well enough after a bit ; that is, if she didn't break my head or comb my hair. I sujjpose there will be no objection to my saying that you sent me when I ask her?" " Conway, you will of course not mention my name to her I have suggested to you a mar- riage which I think would tend to make you happy, and would give ynu a stabilfty in life which you Avant. It is ]jerhaps better that I should be exjilicit at once. As an unmarried man I can not continue to know you. You have said words of late which have driven mq to this conclusion. I have thought about it much — too much, perhaps, and I know that! am right. Miss Van Siever has beauty and wealth and intellect, and I think tliat she would appreciate the love of such a man as you are. Now go." And Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, stand- ing upright, pointed to the door. Conway Dalrymple slowly took his Spanish hat from off the marble slab on which he had laid it, and left the room without saying a word. The in- terview had been quite long enough, and there was nothing else which he knew how to say with effect. Croquet is a pretty game out of doors, and chess is delightful in a drawing-room. Battle- door and shuttle-cock and hunt-the-slipper have also their attractions. Proverbs arc good, and cross-questions with crooked answers may be made very amusing. But none of these games are equal to the game of love-making — provid- ing that the players can be quite sure that there shall be no heart in the matter. Any touch of heart not only destroys the pleasure of tho game, but makes the player awkward and inca- pable and robs him of his skill. And thus it is that there are many people who can not play the game at all. A deficiency of some needed internal physical strength prevents the owners of the heart from keeping a proper control over its valves, and thus emotion sets in, and tlie pulses are accelerated, and feeling supervenes. For such a one to attempt a game of love-mak- ing is as though your friend with the gout should insist on playing croquet. A sense of the ridiculous, if nothing else, should in either case deter the afflicted one from the attempt. There was no such absurdity with our friend Mrs. Dobbs Broughton and Conway Dalrymple. Their valves and pulses were all right. They could play the game without the slightest dan- ger of any inconvenient result — of any incon- venient result, that is, as regarded their own feelings. Blind people can not see and stupid people can not understand — and it might be that Mr. Dobbs Broughton, being both blind and stupid in sucli matters, miglit perceive something of the playing of tlie game and not know that it was only a game of skill. When I say that as regarded these two lovers there was nothing of love between them, and that the game was therefore so far innocent, I would not be understood as asserting tliat these people had no hearts within their bosoms. Mrs. Dobbs Broughton probably loved her husband in a sensible, humdrum way, feeling him to be a bore, knowing him to be vulgar, aware that he often took a good deal more wine than was good for him, and that he was almost as un- educated as a hog. Yet she loved him, and showed her love by taking care that he should have things for dinner wiiich he liked to eat. But in this alone there were to be found none of the charms of a fevered existence, and there- fore Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, requiring tliosc charms for her comfort, played her little game with Conway Dalrymple. And as regarded the artist himself, let no reader presume him to have been heartless because he flirted .with Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. Doubtless he will many some day, will have a large family for which he will work hard, and will make a good husband to some stout lady who will be careful in looking after his linen. But on the present occasion he fell into some slight trouble in spite of the innocence of his game. As he quitted his friend's room he heard the hall door slammed heavily ; then there was a quick step on the stairs, and on the landing-place above the first flight he met the master of the house, somewhat flurried, as it seemed, and not looking comfortable, either as regarded his per- 120 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAIISET. son or his temper. " By George, he's been drinking I" Conway said to liiniself, after tiie first glance. Now it certainly was the case that jioor Dubbs Broiigliton would sometimes drink at impruper luinrs. "What the devil arc you doing here?" said Dobbs Broughton to his friend the artist. "You're always here. You're here a dooscd sight more than I like." Husbands when they have been drinking arc very apt to make mis- takes as to tlie inn])ort of the game. "Why, Dobbs," said the juiintcr, "there's something wrong with you." "No, there ain't. Tiierc's nothing wrong; and if there was, what's that to yon 'i I sha'n't ask you to ]iay any thing for me, 1 sujijjose." "Well— I hope not." "I won't have you here, and let that he an end of it. It's all very well when I choose to liave a few friends to dinner, but my wife can do very wejl without your fiil-lalling here all day. "Will you remember that, if you jdease?" Conway Dalrymple, knowing that he had better not argue any question with a drunken man, took himself out of the house, shrugging his shoulders as he thougjit of the misery v.hieh Ills poor dear jilay-fellow would now be called npon to endure. CHAPTER XXVIL A HERO AT 'home. On the morning after bis visit to IMiss Dcmo- lines John Eames found himself at the Padding- ton station asking for a ticket for Guestwick, and as he picked up his cliange another gentleman also demanded a ticket for the same j^lace. Had Guestwick been as Liverpool or Manches- ter, Eames would have thought nothing about it. It is a matter of course that men should always be going from London to Liverpool and 3Iancliester ; but it seemed odd to him that two men should want first-class tickets for so small a place as Guestwick at the same moment. And when, afterward, he was placed by the guard in the same carriage with this other traveler, he could not but feel some little curiosity. The man was four or five j'ears Johnny's senior, a good-looking fellow, with a jjlcasant face, and the outward a])purtenanccs of a gentleman. The intelligent reader will no doubt be aware that the stranger was IMajor Grantly; but the intelligent reader has in this respect had much advantage over John Eames, who up to this time had never even heard of his cousin Grace Crawley's lover. "I think you were asking for a ticket for Guestwick," said Johnny — where- upon the major owned that such was the case. "I lived at Guestwick the greater part of my life," said Johnny, "and it's the dullest, dear- est little town in all England." "I never was there before," said the major, "and indeed I can hardly say I am going itherc now. I shall only pass through it." Then he got out his newspaper, and Johnny also got out his, and for a time there was no conversation l)etween iheni. John remembered liow holy was the errand upon which he was intent, and gathered his thoughts together, resolving that having so great a matter on his mind he would think about no- thing else and sjieak about nothing at all. lie was going down to AUington to ask Lily Dale for the last time whether she would be his wife ; to ascertain whether he was to be successful or unsuccessful in the one great wish of his life ; and, as such was the case with him — as he had in hand a thing so vital — it could be nothing to him whether the chance companion of his voy- age was an agreeable or a disagreeable person. He himself, in any of the ordinary circumstances of life, was jirone enough to talk with any ono he might meet. He could have traveled for twelve hours together with an old lady, and could listen to her or nuike her listen to him without half an hour's interrujition. But this journey was made on no ordinary occasion, and it behooved him to think of Lily. Therefore, after the first little almost necessary effort at civility, he fell back into gloomy silence. He was going to do his best to win Lily Dale, and this doing of his best would require all his thought and all his energy. And ])robably Major Grantly's mind was bent in the same direction. He, too, had liis work before him, and could not look npon his work its a thing that was altogether jtleasant. He might probably get that wliich he was intent iqjon obtaining. lie knew — he almost knew — that lie had won the heart of the girl whom he was seeking. There had been that between him and her which justified him in supposing that he was dear to her, although no expression of aficction had ever ])assed from her lips to his ears. ]\Ien may know all that they recjuire to know on that subject without any plainly spoken words. Grace Crawley had sjjokcn no word, and yet he had known — at any rate had not doubted, that he could have the place in her heart of Avhich he desired to be the master. She would never surrender herself altogether till she had taught lierself to be sure of him to whom she gave her- self. Bitt she had listened to him with silence that had not rebuked him, and he had told him- self that he might venture, without fear of that rebuke as to which the minds of some men are sensitive to a degree which other men can not even understand. But for all this Major Grant- ly could not be altogether happy as to his mission. He would ask Grace Crawley to be his wife ; but he would be ruined by his own success. And the remembrance that he would be severed from all his own family by the thing that lie was doing was very bitter to him. In gener- osity he might be silent about this to Grace, but who can endure to be silent on such a subject to the woman who is to lie his wife? And then it would not be possible for him to abstain from explanation. He was now following her down to AUington, a step which he certainly would not have taken but for the misfortune which had befallen her father, and he must explain to her THE LAST CHRONICLE OF EARSET. 121 in some sort why he did so. He must say to her — if not in so many words, still almost as plain- ly as words could speak — I am here now to ask you to be my wife, because you specially require the protection and countenance of the man who loves you, in the present circumstances of your father's affairs. He knew that he was doing right — perhaps had some idea that he was doing nobly; but this very appreciation of his own good qualities made the task before him the more difficult. Major Grantly had the Tunes, and John Eames had the Daily Neus, and they ex- changed papers. One had the last Satia-dai/, and the othe-r tiie last Spectator, and they ex- changed those also. Both had tlie Pall Mall Gazette, of which enterprising periodical they gradually came to discuss the merits and de- merits, tlius falling into conversation at last, in spite of the weight of the mission on which each of them was intent. Then, at last, when they were within half an hour of the end of tlieir journey, JMajor Grantly asked his com- panion what was the best inn at Guestwick. He had at first been minded to go on to Allington at once — to go on to Allington and get his •uork done, and then return home or remain there, or find the nearest inn with a decent bed, as circumstances might direct him. But on reconsideration, as he drew nearer to the scene of his future operations, he thought that it might be well for him to remain that niglit at Guest- wick. He did not quite know how fiir Alling- ton was from Guestwick, but he did know that it was still midwinter, and that the days were veiy short. "The ^Ligpie" was the best inn, Johnny said. Having lived at Guestwick all his life, and having a mother living there now, he had never himself put up at "The Magpie," but he believed it to be a good country inn. They kept post-horses there, he knew. He did not tell the stranger that his late old friend, Lord De Guest, and his present old friend, Lady Julia, always hired post-horses from "The Magpie," but he grounded his ready assertion on the remembrance of that fact. " I think I sliall stay there to-night," said the major. "You'll find it pretty comfortable, I don't doubt," said Johnny. "Though, indeed, it always seems to me that a man alone at an inn has a very bad time of it. Reading is all very well, but one gets tired of it at last. And then I hate horse-hair chairs." "It isn't very delightful," said tlie major, " but beggars mustn't be choosers." Then there was a pause, after which the major spoke again. ' ' You don't happen to know which way Allington lies?" "Allington!" said Johnny. "Yes, Allington. Is there not a village call- ed Allington?" : "There is avillage called Allington, certain- ly. It lies over there." And Johnny pointed with his finger tlirough the window. "As you do not know the country you can see nothing, but I can sec the Allington trees at this mo- iinent." H " I suppose there is no inn at Allington ?" "There's a public house, with a very nice clean bedroom. It is called tlie 'Red Lion.' Mrs. Forrard keeps it. I would quite as soon stay there as at 'The Magpie.' Only if they don't expect you, they wouldn't have much for dinner." "Tiien you know the village of Allington?" "Yes, I know the village of Allington very well. I have friends living there. Indeed, I may say I know every body in Allington." "Do you know Mrs. Dale?" " Mrs. Dale ?" said Johnny. " Yes, I know- Mrs. Dale. I have known JNIrs. Dale pretty nearly all my life." Who could this man be who was going down to see Mrs. Dale — Mrs. Dale, and consequently Lily Dale ? He thought tliat he knew Mrs. Dale so well that she could have no visitor of whom he would not be en- titled to have some knowledge. But Major Grantly had nothing more to say at the moment about Mrs. Dale. He had never seen Mrs. Dale in his life, and was now going to her house, not to see her, but a friend of hers. He found that he could not very well explain this to a stran-^ ger, and therefore at the moment he said no- thing further. But Johnny would not allow the subject to be dropped. " Have you known Mrs. Dale long?" he asked. " I have not the pleasure of knowing her at all," said the major. "I thought, perhaps, by your asking after her — " "I intend to call upon her, that is all. I suppose they will have an omnibus here from ' The Magpie ?' " Eames said that there no doubt would be an omnibus from "The Mag- pie," and then they were at their journey's end. For the present we will follow John Eames, who went at once to his mother's house. It was his intention to remain there for two or three days, and then go over to the house, or rather to the cottage, of his great ally. Lady Julia, which lay just beyond Guestwick ]\Ianor, and somewhat nearer to Allington than to the town of Guestwick. He had made up his mind that he would not himself go over to Allington till he could do so from Guestwick Cottage, as it w'as called, feeling that, under certain untoward circumstances — should untoward circumstances arise — Lady Julia's sympathy might be more endurable than that of his motlier. But he would take care that it should be known at Al- lington that he was in the neighborhood. He understood the necessary strategy of his cam- paign too well to suppose that he Could startle Lily into acquiescence. With his own mother and sister John Eames was in these days quite a hero. He was a hero with them now, because in his early boyish days there had been so little about him that was he- roic. Then there had been a doubt whether he would ever earn his daily bread, and he had been a very heavy burden on the slight family resources in the matter of jackets and trowsers. The pride taken in our Jolmny had not been 122 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. great, though the love felt for him had been warm. But graJuuUy tilings liad changed, and John Eunics had become heroic in his mother's eyes. A chance circumstance had endeared liim to Earl De Guest, and from tluit moment tilings had gone well with him. The carl had given him a watch and had left him a fortune, and Sir Rafale BnlHe had made him a private secretary. In the old days, when Johnny's love for Lily Dale was first discussed by his mother and sister, they had thought it impossible that Lily should ever bring herself to regard with affection so humble a suitor; for the Dales have ever held their heads up in the world. But now there is no misgiving on that score with ]Mrs. Eames and her daughter. Their wonder is that Lily Dale should be such a focd as to decline the love of such a man. So Johnny was received with the rcsj)cct due to a liero, as well as with the affection belonging to a son ; by which I mean it to be inferred that Mrs. Eames had got a little bit of fish for din- ner as well as a leg of mutton. "A man came down in the train with me who says he is going over to Allington," said Johnny. " I wonder who he can be. He is staying at 'The Magpie.' " "A friend of Captain Dale's, probably," said INIary. Ca])tain Dale was the squire's nephew and his heir. "But this man was not going to the squire's. He was going to the Small House." " Is he going to stay there ?" "I suppose not, as he asked about the inn." Then Johnny reflected that the man might prob- ably be a friend of Crosbie's, and became mel- anclioly in consequence. Crosbie might have thought it expedient to send an embassador down to prepare the ground for him before he should venture again upon tlie scene himself. If it were so, would it not be well that he, John Eames, should get over to Lily as soon as pos- sible, and not wait till he should be staying with Lady Julia? It was at any rate incumbent upon him to call upon Lady Julia the next morning, because of his commission. The Berlin wool might remain in his portmanteau till his portmanteau should go with him to the cottage ; but he would take the spectacles at once, and he must explain to Lady Julia what the lawyers had told him about the income. So he hired a saddle-horse from "The Magpie" and started after breakfast on the morning after his arrival. In his unheroic days he would have walked — as he had done, scores of times, over the whole distance from Guestwick to Allington. But now, in these grander days, he thought about his boots and the mud, and the formal appear- ance of the thing. "Ah, dear!" he said to himself, as the nag walked slowly out of the town, "it used to be better with me in the old days. I hardly hoped that she would ever ac- cept me, but at least she had never refused me. And then that brute had not as yet made his way down to Allington !" He did not go very fast. After leaving the town he trotted on for a mile or so. But when he got to the palings of Guestwick Manor he let the animal walk again, and his mind ran back over tlie incidents of his life which were connected with the jdace. He remembered a certain long ramble which he had taken in those woods after Lily had refused him. That had been subsequent to the Crosbie episode in his life, and Johnny had been led to hope by certain of his friends — especially by Lord De Guest and his sister — that he might then be successful. But he had been unsuccessful, and had passed the bitterest hour of his life wandering about in those woods. Since that he had been unsuccessful again and again ; but the bitterness of failure had not been so strong with him as on that first occasion. He would try again now, and if he failed he would fail for the last time. As he was thinking of all this a gig overtook him on the road, and on looking round he saw that the occupant of the gig was the man who had traveled with him on the previous day in the train. Major Grantly was alone in the gig, and as he recog- nized John Eames he stopped his horse. " Are you also going to Allington ?" he asked. John Eames, with something of scorn in his voice, replied that he had no intention of going to Allington on that day. He still thought that this man might be an emissary from Crosbie, and therefore resolved that but scant courtesy was due to him. " I am on my way there now," said Grantly, "and am going to the house of your friend. May I tell her that I traveled with yon yesterday ?" "Yes, Sir," said Johnny. "You may tell her that you came down with John Eames." "And are you John Eames?" asked the major. "If you have no objection," said Johnny. " But I can hardly suppose you have ever heard my name before?" "It is familiar to me, because I have the pleasure of knowing a cousin of yours. Miss Grace Crawley." "My cousin is at present staying at Allington with Mrs. Dale," said Johnny. " Just so," said the major, who now began to reflect that he had been indiscreet in mentioning Grace Crawley's name. No doubt every one connected with the family, all the Crawleys, all the Dales, and all the Eames's, would soon know the business which had brought him down to Allington ; but he need not have taken the trouble of beginning the story against himself. John Eames, in truth, had never even heard Major Grantly's name, and was quite unaware of the fortune which awaited his cousin. Even after what he had now beci told he still sus- pected the stranger of being an emissary from his enemy ; but the major, nmt giving him credit for his ignorance, was annoyed with himself for having told so much of hisj; own history. "I will tell the ladies that I had the pleasure of meeting you," he said ; "that is, if I am luck* ■ THE LAST CHEOXICLE OF BARSET. 123 enough to sec them." And then he drove on. " I know I should hate that fellow if I were to meet him any where again," said Johnny to himself, as he rode on. "When I take an Aversion to a fellow at first sight I always stick to it. It's instinct, I suppose." And he Avas still giving himself credit for the strength of his instincts when he reached Lady Julia's cottage. lie rode at once into the stahle-yard, with the privilege of an accustomed friend of the house, and having given up his horse, entered the cot- tage by the back door. "Is my lady at home, Jemima?" he said to the maid. " Yes, JNIr. John ; she is in the drawing-room, and friends of yours are with her." Then he was announced, and found himself in the pres- ence of Lady Julia, Lily Dale, and Grace Crawley. He was very warmly received. Lady Julia really loved him dearly, and would have done any thing in her power to bring about a match between him and Lily. Grace was his cousin, and though she had not seen him often she was prepared to love him dearly as Lily's lover. And Lily — Lily loved him dearly too — if only she could have brought herself to love him as ■ he wished to be loved ! To all of them Johnny Eames was something of a hero. At any rate ia the eyes of all of them he possessed those vir- [ tues which seemed to them to justify them in : petting him and making much of him. " I am so glad you've come — that is, if you've brought my spectacles," said Lady Julia. ! "My pockets are crammed with spectacles," said Johnny. j " And when are you coming to mc ?" I "I was thinking of Tuesday." "No; don't come till Wednesday. But I mean Monday. No ; Monday won't do. Come on Tuesday — earl}-, and drive me out. And now tell us the news." Johnny swore that there was no news. He made a brave attempt to be gay and easy before Lily ; but he failed, and he knew tliat he failed — and he knew that she knew that he failed. " Mamma will be so glad to see you," said Lily. "I suppose you haven't seen Bell yet?" ' ' I only got to G uestwick yesterday afternoon , " said he. "And it will be so nice our having Grace at the Small House — won't it ? Uncle Christopher has quite taken a passion for Grace — so that I am hardly any body now in the Allington world." " By-the-by," said Johnny, "I came down here with a friend of yours, Grace." "A friend of mine?" said Grace. " So he says, and he is at Allington at this moment. He passed me in a gig going there." " And what was his name ?" Lily asked. " I have not the remotest idea," said Johnny. "He is a man about my own age, very good- looking, and apparently very well able to take care of himself. lie is short-sighted, and holds a glass in one eye when he looks out of a car- riage-window. That's all that I know about him." Grace Crawley's face had become suiTused with blushes at the first mention of the friend and the gig ; but then Grace blushed very easilv. Lily knew all about it at once — at once divined who must be the friend in the gig, and was al- most beside herself with joy. Lady Julia, who had heard no more of the major than had Johnny, was still clever enough to perceive that the friend must be a particular friend — for she had noticed Miss Crawley's blushes. And Grace herself had no doubt as to the man. The pic- ture of her lover, with the glass in his eye as he looked out of the window, had been too perfect to admit of a doubt. In her distress she put out her hand and took hold of Lily's dress. "And you sav he is at Allington now?" said Lily. "I have no doubt he is at the Small House at this moment," said Johnny. CHAPTER XXVIII. SHOWING now MAJOR GEAKTLY TOOK A WALK. Major Grantly drove his gig into the yard of the " Red Lion" at Allington, and from thence walked away at once to Mrs. Dale's house. When he reached the village he had hardly made up his mind as to the way in which he would begin his attack ; but now, as he went down the street, he resolved that he would first ask for Mrs. Dale. Most probably he would find himself in the presence of Mrs. Dale and her daughter, and of Grace also, at his first en- trance ; and if so, his position would be awk- ward enough. He almost regretted now that he had not written to Mrs. Dale, and asked for an interview. His task would be very difficult if he should find all the ladies together. But 12i THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. he was stronjc in the feeling that wlien his pur- pose was told it wouKl meet the approval at any rate of Mrs. Dale ; and ho walked boldly on, and bravely knocked at tlie door of the Small House, as he had already learned that Mrs. Dale's residence was called by all the neighborhood. Nobody was at home, tlie serv- ant said ; and tlien, wlien the visitor began to make farther inquiry, the girl cx]ihuued that the two young ladies had walked as far as Gucstwick Cottage, and that Mrs. Dale was at this moment at the Great House with the squire. She had gone across soon after the young ladies had started. Tlic maid, however, was interrupted before she hail finished telling all tliis to the major by finding her mistress behind her in the passage. Mrs. Dale liad re- turned, and had entered the house from the lawn. " I am here now, Jane," said j\Irs. Dale, "if the gentleman wishes to see me." Then the major announced himself. "My name is Major Grantly," said he ; and he was blundering on with some words about his own intrusion, when Mrs. Dale begged him to fol- low her into the drawing-room. He had mut- tered something to the effect tliat Mrs. Dale would not know who he was ; but Mrs. Dale knew all about him, and had heard the whole of Grace's story from Lily. She and Lily had often discussed the question whether, under ex- isting circumstances, Major Grantly should feel himself bound to offer his hand to Grace, and the mother and daugliter had differed somewhat on the matter. Mrs, Dale had held that he was not so bound, urging that the unfortunate position in which Mr. Ci'awley was placed was so calamitous to all connected with him as to justify any man, not absolutely engaged, in abandoning tlie thoughts of sueii a marriage. Mrs. Dale had spoken of ]Major Grantly's fa- ther and mother and brother and sister, and had declared her opinion that they were en- titled to consideration. But Lily had opposed this idea very stoutly, asserting that in an affair of love a man should think neither of father or brother or mother or sister. "If he is worth any thing," Lily had said, "he will come to her now — now in her trouble ; and will tell her that she at least has got a friend who will be true to her. If he does that, then I shall think that there is something of tlie poetry and noble- ness of love left." In answer to this Mrs. Dale had replied that women had no riglit to expect from men such self-denying nobility as that. "I don't expect it, mamma," said Lily. "And I am sure that Grace docs not. Indeed I am quite sure that Grace docs not expect even to see him ever again. She never says so, but I know that she has made up her mind about it. Still I think he ouglit to come." " It can hardly be that a man is bound to do a thing, tlie doing of which, as you confess, would be almost more than noble," said Mrs. Dale. And so the mat- ter had been discussed between them. But now, as it seemed to jNIrs. Dale, the man had come to do this noble thing. At any rate he was there in her drawing-room, and before either of them had sat down he had contrived to mention Grace. " You may not probably have heard my name," he said, "but I am ac- quainted with your friend, Miss Crawley." " I know your name very well, Major Grant- ly. My brother-in-law who lives over yonder, Mr. Dale, knows your father very well — or he did some years ago. And I have heard him say that he remembers you." " I recollect. He used to be staying at Ulla- thorne. But that is a^ong time ago. Is he at home now?" "Mr. Dale is almost always at home. He very rarely goes away, and I am sure would bo glad to see you." Then there was a little pause in the conver- sation. They had managed to seat themselves, and Mrs. Dale had said enough to put her visit- or fairly at his ease. If he had any thing spe- cial to say to her, he must say it — any request or proposition to make as to Grace Crawley, he must make it. And he did make it at once. "IMy object in coming to Allington," he said, "was to see JNIiss Crawley." " She and my daughter have taken a long walk to call on a friend, and I am afraid they will stay for lunch ; but they will certainly be home between three and four, if that is not too long fur you to remain at Allington." "Oh dear, no," said he. "It will not hurt me to wait." "It certainly will not hurt mo, Major Grant- ly. Perhaps you will lunch with me?" " I'll tell you what, Mrs. Dale ; if you'll per- mit me, I'll explain to you why I have come here. Indeed, I have intended to do so all through, and I can only ask you to keep my secret, if after all it should require to be kept." "I will certainly keep any secret that you may ask me to keep," said Mrs. Dale, taking off her bonnet. " I hope there may be no need of one," said Major Grantly. " The truth is, Mrs. Dale, that I have known Miss Crawley for some time — nearly for two years now, and — I may as well speak it out at once — I have made np my mind to ask her to be my Avifc. That is why I am here." Considering the nature of the statement, which must have been embarrassing, I think that it was made with fluency and sim- plicity. "Of course. Major Grantly, you know that I have no authority with our young friend," said Mrs. Dale. " I mean that she is not connect- ed with us by family ties. She has a f;rther and mother, living, as I believe, in the same county with yourself." " I know that, Mrs. Dale." "And 3-ou may, perhaps, understand that, as Miss Crawley is now staying with me, I owe it in a measure to her friends to ask you wheth- er they are aware of your intention ?" "They are not aware of it." "I know that at the present moment they are in great trouble." THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 12; Mrs-- Dale was going on, but she was inter- rupted by INlMJor Grantly. "That is just it," he said. " Tliei-c arc circumstances at present which make it almost impossible that I should go to Mr. Crawley and ask his permission to address his daughter. I do not know whether you have heard the whole story?" " As much, I believe, as Grace could tell me." " He is, I believe, in such a state of mental distress as to be hardly capable of giving me a considerate answer. And I should not know how to speak to him, or how not to speak to him, about this unfortunate affair. But, Mrs. Dale, you will, I think, perceive that the same circumstances make it imperative upon me to be explicit to Miss Crawley. I think I am the last man to boast of a woman's regard, but I had learned to think that I was not indiffer- ent to Grace. If that be so, what must she think of me if I stay away from her now ?"' " She understands too well the weiglit of the misfortune which has fallen upon her father to sup]iose that any one not connected with her can be bound to share it." "That is just it. She will think that I am silent for that reason. I have determined that that shall not keep me silent, and, therefore, I have come here. I may, perhaps, be able to bring comfort to her in her trouble. As regards my worldly position — though, indeed, it will not be very good — as hers is not good either, you will not think yourself bound to forbid me to see her on that head." "Certainly rot. I need hardly say that I fully understand that, as regards money, you are offering every thing where you can get nothing." "And you understand my feeling?" " Indeed I do — and appreciate the great no- bility of your love for Grace. You shall see her here, if you wish it — and to-day, if you choose to wait." Major Grantly said that he would wait and would see Grace on that after- noon. Jlrs. Dale again suggested that he should lunch with her, but this he declined. She then proposed that he should go across and call upon the squire, and thus consume his time. But to this he also objected. He was not exactly in the humor, he said, to renew so old and so slight an acquaintance at that time. Mr. Dale would probably have forgotten him, and would be sure to ask what had brought him to Allington. He would go and take a walk, he said, and come again exactly at half past three. Mrs. Dale again expressed her certain- ty that the young ladies would be back by that time, and Major Grantly left the house. Mrs. Dale, when she was left alone, could not but compare the good fortune which was await- ing Grace with the evil fortune which had fallen! on her own child. Here was a man who was at all points a gentleman. Such, at least, was tlie character which Mrs. Dale at once conceded to him. And Grace had chanced to come across this man, and to please his eye, and sat- isfy his taste, and be loved by him. And the result of that chance would be that Grace would have every thing given to her that the world has to give worth acceptance. She would have a companion for her life whom she could trust, admire, love, and of whom she could be infinitely proud. Mrs. Dale was not at all aware wheth- er Major Grantly might have five hundred a year to spend, or five thousand — or what sum intermediate between the two — nor did she give much of her thoughts at tlie moment to that side of the subject. She knew without think- ing of it — or fancied that she knew, that there were means sufBcient for comfortable living. It was solely the nature and character of the man that was in her mind, and the sufficiency that was to be found in them for a wife's hap- piness. But her daughter, her Lily, had come across a man who was a scoundrel, and, as the consequence of that meeting, all her life was marred ! Could any credit be given to Grace for her success, or any blame attached to Lily for her failure? Surely not the latter! How- was her girl to have guarded herself from a love so unfortunate, or have avoided the rock on which her vessel had been shipwrecked ? Then many bitter thoughts passed through Mrs. Dale's mind, and she almost envied Grace Crawley her lover. Lily was contented to remain as she was, but Lily's mother could not bring her- self to be satisfied that her child should fill a lower place in the world than other girls. It had ever been lier idea — an idea jn-obably never absolutely uttered, even to herself, but not the less practically conceived — that it, is the busi- ness of a woman to be married. That her Lily should have been won and not worn, had been, and would be, a trouble to her forever. Major Grantly went back to the inn and Faw his horse fed, and smoked a cigar, and then, finding that it was still only just one o'clock, he started for a walk. He was careful not to go out of Allington liv the road he had entered it, as he had no wish to encounter Grace and her friend on their return into the village ; so he crossed a little brook which runs at the bot- tom of the hill on which the cliief street of Al- lington is built, and turned into a field-path to the left as soon as he had got beyond the houses. Not knowing the geography of the place he did not understand that by taking that path he was making his way back to the squire's house ; but it was so ; and after sauntering on for about 11 mile and crossing back again over the stream, of which he took no notice, he found himself leaning across a gate, and looking into a pad- dock on the other side of which was the high wall of a gentleman's garden. To avoid this he went on a little further and found himself on a farm road, and before he could retrace his steps so as not to be seen he met a gentleman whom he presumed to be the owner of the house. It was the squire surveying his home farm, as was his daily custom ; but Major Grantly had not perceived that the house must of necessity be Allington House, having been aware that he had passed the entrance to the place as he entered the village on the other side. "I'm afraid I'm 12G THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. SQUIKE DALE AND MA.IOr. or.ANTI.Y. intnullng," lie said, lifting; liis hat. "I came up the path yonder, not knowiiif; tliat it would lead nic so close to a gentleman's house." "There is a right of way through the fields on to the Guestwiek road," said tlie squire, ' ' and therefore you are not trespassing in a.iy sense ; but we are not particular about such things down here, and you would be very welcome if there were no right of way. If you are a stranger, perhaps you would like to see the outside of the old house. People think it picturesque." Then Major Grantly became aware that this nmst be the squire, and he was annoyed with himself for his own awkwardness in having thus come upon the house, lie would have wished to kec]) himself altogether unseen if it had been possible — and especially unseen i'y this old gen- tleman, to whom, now that he had met him, he was almost bound to introduce himself. But be was not absolutely bound to do so, and he determined that he would still keep his peace. Even if the squire should afterward hear of his THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAKSET. 127 having been there what would it matter? But to proclaim himself at the present moment would be disagreeable to him. He i)ermittcd the squire, however, to lead him to the front of the house, and in a few moments was standing on the terrace hearing an account of the architect- ure of the mansion. "You can sec the date still in the brick-work of one of the cliimncys — that is, if your eyes are very good you can sec it — 1G17. It was com- pleted in that year, and very little has been done to it since. Wc think the chimneys are pretty." "They are very pretty," said the major. "Indeed, the house altogether is as graceful as it can be." "Those trees are old, too," said the squire, pointing to two cedars which stood at the side of the house. "They say they are older than the house, but I don't feel sure of it. There was a mansion here before, very nearly, though not quite, on the same spot." " Your own ancestors were living here before that, I suppose?" said Grantly, meaning to be civil. "Well, yes; two or three hundred years be- fore it, I suppose. If you don't mind coming down to tlic church-yard, you'll get an excellent view of the house — by far tlie best that there is. By-thc-by, would you like to step in and take a glass of wine?" "I'm very much obliged," said the major, " butjindced I'd rather not." Then he followed the squire down to the church-yard, and was shown the churcli as well as the view of the house, and the vicarage, and a view over to Al- lington woods from the vicarage gate, of which the squire was very fond, and in this way he was taken back on to the Guestwick side of the village, and even down on to the road by which he had entered it, without in the least knowing Avhere he was. He looked at his watch and saw that it was past two. " I'm very much obliged to you, Sir," he said, again taking off his hat to the squire, "and if I shall not be intruding I'll make my way back to the village." "What village?" said the squire. "To Allington," said Grantly. "This is Allington," said the squire ; and as he spoke Lily Dale and Grace Crawley turned a corner from the Guestwick road and came close upon tiiem. "Well, girls, I did not ex^ pect to see you," said the squire ; " your mamma told me you wouldn't be back till it was nearly dark, Lily." " We have come back earlier than we intend- ed," said Lily. She of course had seen the stranger with her uncle, and knowing the ways of the squire in such matters had expected to be introduced to him. But the reader will be aware that no introduction was j)0ssible. It, never occurred to Lily that tins man could be/ the Major Grantly of whom she and Grace had been talking during the whole length of the walk home. But Grace and her lover had of course known each other at once, and Grantly, though he was abashed and almost dismayed by the meeting, of course came forward and gave his hand to his friend. Grace in taking it did not utter a word. "Perhaps I ought to have introduced myself to you as Major Grantly?" said he, turning to the squire. " Major Grantly ! Dear me! I had no idea that you were expected in these parts." "I have come without being expected." " You are very welcome, I'm sure. I hojiC your father is well ? I used to know him some years ago, and I dare say he has not forgotten me." Then, while the girls stood by in silence, and while Grantly was endeavoring to escape, the squire invited him very warmly to send his portmanteau up to the house. '"We'll have the ladies ujj from the house below, and make it as little dull for you as possible." But this would not have suited Grantly — at any rate would not suit him till he should know what answer he was to have. He excused himself therefore, pleading a positive necessity to be at Guestwick that evening, and then, explaining that he had already seen I\trs. Dale, he ex- jjressed his intention of going back to the Small House in company with the ladies, if they would allow him. The squire, who did not as yet quite understand it all, bade him a formal adieu, and Lily led the way home down behind the church- yard wall and through the bottom of the gar- dens belonging to the Great House. She of course knew now who the stranger was, and did all in her power to relieve Grace of her embar- rassment. Grace had hitherto not spoken a sin- gle word since she had seen her lover, nor did she say a word to him in their walk to the house. And, in truth, he was not much more commu- nicative than Grace. Lily did all the talking, and with wonderful female skill contrived to have some words ready for use till they all found themselves together in Mrs. Dale's drawing- room. "I have caught a major, mamma, and landed him," said Lily, laughing; "but I'm afraid, from what I hear, that you had caught him first." CHAPTER XXIX. MISS LILY dale's LOGIC. Lady Julia De Gcest always lunched at one exactly, and it was not much past twelve when John Eames made his appearance at the cottage. He was of course told to stay, and of course said that he would stay. It had been his purpose to lunch with Lady Julia ; but then he had not expected to find Lily Dale at tls'^ cottage. Lily herself would have been quite a- her ease, protected by Lady Julia, and some- what protected also by her own powers of- fence, had it not been that Grace was there also. But Grace Crawley, from the moment that she had heard the doscrii»tion of tiie gen- tleman who looked out of the window with his glass in his eye, had by no means been at her case. Lily saw at once that she could not be 128 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. brought to join in any conversation, and l)Otli John and Lady Julia, in their ignorance of the matter in liand, made matters worse. "So that was Major Grantly?" said John. "I liave heard of liini before, I tliink. He is a son of the ohi archdeacon, is lie not?" "I don't know about old archdeacon," said Lady Julia. " The archdeacon is the son of the old bishop, whom I remember very well. And it is not so very long since the bishoj) died, cither." "I wonder what he's doing at Allington?" said Johnny. " I think he knows my uncle," said Lily. "But he's going to call on your mother," he said. Then Johnny remembered that the ma- jor had said something as to knowing Miss Crawley, and for the moment he was silent. "I remember when they talked of making the son a bishop also," said Lady Julia. "What — this same man who is now a ma- jor?" said Johnny. "No, you goose. He is not the son ; he is tlie grandson. They were going to make the arcluleacon a bishop, and I remember hearing that he was terribly disajipointed. He is get- ting to be an old man now, I suppose; and yet, dear me, how well I remember his father!" "He didn't look like a bishop's son," said Johnny. " How does a bishop's son look?" Lily asked. "I suppose lie ought to have some sort of clerical tinge about him ; but this fellow had nothing of that kind." " But then this fellow, as you call him," said Lily, " is only the son of an archdeacon." "That accounts for it, I suppose," said Johnny. But during all this time Grace did not say a word, and Lily perceived it. Then she be- thought herself as to what she had better do. Grace, she knew, could not be comfortable where she was. Nor, indeed, was it probable that Grace would be very comfortable in returning home. There could not be much ease for Grace till the coming meeting between her and Major Grantly should be over. But it would be better that Grace should go back to Allington at once ; and better also, perhaps, for Major Grantly that it should be so. "Lady Julia," she said, "I don't think we'll mind stopping for lunch to-day." "Nonsense, my dear; yon promised." "I think we must break our promise; I do indeed. You mustn't be angry with us." And Lily looked at Lady Julia as though there were something which Lady Julia ought to under- ? and, which she, Lily, could not quite explain. 1 fear that Lily was false, and intended her old friend to believe that she was running away be- cause John Eames had come there. " But you will be famished," said Lady Julia. "We shall live through it," said Lily. "It is out of the question that I should let you walk all the way here from Allington and all the way back without taking something." " We shall just be home in time for lunch if wc go now, " said Lily. " Will not that be best, Grace ?" Grace liardly knew what would be best. She only knew that Major Grantly was at Allington, and that he had come thither to see her. The idea of hurrying back after him was unpleasant to her, and yet she was so flurried that slie felt thankful to Lily for taking her away from the cottage. The matter was compromised at last. They remained tor half an hour, and ate some biscuits and pretended to drink a glass of wine, and then they started. John Eames, who in truth believed that Lily Dale was running away from him, was b}- no means well jdeased, and when the girls were gone did not make him- self so agreeable to his old friend as he should have done. "What a fool I am to come here at all!" he said, throwing himself into an arm- chair as soon as the front-door was closed. "That's very civil to me, John !" " You know what I mean, Lady Julia. I am a fool to come near her until I can do so without thinking more of her than I do of any other girl in the county." " I don't think you have any thing to com- plain of as yet," said Lady Julia, who had in some sort perceived that Lily's retreat had been on Grace's account and not on her own. " It seems to me that Lily was very glad to see you, and when I told her that you were coming to stay here, and would be near them for some days, she seemed to be quite pleased ; she did indeed." " Then why did she run away the moment I came in?" said Johnny. "I think it was something you said about that man who has gone to Allington." " What ditference can that man make to her? The truth is, I despise myself; I do indeed, Lady Julia. Only think of my meeting Cros- bie at dinner the other day, and his having the impertinence to come up and shake hands with me." "I suppose he didn't say any thing about what happened at the Baddington Station ?" "No; he didn't speak about that. I wish I knew whether she cares for him still. If I thought she did, I would never speak another word to her — I mean about myself. Of course I am not going to quarrel with them. I am not such a fool as that." Then Lad}' Julia tried to comfort him, and succeeded so far that he was induced to eat the mince veal that had been intended for the comfort and support of the two young ladies who had run away. ' ' Do you think it is he ?'' were the first words which Grace said when they were fairly on their way back together. "I should think it must be. What other man can there be, of tliat sort, who would be likely to come to Allington to see you?" "His coming is not likely. I can not un- derstand that he should come. He let me leave Silverbridge without seeing me — and I thought that he was quite right." THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 129 "And I think he is quite right to come here. I am very glad he has come. It shows that he has really something like a heart inside him. Had he not come, or sent, or written, or taken some step before the trial comes on, to make you know that he was thinking of you, I should have said that he was as hard — as hard as any other man that I ever heard of. Men are so hard ! But I don't think he is now. I am beginning to regard him as the one chevalier sans peur ct sans reproche, and to fancy that you ought to go down on your knees before him, and kiss his highness's shoe-buckle. In judging of men one's mind vacillates so quickly between the scorn which is due to a false man and the vorsliip which is due to a true man." Then she was silent for a moment, but Grace said nothing, and Lily continued, " I tell you fairly, Grace, that I shall expect very much from you now." "Much in what way, Lily?" "In the way of worship. I shall not be con- tent that you should merely love him. If he has come here, as he must have done, to say that the moment of the woidd's reproach is the mo- ment he has chosen to ask you to be his wife, I tliink that you will owe him more than love." '• I shall owe him more than love, and I will pay him more than love," said Grace. There was something in the tone of her voice as sl^ spoke which made Lily s:op her and look up into her face. There was a smile there which Lily had never seen before, and which gave a beauty to her which was wonderful to Lily's eyes. Surely this lover of Grace's must have seen her smile like that, and therefore had loved her and was giving such wonderful proof of his love. "Yes," continued Grace, standing and looking at her friend, "you may stare at me, ILily, but you may be sure that I will do for Major Grantly all the good that I can do for him." " What do you mean, Grace ?" "Never mind what I mean. You are very imperious in managing your own atlairs, and you must let me be so equally in mine." "But I tell you every thing." "Do you suppose that if — if — if in real truth it can possibly be the case that Major Grantly shall have come here to offer me his hand when we are all ground down into the dust, as we are, do you think that I will let him sacrifice him/ self? Would you?" "Certainly. Why not? There will be no sacrifice. He will be; a'^Idng for that which he wishes to get; and you will be bound to give it to him." " If he wants it, where is his nobility ? If it be as you say, he will liave shown himself noble, and his nobility will have consisted in this, that he has been willing to take that which he does not want in order that he may succor one whom he loves. I also will succor one whom I love as best I know how." Then she walked on quickly before her friend, and Lily stood for a moment thinking before she followed her. Tiiey were now on a field-path, by which tlicy were enabled to escape the road back to Allington for the greater part of the distance, and Grace had reached a stile and had clambered over it before Lily had caught her. "You must not go away by yourself," said Lily. "I don't wish to go away by myself." "I want you to stop a moment and listen to me. I am sure you are wrong in this — wrong for both your sakes. You believe that he loves you?" " I thought he did once ; and if he has come here to see me I suppose he does still." "If that be the case, and if you also love him — " " I do. I make no mystery about that to you. I do love him with all my heart. I love him to-day, now that I believe him to be here, and that I suppose I shall see him perhaps this very afternoon. And I loved him yesterday, when I thought that I should never see him again. I do love him. I do. I love him so well that I will never do him an injury." " That being so, if he makes you an offer 3*011 are bound to accept it. I do not think that you have an alternative." "I have an alternative, and I shall use it. Why don't you take my cousin John ?" " Because I like somebody else better. If you have got as good a reason I won't say an- other word to yon." "And W'hy don't you take that otl\er person ?" "Because I can not trust his love; that is why. It is not very kind of you, opening my sores afresh, when I am trying to heal yours." "Oh, Lily, am I unkind — unkind to you, who have been so generous to me ?" " I'll forgive you all that and a deal more if you will only listen to me and try to take my advice. Because this major of 3-ours does a generous thing, whicli* is for the good of you both — the infinite good of both of you — you are to emulate his generosity by doing a thing which will be for the good of neither of you. That is about it. Yes, it is, Grace. You can not donbt that he has been meaning this for some time past : and of course, if he looks upon you as his own — and I dare say, if the whole truth is to be told, he does — " " But I am not his own." "Yes, you are, in one sense; you have just said so with a great deal of energy. And if it is so — let me see, where was I?" "Oh, Lil}-, you need not mind where you were." "But I do mind, and I hate to be interrupted in my arguments. Yes, just that. If he saw his cow sick, he'd try to doctor the cow in her sickness. He sees that you are sick, and of course he comes to your relief." "I am not Major Grantly 's cow." ' ' Yes, you are. " "Nor his dog, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is his, except — except, Lih", the dearest friend that he has on the face of the 130 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. earth. He can not have a fiiend that will go further for him than I will. He will never know how far I will j^o to serve him. You don't know his jieople. Nor do I know them. But I know what tlicy are. His sister is married to a marquis." "What has that to do with it?" said Lily, shnriily. " If she were married to an archduke, what ditVorencc would that make?" "And they are proud people — all of them — and rich ; and they live with high persons in the world." " I didn't care though they lived with the royal fiimily, and had the Prince of Wales for their bosom friend. It only shows how much better he is than they arc." "But think what my family is — how we arc situated. "When my father was sim])ly i)oor I ditl not cai"c about it, bccanse he has been born and bred a gentleman. But now he is dis- graced. Yes, Lily, he is. I am bound to say so, at any rate to myself, when I am thinking of JIajor Grantly ; and I will not carry that dis- grace into a family which would feel it so keen- ly as they would do." Lily, however, went on with her arguments, and was still arguing when they turned the corner of the lane and came upon Lily's uncle and the major himself. CHAPTER XXX. SHOAVIXG WHAT MA.TOR GRANTLY DID AFTER HIS AVALK. In going down from the church to the Small House Lily Dale had all the conversation to herself. During some portion of the way the path was only broad enough for two persons, and here Major Grantly walked by Lily's side, while Grace followed them. Then they found their way into the house, and Lily made her lit- tle speech to her mother about catching the ma- jor. "Yes, my dear, I have seen Major Grantly before," said Mrs. Dale. "I suppose he has met you on the road. But I did not expect that any of you would have returned so soon." Some little explanation followed as to the squire, and as to ]Major Grantly's walk, and after that the great thing was to leave the two lovers alone. "You will dine here, of course. Major Grant- ly," Mrs. Dale said. But this he declined. He had learned, he said, that there was a night- train up to London, and he thought that he ■would return to town by that. He had intend- ed, when he left London, to get back as soon as possible. Then Mrs. Dale, having hesitated for two or three seconds, got up and left the room, and Lily followed. "It seems A-ery odd and abrupt," said Mrs. Dale to her daughter, "but I suppose it is best." "Of course it is best, mamma. Do as one would be done by — that's the only rule. It will be much better for her that she should have it over." Grace was seated on a sofa, and Major Grant- ly got up from his chair, and came and stood opposite to her. "Grace," he said, "I hope you are not angry with me for coming down to see you here." "No, I am not angry," she said. "I have thought a great deal about it, and your friend, Miss Prettynian, knew that I was coming. She quite approves of my coming." " She has written to me, but did not tell me of it," said Grace, not knowing what other an- swer to make. "No — she could not have done that. She had no authority. I only mention her name be- cause it will have weight with you, and because I luvve not done that which, under other circum- stances, perhaps, I should have been bound to do. I have not seen your father." " Poor papa !" said Grace. " I have felt that at the present moment I could not do so with any success. It has not come of any want of respect either for him or for you. Of course, Grace, you know why I am here ?" He paused, and then remembering that he had no right to expect an answer to such a question, he continued, "I have come liere, dearest Grace, to ask you to be my wife, and to be a mother to Edith. I know that you love Edith." "I do indeed." "And I have hoped sometimes — though I suppose I ought not to say so — but I have hoped and almost thought sometimes, that you have been willing to — to love me, too. It is better to tell the truth simply, is it not ?" "I suppose so," said Grace. "And therefore, and because I love you dear- ly myself, I have come to ask you to be tny wife." Saying which he opened out his hand, and held it to her. But she did not take it. "Tliere is my hand, Grace. If your heart is as I would have it you can give me yours, and I shall want nothing else to make me happy." But still she made no motion toward granting him his re- quest. "If I have been too sudden," he said, "you must forgive me for that. I have been sudden and abrupt ; but as things are no other way has been open to me. Can you not bring yourself to give me some answer, Grace?" His hand had now fallen again to his side, but he was still standing before her. She had said no word to him as yet, except that one in which she had acknowledged her love for his child, and had expressed no surprise, ' even in her countenance, at his proposal. And yet the idea that he should do such a thing, I since the idea that he certainly would do it had become clear to her, had filled her with a world of surprise. No girl ever lived with any beauty belonging to her who had a smaller knowledge of her own possession than Grace Crawley. Nor had she the slightest pride in her own acquire- ments. That she had been taught in many things more than had been taught to other girls had come of her poverty and of the desolation of her home. She had learned to read Greek and Italian because there had been nothing else for her to do in that sad house. And, subsc- THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 131 quontlv, accuracy of knowledge had been nec- essarv for tlic earning of her bread. I tliink that Grace had at times been weak enough to envy the idleness and almost to envy the igno- rance of otlier girls. Her figure was light, j)er- fect in symmetry, full of grace at all points; but she iiad thought nothing of her figure, remem- bering only the poverty of her dress, but remem- bering also with a brave resolution that she would never be ashamed of it. And as her acquaint- ance with Major Grantly had begun and had grown, and as she had learned to feel uncon- sciously that his company was pleasanter to her than that of any other person she knew, she h.ad still told herself that any thing like love must be out of the question. But then words had been siioken, and there had been glances in his eye, and a tone in his voice, and a touch upon his fingers, of which she could not altogether refuse to accept tlie meaning. And others had spoken to her of it, the two Miss Prettymans and her friend Lily. Yet she would not admit to herself tliat it could be so, and she would not allow herself to confess to hei'self that she loved him. Then had come the last killing misery to which her father had been subjected. He had been accused of stealing money, and had been committed to be tried for the theft. From that moment, at any rate, any hope, if there had been a hojie, must be crushed. But she swore to herself bravely that tliere had been no such hope. And slie assured herself also that no- thing had passed which had entitled her to ex- pect any thing beyond ordinary friendship from the man of whom she certainly had thought much. Even if those touches and those tones and tiiose glances had meant any thing, all such meaning must be annihilated by this disgrace which had come upon her. She might know that her father was innocent ; she might be sure, at any rate, that he had been innocent in inten- tion ; but the world thought differently, and she, her brothers and sister, and her mother and her poor father, must bend to the world's opinion. If those dangerous joys had meant any thing, they must be taken as meaning nothing more. Thus siie had argued with herself, and, for- tified by such self-teachings, she had come down to AUington. Since she had been with her friends there had come upon her from day to day a clear conviction that her arguments had been undoubtedly true — a clear conviction which had been very cold to her heart in sjiite of all her courage. She had expected nothing, hoped for nothing, and yet when nothing came she was sad. She thought of one special half hour in which he had said almost all that he might have said — more than he ought to have said ; of a moment during which her hand had re- mained in his ; of a certain pressure with which lie had put her sliawl upon her shoulders. If he had only written to her one word to tell her that he believed her father was innocent ! But no ; she had no right to expect any thing from him. And then Lily had ceased to talk of him, and she did expect nothing. Now he was there before her, asking her to come to him and be his wife. Yes ; she would kiss his shoe-buckles, only that the kissing of his shoe-buckles would bring upon him that injury which he should never suffer from her hands ! He had been gen- erous, and her self-pride was satisfied. But her other pride was touclied, and she also would be generous. "Can you not bring yourself to give me some answer?" he had said to her. Of course she must give him an answer, but how should she give it ? "You are very kind," she saiil. "I would be more than kind." " So you are. Kind is a cold word when used to such a friend at such a time." " I would be every thing on earth to you that a man can be to a woman." " I know I ought to thank you if I knew how. JNIy heart is full of thanks ; it is, in- deed." " And is there no room for love there?" "There is no room for love in our house, Major Grantly. You have not seen papa." "No; but, if you wish it, I will do so at once." " It would do no good — none. I only asked you because you can hardly know how sad is our state at home." " But I can not see that that need deter you if you can love me. " "Can you not? If you saw him, and the house, and my mother, you would not say so. In the Bible it is said of some season tliat it is not a time for marrying, or for^. giving in marriage. And so it is with us." " I am not pressing you as to a day. I only ask you to say that you will be engaged to me — so that I may tell my own people, and let it be known." "I understand all that. I know how good you are. But, Major Grantly, you must under- stand me also when I assure you that it can not be so." "Do you mean that you refuse me alto- gether ?" " Yes ; altogether." "And why?" " Must I answer that question ? Ought I to be made to answer it? But I will tell you fairly, without touching on any thing else, that I feel that we are all disgraced, and that I will not take disgrace into another family." " Grace, do you love me?" " I love no one now — that is, as you mean. I can love no one. I have no room for any feeling except for my father and mother, and for us all. I should not be here now but that I save my mother the bread that I should eat at home." "Is it as bad as that?" "Yes, it is as bad as that. It is much worse than that, if you knew it all. You can not con- ceive how low we have fallen. And now they tell me that my father will be found guilty, and will be sent to prison. Putting ourselves out of tlie question, what would you think of a girl 132 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. vlio could cnpn{:?c herself to any man under such ciiciinist:inccs? What would vou think of a girl who would allow herself to be in love in such a position ? Had I been ten times en- gaged to }ou I would have broken it oil"." Then she got up to leave him. But he stop])ed her, holding her by the arm. " AVliat you have said will make me say what I certainly should never have said without it. I declare that we are cnKaged." "No, we are not," said Grace. "You have told mo that you loved me." " I never told you so." "There are other ways of speaking than the voice ; and I will boast to you, though to no one else, that you have told me so. I believe to you, and I shall think you false ff I hear that you listen to another man. Now, good-by, Grace — my own Grace!" "No, I am not your own," she said, through her tears. " You are my own, my very own ! God bless you, dear, dear, dearest Grace ! You shall hear from me in a d.ay or two, and shall see me as soon as this horrid trial is over." Then he took her in his arms before she could escape from him, and kissed her forehead and her lips while she struggled in his arms. After that he left the room and the house as quickly as he could, and was seen no more of the Dales upon that occasion. you love me. I shall hold myself as engaged /slie loved him ! Was he not a prince of men? He had behaved badly, of course ; but had any man ever behaved so badly before in so divine a way? Was it not a thousand pities that she should be driven to deny any thing to a lover who so richly deserved every thing that could be given to him? He had kissed her hand as he let her go, and now, not knowing what she did, she kissed the spot on which she had felt his lips. His arm had been round her waist, and the old frock whicli she wore should be kept by her forever, because it had been so graced. What was she now to say to Lily and to Lily's mother? Of one thing there was no doubt. She would never tell them of her lover's wicked audacity. That was a secret never to be im- parted to any ears. She would keep her re- sentment to herself, and not ask the i>rotection of any vicarious wrath. He could never so sin again, that was certain ; and she would keep all knowledge and memory of the sin for her own purjioses. But how could it be that such a man as that, one so good, though so sin- ful, so glorious, though so great a trespasser, should have come to such a girl as her and have asked for her love ? Then she thought of her father's poverty and the misery of her own condition, and declared to herself that it was very wonderful. Lily was the first to enter the room, and she, before she did so, learned from the servant that Major Grantly had left the house. " I heard the door, miss, and then I saw *he top of his hat out of the pantry window." Armed with this certain information Lily entered the draw- ing-room, and found Grace in the act of rising from the sofa. "Am I disturbing you ?" said Lily. " No ; not at all. I am glad 3'ou have come. Kiss me, and be good to me." And she twined her arms about Lily and embraced her. " Am I not always good to you, you simple- ton? Has he been good ?" " I don't know what you mean." "And have you been good to him?" "As good as I knew how, Lily." " And where is he ?" " He has gone away. I shall never see him any more, Lily." Then she hid her face upon her friend's CHAPTER XXXr. SIIOAVIXG now MAJOR GRANTLY KKTURNED TO GUESTWICK. Grace, when she was left alone, threw her- self upon the sofii, and hid her face in her hands. She was weeping almost hysterically, and had been utterly dismayed and frightened by her lover's impetuosity. Things had gone after a fashion which her imagination had not painted to her as possible. Surely she had the power to refuse tlie man if she pleased. And yet she felt as she lay there weeping tliat she did in truth belong to him as part of his goods, and that her generosity had been foiled. She had especially resolved that she would not confess to any love for him. She had made no such con- fession. She had guarded herself against doing so with all the care which she knew how to use. But he had assumed the fact, and she had been unable to deny it. Could she have lied to him, and have sworn that she did not love him? Could she have so perjured hei-self, even in support of her generosity ? Yes, she Avould have done so — so she told herself — if a moment had been given to her for thought. She ought to have done so, and she blamed herself for being so little prepared for the occasion. The lie would be useless now. Lideed, she would have no opportunity for telling it ; for of course she would not answer — would not even read his letter. Though he might know that she loved him, yet she would not be his wife. He had forced her secret from her, but he could not force her to marry him. She did love him, but he should never be disgraced by her love. After a while she was able to think of his con- duct, and she believed that she ought to be very angry with him. He had taken her roughly in his arms, and had insulted her. He had forced a kiss from her. She had felt his arms warm and close and strong about her, and had not known whether she was in paradise or in pur- gatory. She was very angry with him. She would send back his letter to him without read- ing it — without oi)Cning it, if that might be pos- sible. He had done that to her which nothing ^uld justify. But yet — yet — yet how dearly THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 133 shoulder and broke forth again into hysterical tears. " But tell me, Grace, what he said — that is, if you mean to tell me !" " I will tell you every thing — that is, every thing I can." And Grace blushed as she thought of the one secret which she certainly would not tell. *' Has he — has he done what I said he would do? Come, speak out boldly. Has he asked you to be his wife ?" "Yes," said Grace, barely whispering the word. f "And you have accepted him ?" " No, Lily, I have not. Indeed I have not. I did not know how to speak, because I was sur- prised ; and he, of course, could say what he liked. But I told him as well as I could that I would not marry him." " And why — did you tell him why ?" "Yes ; because of papa !" " Then, if he is the man I take him to be, that answer will go for nothing. Of course he knew all that before he came here. He did not think you were an heiress with forty thousand pounds. If he is in earnest that will go for nothing. And I think he is in earnest." " And so was I in earnest." "Well, Grace — we shall see." " I suppose I may have a will of my own, Lily?" "Do not be so sure of that. Women are not allowed to have wills of their own on all occa- sions. Some man comes in a girl's way, and she gets to be fond of him just because he does come in her way. Well ; when that has taken place, she has no alternative but to be taken if he chooses to take her ; or to be left if he chooses to leave her." "Lily, don't say that." "But I do say it. A man may assure him- self that he will find for himself a wife who shall be learned, or beautiful, or six feet high, if he wishes it, or who has red hair, or red eyes, or red cheeks — just what he pleases ; and he may go about till he finds it, as you can go about and match your worsteds. You are a fool if you buy a color you don't want. But we can never match our worsteds for tliat other piece of work, but are obliged to take any col- or that comes — and therefore it is tliat we make such a jumble of it I Here's mamma. We must not be philosophical before her. Mamma, Major Grantly has — skedaddled." " Oh, Lily, what a word !" "But, oh, mamma, what a thing! Fancy his going away and not saying a word to any body !" "If he had any thing to say to Grace I sup- pose he said it." " He asked her to marry him, of course. We none of us had any doubt about that. He swore to her that she and none but she should be his wife — and all that kind of thing. But he seems to have done it in the most prosaic way — and now he has gone awny without saying a word to any of us. I shall n-cvcr speak to him again — unless Grace asks me." " Grace, my dear, may I congratulate yoli ?" said Mrs. Dale. Grace did not answer, as Lily was too quick for her. " Oh, she has refused him, of course. But Major Grantly is a man of too much sense to expect that he should succeed the first time. Let me see; this is the fourteenth. These clocks run fourteen days, and, therefore, you may expect him again about the twenty-eighth. For myself, I think you are giving him an im- mense deal of unnecessary trouble, and that if he left you in the lurch it would only serve you right ; but you have the world with you, I'm told. A girl is supposed to tell a man two fibs before she may tell him one truth." "I told him no fib, Lily. I told him that I would not marry him, and I will not." "But why not, dear Grace?" said Mrs. Dale. " Because the people say that pajia is a thief!" Having said this Grace walked slowly out of the room, and neither INIrs. Dale nor Lily attempted to follow her. " She's as good as gold," said Lily, when the door was closed. "And he — what of him ?" "I think he is good, too ; but she has told me nothing yet of what he has said to her. He must be good, or he would not have come down here after her. But I don't wonder at his coming, because she is so beautiful ! Once or twice as we were walking back to-day I thought her face was the most lovely that I had ever seen. And did you see her just now, as she spoke of her father?" "Oh yes ; I saw her." "Think what she will be in two or three years' time, when she becomes a woman. She talks French, and Italian, and Hebrew for any thing that I know ; and she is perfectly beauti- ful. I never saw a more lovely figure — and she has spirit enough for a goddess. I don't think that Jlajor Grantly is such a fool after all." " I never took him for a fool " "I have no doubt all his own people do — or they will, when they hear of it. But, mamma, she will grow to be big enough to walk atop of all the Lady Hartletops in England. It will all come right at last." "You think it will?" "Oh yes. Why should it not? If he is worth having it will — and I think he is worth having. He must wait till this horrid trial is over. It is clear to me that Grace thinks that her fiither will be convicted." "But he can not have taken the money." "I think he took it, and I think it wasn't his. But I don't think he stole it. I don't know whether you can understand the diftcr- ence." "I am afraid a jury won't understand it." "A jury of men will not. I wish they could put you and me on it, mamma. I would take my best boots and eat them down to the 134 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. heels for Grace's snke, and for Major Grant- Iv's. What a Rood-looking man he is !" " Yfs, he is." '•And so like a penileman ! I'll tell you what, inauinia ; we Avon't say any thing to Jicr about him for the present. Her heart will he so full she will be driven to talk, and we can coniturt her better in that way." The mother and daughter agreed to act upon these tactics, and nothing more was said to Grace about her lover on that evening. Major Grantly walked from Mrs. Dale's house to the inn, and ordered his gig, and drove him- self out of Allington, almost witliout remember- ing wlicrc he was or whither he was going. He was tliinking solely of what had just occurred, and of what, on his part, sliould follow as the result of tiiat meeting. Half at least of the noble dfcds done in this world arc due to emu- lation rather than to the native nobility of the actors. A young man leads a forlorn hope be- cause another young man has offered to do so. Jones in tlic liunting-field rides at an impracti- cable fence because he is told that Smith took it three years ago. And Walker puts his name down for ten guineas at a charitable 'dinner wiien he hears Tiiompson's read out for five. And in this case the generosity and self-denial shown by Grace Avarmed and cher- ished similar virtues within her lover's breast. Some few weeks ago Major Grantly had been in doubt as to what his duty required of him in reference to Grace Crawley ; but he had no doubt whatsoever now. In the fervor of his admiraiion he would have gone straight to the archdeacon, had it been possible, and have told him wliat he had done and what he intended to do. Notliing now should stop him^no consid- eration, tliat is, either as regarded money or po- sition. He had pledged himself solemnly, and he was very glad that he bad pledged himself. He would write to Grace and explain to her that he trusted altogether in her father's honor and innocence, but that no consideration as to that ouglit to influence either him or her in any way. If, independently of her father, she could bring herself to come to him and be liis wife, she was bound to do so now, let the position of lier fatlier be what it might. And thus, as he drove his gig back toward Guestwick, he com- jiosed a very pretty letter to the lady of his love. And as he went, at the corner of the lane which led from the main road up to Guestwick Cottage, he again came upon John Eames, who was also returning to Guestwick. There had been a few words spoken between Lady Julia and Johnny respecting Major Grantly after the girls had left the cottage, and Johnny had been persuaded that the strange visitor to Allington could have no connection with his archenemy. "And why has he gone to Allington?" John demanded, somewhat sternly, of his hostess. "Well; if you ask me, I think he has gone there to see your cousin, Grace Crawley." " He told me tliat he knew Grace," said John, looking as though he were conscious of his own ingenuity in putting two and two together very cleverly. "Your cousin Grace is a very pretty girl," said Lady Julia. "It's a long time since I've seen her," said Johnny. "W'liy, you saw her just this minute," said Lady Julia. "I didn't look at her," said Johnny. There- fore, when he again met Major Grantly, having continued to put two and two together with great ingenuity, he felt quite sure that the man had nothing to do with the archenemy, and he determined to be gracious. "Did you find them at home at Allington ?" he said, raising his hat. "How do you do again?" said the major. "Yes, I found your friend Mrs. Dale at home." " But not her dauglitcr or my cousin ? They were up there — where I've cimie from. But perhaps they had got back before you left." "I saw them both. They found me on the road with Mr. Dale." "What — the squire? Then you have seen every body ?" "Ever}' body I wished to see at Allington." ' ' But you wouldn't stay at the ' Red Lion ?' " " W^ell, no. I remembered that I wanted to get back to London ; and as I had seen my friends, I thought I might as well hurry away." " Y'ou knew Mrs. Dale before, then ?" "No, I didn't. I never saw her in my life before. But I knew the old squire when I was a boy. However, I should have said friend. I went to see one friend, and I saw her." John Eames perceived that his companion put a strong emphasis on tlic word "her," as though he were determined to declare boldly that he had gone to Allington solely to see Grace Crawley. He had not the slightest objection to recognizing in Major Grantly a suitor for his cousin's hand. He could only reflect what an unusually fortunate girl Grace must be if sucli a thing could be true. Of those poor Crawleys he had only heard from time to time that their misfortunes were as numerous as the sands on the sea-shore, and as unsusceptible of any fixed and permanent arrangement. But, as regarded Grace, here would be a very permanent ar- rangement. Tidings had reached him that Grace was a great scholar, but he had never heard much of her beauty. It must probably be the case that Major Grantly was fond of Greek. There was, lie reminded himself, no accounting for tastes ; but as notliing could be more respectable than sjuch an alliance, he thought that it would become him to be civil to the major. "I hope you found her quite well. I had barely time to speak to her myself." "Yes, she was very well. This is a sad thing about her father." " Very sad, " said Johnny. Perhaps the ma- jor had lieard about the accusation for the first time to-day, and was going to find an escape on that plea. If such was tlic case, it would not be so well to be particularly civil. THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 135 ' ' I believe Mr.prawley is a cousin of yours ?" said the major. "His wife is my mother's first-cousin. Their mothers were sisters." " She is an excellent woman." " I believe so. I don't know much about them myself-^that is, personally. Of course I have heard of this charge that has been made ;ainst him. It seems to me to be a great shame." "Well, I can't exactly say that it is a shame. I do not know that there has been any thing done with a feeling of persecution or of cruelty. It is a gi'eat mystery, and we must have it cleared up if we can." "I don't suppose he can have been guilty," said Johnny. "Certainly not in the ordinary sense of the word. I heard all the evidence against him." "Oh, you did?" "Yes," said the major. "I live near them in Barsetshire, and I am one of his bailsmen." "Then you are an old friend, I suppose?" "Not exactly that; but circumstances make me very much interested about them. I fiincy that the check was left in iiis house by accident, and that it got into his hands he didn't know how, and that when he used it he thought it was his." "That's queer," said Jolinny. "He is ver}' odd, you know." " But it's a kind of oddity that they don't like at the assizes." "The great cruelty is," said the major, "that whatever may be the result, the punishment will fall so heavily upon his wife and daughters. I think the whole county ought to come forward and take them by the hand. AVell, good-by. I'll drive on, as I'm a little in a hurry." " Good-by," said Johnny. "I'm very glad to have had the pleasure of meeting you." " He's a good sort of a fellow after all," he said to him- self when the gig had passed on. " He wouldn't have talked in that wav if he had meant to hang back." CHAPTER XXXIL MR. TOOGOOD. Mr. Crawley had declared to Mr. Robarts tliat he would summon no legal aid to his as- sistance at the coming trial. The reader may, perhaps, remember the impetuosity with which he rejected the advice on this subject which was conveyed to him by Mr. Robarts with all the authority of Archdeacon Grantly's name. "Tell the archdeacon," he had said, " that I will have none of his advice." And then Mr. Robarts had left him, fully convinced that any further inter- ference on his part could be of no avail. Nev- ertheless, the words which had then been spoken were not without effect. This coming trial was, ever present to Mr. Crawley's mind, and thougli,; when driven to discuss the subject, lie would ipeak of it with high spirit, as he had done both to the bishop and to Mr. Robarts, yet in his long hours of privacy, or when alone with his wife, his spirit was any thing but high. " It will kill me," he would say to her. " I shall get salva- tion thus. Death will relieve me, and I shall never be called upon to stand before those cruel, eager eyes." Then would she try to say words of comfort, sometimes soothing him as though he were a child, and at others bidding him be a man, and remember that as a man he should have sufficient endurance to bear the eyes of any crowd that might be there to look at him. "I think I will go up to London," he said to her one evening, very soon after the day of Mr. Robarts's visit. "Go up to London, Josiah !" Mr. Crawley had not been up to London once since they had been settled at Hogglestock, and this sudden resolution on his part frightened his wife. " Go up to London, dearest ! and why ?" "I will tell you why. They all say that I should speak to some man of the law whom I may trust about this coming trial. I trust no one in these parts. Not, mark you, that I say that they are untrustworthy. God forbid that I sliould so speak or even so think of men whom I know not ! But the matter has become so common in men's mouths at Barchester and at Silverbridge that I can not endure to go among them and to talk of it. I will go up to London, and I will see your cousin, Mr. John Toogood, of Gray's Inn." Now in this scheme there was an amount of everyday prudence which startled ]Mrs. Crawley almost as much as did the pros- pect of the difficulties to be overcome if the journey were to be made. Her husband, in the first place, had never once seen Mr. John Too- good ; and in days very long back, when he and she were making their first gallant struggle — for in those days it liad been gallant — down in their Cornish curacy, he had reprobated cer- 13G THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. tain Toogood civilities — ]ivofessional civilities — wliicli had hoen iirofluied, iicrliajis, with too jilain an intimation that on the score of relationshi]) tlic professional work shonld be done withont ])ay- nient. The ftlr. Toogood of those days, who had been Mrs. Crawley's nncle, and the father of Mrs. Eamcs and grandfather of our friend Johnny Eames, had been much angered by some correspondence which had grown uj) be- tween him and Mr. Crawley, and from that day there had been a cessation of all intercourse be- tween the families. Since tliosc days that Too- good had been gathered to the ancient Toogoods of old, and the son reigned on tlic family throne in Raymond's Buildings. The ]n-esent Too- good was therefore first-cousin to Mrs. Crawley. But there had been no intimacy between them. Mrs. Crawley had not seen her cousin since her marriage — as indeed she had seen none of her relations, having been estranged from them by tlie singular bearing of her husband. She knew that her cousin stood high in his profession, the firm of Toogood and Crump — Crump and Too- good it should have been properly called in these days — having always held its head up high above all dirty work ; and she felt that her husband could look for advice from no better source. But how would such a one as he manage to tell his story to a stranger ? Nay, how would he find his way alone into the lawyer's room, to tell his story at all — so strange was he to the world ? And then the expense ! " If you do not wish me to apply to your cousin, say so, and there sliall be an end of it," said Mr. Crawley, in an angry tone. "Of course I would wish it. I believe him to be an excellent man, and a good lawyer." " Tiien why should I not go to his chambers ? In forma pauperis I must go to him, and must tell him so. I can not pay him for the labor of his counsel, nor for such minutes of his time as I shall use." " Oh, Joshua! you need not speak of that." " But I must speak of it. Can I go to a pro- fessional man, who keeps as it were his slio]) open for those who may think fit to come, and purchase of him, and take of his goods, and aft- erward, when the goods have been used, tell him that I have not the price in my hand? I will not do that, Mary. You think that I am mad, that I know not what I do. Yes — I see it in your eyes ; and you are sometimes partly right. But I am not so mad but that I know what is honest. I will tell your cousin that I am sore straitened, and brought down into the very dust by misfortune. And I will be- seech him, for what of ancient feeling of family he may bear to you, to listen to me for a while. And I will be very short, and, if need be, will bide his time patiently, and perhaps he may say a word to me that may be of use." There was certainly very much in this to pro- voke Mrs. Crawley. It was not only that she knew well that her cousin would give ample and immediate attention, and lend himself thorough- ly to tlic matter without any idea of payment — but that she could not quitp believe that her husband's humility was true humility. She strove to believe it, but knew that she failed. After all it was only a feeling on her part. There was no argument within herself about it. An unpleasant taste came across the palate of her mind, as such a savor will sometimes, from some unexpected source, come across the palate of the mouth. Well ; she could only gulp at it, and swallow it, and excuse it. Among tlie sal- ad that comes from your garden a bitter leaf will now and then make its way into your salad- bowl. Alas, there were so many bitter leaves ever making their way into her bowl ! " What I mean is, Joshua, that no long explanation will 1)0 needed. I think, from what I remem- ber of him, that he would do for us any thing that he could do." "Then I will go to the man, and will hum- ble myself before him. Even that, hard as it is to me, may be a duty that I owe." Mr. Craw- ley as he said this was remembering the fact that he was a clergyman of the Church of En- gland, and that he had a rank of his own in the country, which, did he ever do such a thing as go out to dinner in company, would establish for him a certain right of precedence ; whereas this attorney, of whom he was speaking, was, so to say, nobody in the eyes of the world. " There need be no humbling, Josiah, other than that which is due from man to man in all circumstances. But never mind ; we will not talk about that. If it seems good to j'ou, go to Mr. Toogood. I think that it is good. May I write to him and say that you will go ?" " I will write myself; it will be more seemly." Then the wife paused before she asked the next rpiestion — paused for some minute or two, and then asked it with anxious doubt — "And ^may I go with yon, Josiah ?" " Why should two go when one can do the woik ?' he answered, sharply. " Have we mon- ey so much at command ?" " Indeed no." "You should go and do it all, for 3'ou are wiser in these things than I am, were it not that I may not dare to show — that I submit ray- self to my wife." "Nay, my dear!" " But it is ay, my dear. It is so. This is a thing such as men do ; not such as women do, unless they be forlorn and unaided of men. I know that I am weak where you are strong ; that I am crazed where you are clear-witted." "I meant not that, Josiah. It was of your health that I thought." "Nevertheless it is as I say ; but, for all that, it may not be that you should do my work. There are those watching me who would say, ' Lo ! he confesses himself incapable.' And then some one would whisper something of a mad-house. Mary, I fear that worse than a prison." "May God in Ilis mercy forbid such cru-' elty!" "But I must look to it, my dear. Do you THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 137 think that that woman, who sits there at Bar- chester in high places, disgracing herself and that puny ecclesiastical lord who is her hus- band — do you think that she would not immure me if she could? She is a she-wolf— only less reasonable than the dumb brute as she sharpens her teeth in malice coming from anger, and not in malice coming from hunger as do the outer wolves of the forest. I tell you, Mary, that if she had a colorable ground for her action, she would swear to-morrow that I am mad." " You shall go alone to London." "Yes, I will go alone. They shall not say that I can not yet do my own work as a man should do it. I stood up before him, the puny man who is called a bishop, and before her who makes herself great by his littleness, and I scorned them both to their faces. Though the slioes which I had on were all broken, as I my- self could not but see when I stood, yet I was greater than they were with all their purple and fine linen." "But, Josiah, my cousin will not be harsh to you." "Well — and if he be not?" "Ill-usage you can bear; and violent ill- usage, such as that which Mrs. Proudie allowed herself to exhibit, you can repay with interest ; but kindness seems to be too heavy a burden for you." "I will struggle. I will endeavor. I will speak but little, and, if possible, I will listen much. Now, my dear, I will write to this man, and you shall give me the address that is proper for him." Then he wrote the letter, not accept- ing a word in the way of dictation from his wife, but " craving the great kindness of a short inter- view, for which he ventured to become a solicitor, urged thereto by his wife's assurance that one with whom he was connected by family ties would do as much as this for the possible pres- ervation of the honor of the family." In an- swer to this, Mr. Toogood wrote back as follows : "Dear Mk. Crawley, — I will be at my office all Thursday morning next from ten to two, ant| will take care that you sha'n't be kept waiting for me above ten minutes. You parsons never like waiting. But hadn't you better come and breakfast with me and Maria at nine? then we'd have a talk as we walk to the office. Yours always, Thomas Toogood." And the letter was dated from the attorney's private house in Tavistock Square. "I am sure he means to be kind," said Mrs. Crawley. "Doubtless he means to be kind. But his kindness is rough — I will not say unmannerly, as the word would be harsh. I have never even seen the lady whom he calls Maria." " She is his wife !" " So I would venture to suppose ; but she is unknown to me. I will write again, and thank him, and say that I will be with him at ten to the moment." There were still many things to be settled be- fore the journey could be made. Mr. Crawley, in his first plan, proposed that he should go up by night mail train, traveling in the third class, having walked over to Silverbridge to meet it; that he should then walk about London from 5 A.M. to 10 A.M., and afterward come down by an afternoon train to which a third class was also attached. But at last his wife persuaded him that such a task as that, performed in the middle of the winter, would be enough to kill any man, and that, if attempted, it would cer- tainly kill him ; and he consented at last to sleep the night in town — being specially moved thereto by discovering that he could, in con- formity with this scheme, get in and out of the train at a station considerably nearer to him than Silverbridge, and that he could get a re- turn-ticket at a third-class fare. The whole journey, he found, could be done for a pound, allowing him seven shillings for his night's ex- penses in London ; and out of the resources of the family there were produced two sovereigns, so that in the event of accident he would not utterly be a castaway from want of funds. So he started on his journey after an early dinner, almost hopeful througli the new excite- ment of a journey to London, and his wife walked with him nearly as far as the station. "Do not reject my cousin's kindness," were the last woi'ds she spoke. " For his professional kindness, if he will ex- tend it to me, I will be most thankful," he re- plied. She did not dare to say more ; nor had she dared to write privately to her consiu, ask- ing for any special help, lest by doing so she should seem to impugn the sufficiency and sta- bility of her husband's judgment. He got up to town late at night, and having made inquiry of one of the porters, he hired a bed for himself in the neighborhood of the railway station. Here he had a cup of tea and a morsel of bread- and-butter, and in the morning he breakfasted again on the same fare. "No, I have no lug- gage," he had said to the girl at the public house, who had asked him as to his traveling gear. "If luggage be needed as a certificate of re- spectability, I will pass on elsewhere," said he. The girl stared, and assured him that she did not doubt his respectability. "I am a clergy- man of the Church of England," he had said, " but my circumstances prevent me from seeking a more expensive lodging." They did their best to make him comfortable, and, I think, almost disappointed him in not heaping further mis- fortunes on his head. He was in Raymond's Buildings at half past nine, and for half an hour walked up and down the umbrageous pavement — it used to be um- brageous, but perhaps the trees have gone now — before the doors of the various chambers. He could hear the clock strike from Gray's Inn ; and the moment that it had struck he was turn- ing in, but was encountered in the passage by Mr. Toogood, who was equally punctual with himself Strange stories about Mr. Crawley had reached Mr. Toogood's household, and that Maria, the mention of whose Christian name 138 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. had been so oft'eiisivc to tlic clergyman, had begged licr husband not to be a moment hitc. Poor Mr. Toogood, who on ordinary days did perhai)S take a few minutes' grace, was tlius hurried away ahnost witli his breakfast in his throat, and, as we have seen, just saved himself. 'Terliaps, Sir, you arc ^Ir. Crawley," he said, in a good-humored, cheery voice, lie was a good-Iiumored, dicery-looking man, about fifty years of age, with grizzled hair, and sun-burnt face, and large whiskers. Nobody would have taken him to be a ])artncr in any of those great houses of which wc have read in history — the Quirk, Gammon, and Snaps of the profession, or the Dodson and Foggs, who are immortal. "That is my name, Sir," said Mr. Crawley, taking olT his hat and bowing low, "and I am here by a])pointment to meet Mr. Toogood, the solicitor, whose name I see aihxcd upon the door-post." " I am IMr. Toogood, the solicitor, and I hope I see you quite well, Mr. Crawley." Then the attorney shook hands with the clergyman, and preceded him up stairs to the front-room on the first-floor. "Here we arc, Mr. Crawley, and pray take a chair. I wish you could have made it convenient to come and see lis at home. Wc are rather long, as my wife says — long in family, she means, and thcrcfoi'e are not very well off for spare beds — " "Oh, Sir!" "I've twelve of 'em living, Mr. Crawley — from eighteen years, the eldest — a girl, down to eighteen months, the youngest — a boy, and they go in and out, boy and girl, like the cogs of a wheel. They ain't such far-away distant cous- ins from your own young ones — only first, once, as we call it." "I am aware that there is a family tie, or I should not have ventured to trouble you." "Blood is thicker than water; isn't it? I often say that. I heard of one of your girls only yesterday. She is staying somewhere down in the country, not far from where my sister lives ■ — Mrs. Eames, the widow of poor John Eames, who never did any good in this world. I dare say you've heard of her ?" "The name is familiar to me, Mr. Toogood." " Of course it is. I've a nephew down there just now, and he saw your girl the other day — very highly he spoke of her too. Let me sec — how many is it you have ?" "Tlu'ce living, Mr. Toogood." "I've just four times three — that's the dif- ference. But I comfort myself with the text about the quiver, you know ; and I tell them that when they've eat up all the butter they'll have to take their bread dry." "I trust the young people take your teach- ing in a proper spirit." " I don't know much about spirit. There's spirit enough. My second girl, Lucy, told me that if I came home to-day without tickets for the pantomime I shouldn't have any dinner allowed me. That's the way they treat me. But we understand each other at home. We're all pretty good friends there, thank God! And there isn't a sick cliick among the boiling." "You have many mercies for which you sliould indeed be thankful," said Mr. Crawley, gravely. " Yes, yes, yes ; that's true. I think of that sometimes, though perhaps not so much as I ought to do. But the best way to be thankful is to use the goods the gods provide you. ' The lovely Thais sits beside you. Take the goods the gods provide you.' I often say that to my wife, till the children have got to calling her Thais. Tiie children have it pretty much their own way with us, Mr. Crawley." By this time Mr. Crawley was almost beside himself, and was altogether at a loss how to bring in the matter on which he wished to speak. He had expected to find a man who in the hurry of London business might perhaps just manage to s])are him five minutes — who would gra]ijde instantly with the subject that was to be discussed between them, would speak to him half a dozen hard words of wisdom, and would then dismiss him and turn on the in- stant to other matters of important business; but here was an easy, familiar fellow, who seemed to have nothing on earth to do, and who at this first meeting had taken advantage of a distant family connection to tell liim every thing about tlie aff'airs of his own household. And then how ])eculiar were the domestic traits which he told ! What was IMr. Crawley to say to a man who had taught his own children to call their mother Thais ? Of Thais Mr. Craw- ley did know something, and he forgot to re- member that perhaps ^Rlr. Toogood knew less. He felt it, however, to be very difficult to sub- mit the details of his case to a gentleman who talked in such a strain about his own wife and children. But something must be done. Mr. Crawley, in his present frame of mind, could not sit and talk about Thais all day. " Sir," he said, "the picture of your home is very pleasant, and I presume that plenty abounds there." "Well, you know, pretty toll-loll for that. With twelve of 'em, Mr. Crawley, I needn't tell you they are not all going to have castles and parks of their own, unless they can get 'em off their own bats. But I pay upward of a hun- dred a year each for my eldest three boys' schooling, and I've been paying eighty for the girls. Put that and that together and see what it comes to. Educate, educate, educate ; that's my word." " No better word can be spoken. Sir." "I don't think there's a girl in Tavistock Square that can beat Polly — she's the eldest, called after her mother, you know — that can beat her at the piano. And Lucy has read Lord Byron and Tom Moore all through, every word of 'em. By Jove ! I believe slie knows most of Tom Moore by heart. And the young uns are coming on just as well." "Perhaps, Sir, as your time is, no doubt, precious — " THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET 139 " Just at tills time of the day wc don't care so mucli about it, Mr. Crawley : and one doesn't catch a new cousin every day, you know." "However, if you will allow me — " "We'll tackle to? Very well; so be it. Now, Mr. Crawley, let me hear what it is that I can do for you." Of a sudden, as Mr. Too- good spoke these last words, the whole tone of his voice seemed to change, and even the posi- tion of his bod}' became so much altered as to indicate a different kind of man. "You just tell your story in your own way, and I won't interrupt you till you've done. That's always the best." "I must first crave your attention to an im- fortunate preliminary," said Mr. Crawley. "And what is that?" "I come before you in forma pauperis." Here ]\Ir. Crawley paused and stood up before the attorney with his hands crossed one upon the other, bending low, as though calling atten- tion to the poorness of his raiment. "I know that I have no justification for my conduct. I have nothing of reason to offer why I should trespass upon your time. I am a poor man, and can not pay you for your services." "Oil, bother!" said Mr. Toogood, jumping lip out of his chair. "I do not know whether your charity will grant me that which I ask — " "Don't let's have any more of this," said the attorney. "We none of us like this kind of thing at all. If I can be of any service to you, you're as welcome to it as flowers in May ; and as for billing my first-cousin, wliich your wife is, I should as soon think of sending in an account to my own." "But, Mr. Toogood—" " Do you go on now with your story ; I'll put the rest all right." " I was bound to be explicit, Mr. Toogood." " Very well ; now you have been explicit with a vengeance, and you may heave ahead. Let's hear the story, and if I can help you I will. "When I've said that, you may be sure I mean it. I've heard something of it before ; but let me hear it all from you." Then i\Ir. Crawley began and told the story. Mr. Toogood was actually true to his promise, and let the narrator go on with his narrative without interruption. When Mr. Crawley came to his own statement that the check had been paid to him by Mr. Soames, and went on to say that that statement had been false — " I told him that, but I told him so wrongly" — and then paused, thinking that the lawyer would ask some question, Mr. Toogood simply said, "Go on; go on. I'll come back to all that when you've done." And he merely nodded his head when Mr. Crawley spoke of his second statement, that the money had come from the dean. " We had been bound together by close ties of early famil- iarity," said Mr. Crawley, " and in former years our estates in life were the same. But he has prospered and I have failed. And when cred- itors were importunate I consented to accept relief in money which had previously been often oftered. And I must acknowledge, Mr. Too- good, while saying this, that I have known — have known with heart-felt agony — that at for- mer times my wife has taken that from my friend Mr. Arabin, with hand half-hidden from me, which I have refused. Whether it be better to eat tlie bread of charity — or not to eat bread at all, I, for myself, have no doubt," he said ; " but when the want strikes one's wife and children, and the charity strikes only one's self, then there is a doubt." When he spoke thus, IMr. Too- good got up, and thrusting his hands into his waistcoat pockets walked about the room, ex- claiming, "By George, by George, by George!" But he still let the man go on with his story, and heard him out at last to the end. "And they committed you for trial at the next Barchester assizes?" said the lawyer. "They did." "And you employed no lawyer before the magistrates?" "None — I refused to employ any one." " You were wrong there, Mr. Crawley. I must be allowed, to say that you were wrong there." "I may possibly have been so from your point of view, Mr. Toogood ; but permit me to explain. I — " "It's no good explaining now. Of course you must„employ a lawyer for your defense — an attorney who will put the case into the hands of counsel." "But that I can not do, Mr. Toogood." "You must do it. If you don't do it, your friends should do it for you. If you don't do it, every body will say you're mad. There isn't a single solicitor you could find within half a mile of you at this moment who wouldn't give you the same advice — not a single man, either, who has got a head on his shoulders worth a turnip." When Mr. Crawley was told that madness would be laid to his charge if he did not do as he was bid his face became very black, and assumed something of that look of determined obstinacy which it had worn when he was stand- ing in the presence of the bishop and Mi's. Prou- die. " It maj be so," he said. " It may be as you say, Mr. 'roogood. But these neighbors of yours, as to whose collected wisdom you speak with so much certainty, would hardly recom- mend me to indulge in a luxury for which I have no means of paying." "Who thinks about paying under such cir- cumstances as these?" "I do, Mr. Toogood." " The wretchedest coster-monger that comes to grief has a barrister in a wig and gown to give him his chance of escape." " But I am not a coster-monger, Mr. Toogood — though more wretched perhaps than any cos- ter-monger now in existence. It is my lot to have to endure the sufferings of poverty, and at the same time not to be exempt from those feel- ings of honor to wliich poverty is seldom sub- ject. I can not afford to call in legal assist- liO THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. mice for wliich I can not pay and — I ^vill not do it." " I'll carry the case through for you. It cer- tainly is not just my lino of business — but I'll see it carried through for you." '• Out of your own i)ockct ?" "Never mind; when I say I'll do a thing, I'll do it." "No, Mr. Toogood; this thing you can not do. But do not suppose I am tlic less grate- ful." "What is it I can do then? Why do you come to me if you won't fake my advice?" After this the conversation went on for a con- siderable time without touching on any point which need be brought paljjably before the read- er's eye. The attorney continued to beg the clergyman to have his case managed in the usual way, and went so far as to tell him that he would be ill-treating his wife and family if he continued to be obstinate. But the clergy- man was not shaken from his resolve, and was at last able to ask Mr. Toogood what he had better do — how he had better attempt to defend himself — on the understanding that no legal aid w'as to be employed. When this question was at last asked in such a way as to demand an an- swer Mr. Toogood sat for a moment or two in silence. He felt that an answer was not only demanded, but almost enforced ; and yet there might be much ditSculty in giving it. "Mr. Toogood," said Mr. Crawley, seeing the attorney's hesitation, "I declare to you before God that my only object will be to enable the jury to know about this sad matter all that I know myself. If I could open my breast to them I should be satisfied. But then a prisoner can say nothing ; and what he does say is ever accounted false." "That is why you should have legal assist- ance." "We had already come to a conclusion on that matter, as I thought," said Mr. Crawley. Mr. Toogood paused for another moment or two, and then dashed at his answer ; or rather, dashed at a counter question. "Mr. Crawley, where did you get the check ? You must par- don me, you know ; or, if you wish it, I will not press the question. But so much hangs on that, you know." "Every thing would hang on it — if I only knew." "You mean that you forget?" " Absolutely ; totally. I wish, Mr. Toogood, I could explain to you the toilsome perseverance with which I have cudgeled my poor brains, endeavoring to extract from them some scintilla of memory that would aid me." "Could you have picked it up in the house?" "No — no; that I did not do. Dull as I am, I know so much. It was mine of right, from whatever source it came to me. I know myself as no one else can know me, in spite of the wise man's motto. Had I picked up a check in my house, or on the road, I should not liavc slept till I had taken steps to restore it to the seeming owner. So much I can say. But, otherwise, I am in such matters so shandy- pated, that I can trust myself to be sure of no- thing. I thought — I certainly thought — " "You thought what?" "I thought that it had been given to me by my friend the dean. I remember well that 1 was in his library at Bavchester, and I was some- what provoked in spirit. There were lying on the floor hundreds of volumes, all glittering with gold and reeking with new leather from the binders. He asked me to look at his toys. Why should I look at them? There was a time, but the other day it seemed, when he had been glad to borrow from me such treasures as I had. And it seemed to me that he was heart- less in showing me these things. Well ; I need not trouble you with all that." "Go on— go on. Let me hear it all, and I shall learn something." " I know now how vain, how vile I was. I always know afterward how low the spirit has groveled. I had gone to him then because I had resolved to humble myself, and, for my wife's sake, to ask my friend — for money. With words which were very awkward — which no doubt were ungracious — I had asked him, and he had bid me follow him from his hall into his library. There he left me a wliile, and on re- turaing told me with a smile that he had sent for money — and, if I can remember, the sum he named was fifty pounds." "But it has turned out, as you say, that you have paid fifty pounds with his money — besides the check." "That is true — that is quite true. There is no doubt of that. But as I was saying — then he fell to talking abotit the books, and I was an- gered. I was very sore in my heart. From the moment in which the words of beggary had pass- ed from my lips I had repented. And he had laughed and had taken it gayly. I turned upon him and told him that I had changed my mind. I was grateful, but I would not have his money. And so I prepared to go. But he argued with me, and would not let me go — tell- ing me of my wife and of my children, and while he argued there came a knock at the door, and something was handed in, and I knew that it was the hand of his wife." "It was the money, I suppose?" "Yes, Mr. Toogood; it was the money. And I became the more uneasy because she herself is rich. I liked it the less because it seemed to come from her hand. But I took it. AVhat could I do when he reminded me that I £ould not keep my parish unless certain sums were paid ? He gave me a little parcel in a cover, and I took it — and left him sorrowing. I had never before come quite to that — though, indeed, it had in fact been often so before. What was the difference whether the alms were given into my hands or into my wife's?'' " You are too touchy about it all, Mr. Craw- ley." "Of course I am. Do you try it, and see THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 141 whether you will be touchy. You have worked hai'd at your professiou, I dare say." "Well, yes; pretty well. To tell the truth, I have worked hard. By George, yes ! It's not so bad now as it used to be." "But you have always earned your bread; bread for yourself, and bread for your wife and little one*. You can buy tickets for the play." "I couldn't always buy tickets, mind you." " I have worked as hard, and yet I can not get bread. I am older than you, and I can not earn my bare bread. Look at my clothes. If you had to go and beg from Mr. Crump, would not you be touchy?" "As it happens, Crump isn't so well off as I am." " Never mind. But I took it, and went home, and for two days I did not look at it. And then there came an illness upon me, and I know not what passed. But two men wiio had been hard on me came to the house when I was out, and piy wife was in a terrible state ; and I gave her the money, and she went into Silver- bridge and paid them." "And this check was Mitli what you g.ave her?" "No; I gave her money in notes — ^just fifty pounds. When I gave it her I thought I gave it all ; and yet afterward I thought I remem- bered that in my illness I had found the check with the dean's money. But it was not so." " You are sure of that?" . "He has said that he put five notes of £10 each into the cover, and such notes I certainly gave to my wife." " Wliere then did you get the check?" Mr. Crawley again paused before he answered. " Surely, if you will exert your mind, you will remember," said the lawyer. "Where did you get the check?" / "I do not know." Mr. Toogood threw himself back in his chair, took his knee up into his lap to nurse it, and began to think of it. He sat thinking of it for some minutes without a word — perhaps for five minutes, tliough the time seemed to be much longer to Mr. Crawley, who was, however, de- termined that he would not interrupt him. And Mr. Toogood's thoughts were at variance with Mr. Toogood's former words. Perhaps, after all, this scheme of Mr. Crawley's — or rather the mode of defense on which he had resolved with- out any scheme — might be the best of which the case admitted. It might be well that he should go into court without a lawyer. "He has convinced me of his innocence," Mr. Too- good said to himself, "and why should he not convince a jury? He has convinced me, not because I am specially soft, or because I love the man — for as to that I dislike him rather than otherwise — but because there is either real truth in his words, or else so well-feigned a show of truth that no jury can tell the difference. I think it is true. By George ! I think he did get the twenty pounds Iionestly, and that he docs not this moment know where he got it. He I may have put his finger into my eye ; but, if so, why not also into the eyes of a jury ?" Then he released his leg, and spoke something of his thoughts aloud. "It's a sad story," he said; " a very sad story." "Well, yes, it's sad enough. If you could sec my house you'd say so." "I haven't a doubt but what you're as inno- cent as I am." Mr. Toogood, as he said this, felt a little twinge *f conscience. He did be- lieve Mr. Crawley to be innocent, but he was not so sure of it as his words would seem to im- ply. Nevertheless he repeated the words again — "as innocent as I am." " I don't know," said Mr. Crawley. "I don't know. I think I am ; but I don't know." "I believe you are. But you see the case is a very distressing one. A jury has a right to say that the man in possession of a check for twenty pounds should account for his possession of it. If I understand the story aright, Mr. Soames will be able to prove that he brought the check into your house, and, as far as he knows, never took it out again." "I suppose so; all the same, if he brought it in, then did he also take it out again." "I am saying what he will prove — or, in other words, what he will state upon oath. You can't contradict him. You can't get into the box to do it— even if that would be of any avail ; and I am glad that you can not, as it would be of no avail. And you can put no one else into the box who can do so." "No; no." " That is to say, we think you can not do so. People can do so many things that they don't think they can do ; and can't do so many things that they think that they can do ! When will the dean be home?" "I don't know." "Before the trial?" " I don't know. I have no idea." "It's almost a toss-up whether he'd do more harm or good if he were there." "I wish he might be there if he has any thing to say, whether it might be for harm or good." "And Mrs. Arabin — she is with him?" " They tell me she is not. She is in Europe. He is in Palestine." "In Palestine, is he?" " So they tell me. A dean can go where he likes. He has no cure of souls to stand in the way of his pleasures." "He hasn't — hasn't he? I wish I were a dean ; that is, if I were not a lawyer. Might I write a line to the dean — and to Mrs. Dean, if it seemed fit ? You wouldn't mind that? As you have come to see your cousin at last — and very glad I am that you have — you must leave him a little discretion. I won't say any thing 1 oughtn't to say." Mr. Crawley opposed this scheme for some time, but at Inst consented to the proposition. "And I'll tell you what, Mr. Crawley ; I am very fond of catliedrals, I am indeed; and I have long wanted to see Bar- 142 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. Chester. There's a very fine what-you-may-call- 1 'cm; isn't there? Well; I'll just run down at j the assizes. We have nothing to do in London when the jud;;cs are in the country — of course." ]\[r. Toogood looked into Mv. Crawley's eyes as he said this, to sec if his iniquity were detected, lint the ]ierpctual curate was altogether innocent in these matters. "Yes; I'll just run down for a mouthful of fresh air. Of course I sha'n't ojien my mouth in court, fcut I might say one ■word to the dean, if he's there — and one word to Mr. Soames. Who is conducting the ])rosc- cution?" Jlr. Crawley said tliat I\Ir. Walker was doing so. "Walker, Walker, Walker? oh — yes ; Walker and Winthrop, isn't it ? A decent sort of man, I suppose ?" "I have heard nothing to his discredit, Mr. Toogood." " And that's saying a great deal for a lawyer. Well, Mr. Crawley, if nothing else comes out hctween tliis and that — nothing, that is, that shall clear your memory about that unfortunate Lit of paper — you must simply tell your story to the jury as you've told it to me. I don't think any twelve men in England would convict you — I don't indeed." "You think they would not?" "Of course I've only heard one side, Mr. Crawley." "No — no — no, that is true." "But judging as well as I can judge from one side, I don't think a jury can convict you. At any rate, I'll sec yon at Barchester, and I'll write a line or two before the trial, just to find out any thing that can be found out. And you're sure you won't come and take a bit of mutton with us in the Square ? Tlie girls would be delighted to see you, and so would jMaria." Mr. Crawley said that he was quite sure he could not do that, and. then, having tendered reiterated thanks to his new friend in words which were touching in si)ite of their old- fashioned gravit}', he took his leave, and walk- ed back again to the public house at Padding- tor. He returned home to Ilogglestock on the same afternoon, reaching that place at nine in tlie evening. During the whole of the day after leaving Raymond's Buildings he was thinking of the lawyer, and of the words which the law- j'er had spoken. Although he had been dis- posed to quarrel with Mr. Toogood on many points, although he had been more than once disgusted by the attorney's bad taste, shocked by his low morality, and almost insulted by his easy familiarity, still, when the interview was over, he liked the attorney. When first Mr. Toogood had begun to talk he regretted very much that he had subjected himself to the ne- cessity of discussing his private aft'airs with such a wind-bag of a man ; but when he left the chamber he trusted Mr. Toogood altogether, and was very glad that he had sought his aid. He was tired and exhausted when he reached home, as he had eaten nothing but a biscuit or two since his breakfast ; but his wife got him food and tea. and then asked him as to his success. "Was my cousin kind to you?" "Very kind — more than kind — perhaps some- what too pressing in his kindness. But I find no fault. God forbid that I should ! He is, I tiiink, a good man, and certainly has been good to me." "And what is to be done?" " He will write to the dean." " I am glad of that." "And he will be at Barchester." "Thank God for that!" " But not as my lawyer." "Nevertheless I thank God that some one will be there who wull know how to give you as- sistance and advice." CHAPTER XXXIIL THE 1' L U M S T E A D FOXES. The letters had been brought into the break- fast-parlor at Plumstead Rectory one morning, and the archdeacon had inspected them all, and then thi'own over to his wife her share of the spoil — as was the custom of the house. As to most of Mrs. Grantly's letters he never made any further inquiry. To letters from her sister, the dean's wife, he was ])rofoundly indifferent, and rarely made any inquiry as to those which were directed in writing with which he was not familiar. But there were others as to which, as Mrs. Grantly knew, he would be sure to ask her questions if she did not show them. No note ever reached her from Lady Ilartletop as to which he was not curious, and yet Lady Ilartletop's notes very seldom contained much that was of interest. Now, on this morning, there came a letter which, as a matter of course, Mrs. Grantly read at breakfast, and which, she /knew, would not be allowed to disappear with- out inquiry. Nor, indeed, did she wish to keep the letter from her husband. It was too im- portant to be so treated. But she would have been glad to gain time to think in what spirit she would discuss the contents of the letter — if only such time might be allowed to her. But the archdeacon would allow her no time. "What does Hcnr}* say, my dear?" he asked, before the breakfast things had been taken away. "What does he say? Well; he says— I'll give you his letter to read by-and-by." "And why not now?" "I thought I'd read it again myself, first." " But if you have read it I suppose you know what's in it." " Not very clearly, as yet. However, there it is." She knew very well that when she had once been asked for it, no peace would be al- lowed to her till he had seen it. And, alas! there was not much probability of peace in the house for some time after he should sec it. The archdeacon read the three or four first ilines in silence — and then he burst out: "He has, has he ? then, by Heavens — " THE LAST CIIKONICLE OF BARSET. 143 "Stop, dearest; stop," said his wife, rising from licr cliair and coming over to him; "do not say words which you will surely repent." " I will say words which shall make him re- pent, lie shall never have from me a son's portion." " Do not make threats in anger. Do not ! You know that it is wrong. If he has offended you, say nothing about it — even to yourself — as to threatened punishments, till you can judge of the offense in cool blood." "I am cool," said the archdeacon. "No, my dear, no; you arc angry. And have not even read his letter through." "I will read his letter." "You will see that the marriage is not im- minent. It may bo that even yet it will never take place. The young lady has refused him."' "I'shaw!" "You will sec that she has done so. lie tells us so himself. And she has behaved very properly." " Why has she refused him ?" "There can be no doubt about the reason. She feels that, with this charge hanging over her father, she is not in a position to become the wife of any gentleman. You can not but respect her for that." Then the archdeacon finished his son's letter, uttering sundry interjections and ejaculations as he did so. "Of course; I knew it. I imderstood it all," he said at last. " I've nothing to do with the girl. I don't care whether she be good or bad." "Oh, my dear!" " I care not at all — with reference to my own concerns. Of course I would wish that the daughter of a neighboring clergyman — that the daughter of any neighbor — that the daughter of any one whatsoever — should be good rather than bad. But as regards Henry and me, and our mutual relation, her goodness can make no difference. Let her be another Grizel, and still such a marriage must estrange him from me, and me from him." "But she has refused him." "Yes; and what does he say? — that he has told her that he will not accept her refusal. Of course we know what it all means. The girl I am not judging. The girl I will not judge. But my own son, to whom I have ever done a father's duty with a father's affectionate indul- gence — him I will judge. I have warned him, and he declares himself to be careless of my warning. I shall take no notice of this letter I shall neither write to him about it nor speak to him about it. But I charge you to write to him, and tell him that if he does this thing he sliall not have a child's portion from me. It is not tliat I will shorten that which would have been his ; but he shall have — nothing !" Then, having spoken these words with a solemnity which for the moment silenced his wife, he got up and left the room. He left the room and closed the door, but, before he had gone half the length of the hall toward his own study, he returned and addressed his wife again. "You understand my instructions, I hope?" "What instructions?" "That you write to Henry and tell him what I say." " I will speak again to you about it by-and-by." "I will speak no more about it — not a word more. Let there be not a word more said, but oblige me by doing what I ask you." Then he was again about to leave the room, but she stopped him. "Wait a moment, my dear." "Why should I wait?" "That you may listen to me. Surely you will do that, when I ask you. I will write to Henry, of course, if you bid me ; and I will give him your message, whatever it may be ; but not to-day, my dear." "Why not to-day ?" "Because the sun shall go down upon your wrath before I become its messenger. If you choose to write to-day yourself I can not help it. I can not hinder you. If I am to write to him on your behalf I will take my instructions from you to-morrow morning. When to-morrow morning comes you will not be angry with me because of the delay." The archdeacon was by no means satisfied ; but he knew his wife too well, and himself too well, and the world too well, to insist on the im- mediate gratification of his passion. Over his bosom's mistress he did exercise a certain mar- ital control — which was, for instance, quite suf- ficiently fixed to enable him to look down with thorough contempt on such a one as Bishop Proudie ; but he was not a despot who could exact a passive obedience to every fantasy. His wife would not have written the letter for him on that day, and he knew very well that she would not do so. He knew also that she was right — and yet he regretted his want of power. His anger at the present moment was very hot — so hot that he wished to wreak it. He knew that it would cool before the morrow — and. no doubt, knew also theoretically, that it would be most fitting that it should cool. But not the less was it a matter of regret to him that so much good hot anger should be wasted, and that he could not have his will of his disobedient son while it lasted. He might, no doubt, have written himself, but to have done so would not have suited him. Even in his anger he could not have written to his son without using the ordinary terms of affection, and in his anger he could not bring himself to use those terms. " You will find that I shall be of the same mind to-morrow — exactly," he said to his wife. "I have resolved about it long since ; and it is not likely that I shall change in a day." Then he went out, about his parish, intending to con- tinue to think of his son's iniquity, so that he might keep his anger hot — red hot. Then he remembered that the evening would come, and that he would say his prayers ; and he shook his head in regret — iu a regret of which he was only 144 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAIISET. half conscious, though it was very keen, and whicli lie did not attcmiit to analvzc — as he rc- iiccted tliat his rage would hardly be able to survive that ordeal. How common with us it is to repine that the devil is not stronger over us than he is ! The archdeacon, who was a very wealthy man, liad jiurchascd a property in I'lumstead, contig- uous to the glebe-land, and had thus come to exercise in the parish the double duty of rector and squire. And of this estate in Barsetshire, which extended beyond the confines of Plum- stead into the neighboring parish of Eiderdown, and which comprised also an outlying farm in the parish of Stogpingum — Stoke Tinguium would have been the proper name liad not barbarous Saxon tongues clii>]icd it of its proper propor- tions — he had always intended that his son Charles should enjoy the inheritance. There was other property, both in land and in money, for his elder son, and other again for the mainte- nance of his wife — for the archdeacon's father had been for many years Bishop of Barchester, and sucli a bishopi'ic as that of Barchester had been in tliose days was worth money. Of his inten- tion in this respect he had never spoken in filain language to either of his sons ; but the major had for the last year or two enjoyed the shoot- ing of the Barsetshire covers, giving what orders he pleased about the game ; and the father had encouraged him to take something like the man- agement of the property into his hands. There might be some fifteen hundred acres of it alto- gether, and the archdeacon had rejoiced over it with his wife scores of times, saying that there was many a squire in the county whose elder son would never find himself half so well-placed as would his own younger son. Now there was a string of narrow woods called Plumstead Cop- pices which ran from a point near the church right across the parish, dividing the archdeacon's land from the Ullathorne estate, and these coppices, or belts of woodland, belonged to the archdea- con. On the morning of which we are speak- ing, the archdeacon, mounted on his cob, still thinking of his son's iniquity and of his own fixed resolve to punish him as he had said that he would punish him, opened with his whip a woodland gate, from which a green muddy lane led through the trees up to the house of his game- keeper. The man's wife was ill, and in his or- dinary way of business the archdeacon was about to call and ask after her health. At the door of the cottage he found the man, who Avas wood- man as well as game-keeper, and was responsi- ble for fences and fagots, as well as for foxes and pheasants' eggs. "How's Martha, Flurry?" said the arch- deacon. "Thanking your reverence, she be a deal im- proved since the mistress was here — last Tues- day it was, I think." ' ' I'm glad of that. It was only rheumatism, I suppose ?" "Just a tich of fever with it, your reverence, the doctor said." /, "Tell her I was asking after it. I won't mind getting down to-day, as I am rather busy. She has had what she wanted from the house?" "The mistress has been very good in that way. She always is, God bless her!" "Good-day to you. Flurry. I'll ask Mr. Sims to come and read to her a bit this after- noon or to-morrow morning." The archdeacon kept two curates, and Mr. Sims was one of them. "She'll take it very kindly, your reverence. But while your are here. Sir, there's just a word I'd like to say. I didn't happen to catch Mr. Henry when he was here the other day." " Never mind Mr. Henry ; what is it you have to say ?" "I do think, I do indeed, Sir, that Mr. Thome's man ain't dealing fairly along of the foxes. I wouldn't say a word about it, only that Mr. Henry is so particular." " What about the foxes ? What is he doing with the foxes?" "Well, Sir, he's a trapping on 'cm. He is, indeed, your reverence. I wouldn't speak if I warn't well-nigh mortial sure." Now the archdeacon had never been a hunt- ing man, tliough in his early days many a cler- gyman had been in the habit of hunting without losing liis clerical character by doing so ; but he had lived all his life among gentlemen in a hunting countj', and had his own very strong ideas about the trapping of foxes. Foxes first, and {ihcasants afterward, had always been the rule with him as to any land of which he him- self had had the management. And no man understood better than he did how to deal with keepers as to this matter of fox-preserving, or knew better that keepers will in truth obey not the words of their employers, but their symjia- thies. "Wish them to have foxes, and pay them, and they will have them," Mr. Sowcrby of Chaldicotes used to say, and he in his day was reckoned to be the best preserver of foxes in Barsetshire. " Tell them to have them, and don't wish it, and pay them well, and you won't have a fox to interfere with your game. I don't care what a man says to me, I can read it all like a book when I see his covers drawn." That was what poor Mr. Sowerby of Chaldicotes used to say, and the archdeacon had heard him i-ay it a score of times, and had leainid tlic lesson. But now his heart was not with the foxes— and especially not with the foxes on behalf of his son Henry. " I can't have any meddling with Mr. Thorne," he said ; "I can't, and I won't." " But I don't suppose it can be Mr. Thome's order, your reverence ; and Mr. Henry is so par- ticular." "Of course it isn't Mr. Thome's order. Mr. Thorne has been a hunting man all his life." " But he have guv' up now, your reverence. He ain't a hunted these two years." "I'm sure he wouldn't have the foxes trapped." " Not if he knowed it, he wouldn't, your rev- erence. A gentleman of the likes of him, who's \. THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 145 '■>"EVKIl MIND -Mli. Ui;MiV." been a hunting; over fifty jear, wouldn't do the likes of that ; but the foxes is trapped, and Mr. Henry '11 be a putting it on me if I don't speak out. They is Plumstead foxes, too ; and a vix- en was trapped just across the field yonder, in Goshall Springs, no later than yesterday morn- ing." Elurry was now thoroughly in earnest; and, indeed, the trapping of a vixen in Febru- ary is a serious thing. " Goshall Springs don't belong to me," said the archdeacon. "No, your reverence; they're on the Ulla- thorne property. But a word from your rever- ence would do it. Mr. Henry thinks more of tlie foxes than any tiling. The last word he told me was that it would break his heart if he saw the coppices drawn blank." ' ' Then he must break his heart. " The words were pronounced, but the archdeacon had so much command over himself as to speak them in such a voice that the man should not hear tliem. But it was incumbent on him to say 146 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. sonietliing iluit tlic man sliould hear. "I will have no incdillinn' in the matter, Flnrry. Wheth- er there are foxes or whether there arc not is matter of no f^reat moment. I will not have a word said to annoy IMr. Thornc." Then he rode away, back throngh the wood and out on to the road, and the horse walked with him leisurely on, whither the arelidcacon hardly knew — for he was thinking, thinking, thinking. "Well, if that ain't the darn'dest thing that ever was, " said Flurry ; " but I'll tell the squire about Thome's man — darned if I don't I" Now "the sfjuire" was young Squire Gresham, the master of the East Barsetshire hounds. But the archdeacon went on tliinking, think- ing, thinking. He could have heard nothing of his son to stir him more in his favor than this strong evidence of his partiality for foxes. I do not mean it to be understood that the arch- deacon regarded fo.xes as better than active charity, or a contented mind, or a meek spirit, or than self-denying temperance. No doubt all these virtues did hold in his mind their proper jilaccs, altogether beyond contamination of fox- es. But he had prided himself on thinking that his son should bo a country gentleman, and, probably nothing doubting as to tlie major's act- ive charity and other virtues, was delighted to receive evidence of those tastes which he had ever wished to encourage in his son's character. Or rather, such evidence would have delighted him at any other time than the present. Now it only added more gall to his cup. " Why should he teach himself to care for such things wiieu he has not the spirit to enjoy them ?" said the archdeacon to himself. "He is a fool — a fool. A man that has been married once, to go crazy after a little girl that has hardly a dress to her back, and who never was in a drawing- room in her life! Charles is the eldest, and he shall be the eldest. It will be better to keep it together. It is the way in which the country has become what it is." He was out nearly all day, and did not see his wife till dinner-time. Her father, Mr. Harding, was still with them, but had breakfitsted in his own room. Not a word, therefore, was said about Ilcnry Grantly between the father and mother on that even- ing. IMrs. Grantly was determined that, nnlesi? pro- voked, she would say nothing to him till the fol- lowing morning. He should sleep upon his wrath before she spoke to him again. And he was equally unwilling -to recur to the subject. Had she permitted it, the next morning would have passed away, and no word would have been spoken. But this would not have suited her. She had his orders to write, and she had un- dertaken to obey these orders — with the delay of one day. Were she not to write at all — or in writing to send no message from the father, there would be cause for further anger. And yet this, I think, was what the archdeacon wished. "Archdeacon," she said, "I shall write to Henry to-day." " Very well." " And what am I to say from yon ?" "I told you yesterday what are my inten- tions." "I am not asking about that now. Wc hope there will be years and years to come, in which you may change them, and shajie them as you will. What shall I tell him now from you ?" "I have nothing to say to him — nothing; not a word. lie knows what he has to expect from mc, for I have told him. He is acting with his eyes open, and so am I. If he marries Miss Crawley he must live on his own means. I told him that myself so jdainly that he can want no further intimation." Then INIrs. Grant- ly knew that she was absolved from the burden of yesterday's message, and she plumed herself on the jirudcnce of her conduct. On the same morning the archdeacon wrote the following note : "Dkak Tiiorxe, — My man tells me that foxes have been trapped on Darvell's farm, just outside the coppices. I know nothing of it my- self, but I am sure you'll look to it. "Yours always, "T. Gkan-tlt." itfw^s'iwM'^ CHAPTER XXXIV. MRS. PROUDIE SENDS TOR HEU LAWYER. i There was great dismay in Barchester Pal- ace after the visit paid to the bishop and Mrs. Proudie by that terrible clerical offender, Mr. Crawley. It will be remembered, perhaps, how he had defied the bishop with spoken words, and how he had defied the bishop's Avife by speaking no words to her. For the moment, no doubt. My. Crawley had the best of it. Mrs. Proudie acknowledged to herself that this was the case ; but as she was a woman who had never yet succumbed to an enemy, who had never — if on such an occasion I may be allowed to use THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAllSET. 147 a scliool-boy's slang — taken a licking from any- one, it was not likely that JNIv. Crawley would be lonjj allowed to enjoy his triuni])li in peace. It would 1)C odd if all the weigiit of the palace would not be able to silence a wretch of a ])cr- petual curate who bad already been committed to take his trial for thieving— and JMrs. Proudie was determined that all the weight of the palace should be used. As for the bishop, though be was not as angry as bis wife, he was quite as unhappy, and therefore quite as hostile to I\Ir. Crawley ; and was fully conscious that there could be no peace for him now iintil IMr. Craw- ley should be crushed. If only the assizes would' come at once, and get bim condemned out of the way, what a blessed thing it would be ! But unluckily it still wanted three months to the assizes, and during those three months Mr. Crawley would be at large and subject only to episcopal authority. During that time he could not be silenced by the arm of the civil law. His wife was not long in expressing ber opinion aft- er Mr. Crawley had left the palace. "You must proceed against bim in the Court of Arches — and that at once," said Mrs. Proudie. "You can do that, of course? I know that it will be ex])ensive. Of course it will be expensive. I suppose it may cost us some hundreds of pounds ; but duty is duty, my lord, and in such a case as this your duty as a bishop is paramount." The poor bishop knew iIku it was useless to explain to ber the various mistakes which she made — which she was ever making — as to the extent of his powers and the modes of procedure which were open to him. When he would do so she would onl}' rail at him for being luke- warm in his office, poor in spirit, and afraid of dealing roundly with those below him. On the present occasion he did say a word, but she would not even hear him to the end. " Don't tell me about rural deans, as if I didn't know. The rural dean has nothing to do with such a case. The man has been committed for trial. Send for J\Ir. Chadwick at once, and let steps be taken before you are an hour older." "But, my dear, Mr. Chadwick can do no- thing." "Then I will see Mr. Chadwick." And in her anger she did sit down and write a note to Mr. Chadwick, begging him to come over to her at the palace. Mr. Chadwick was a lawyer, living in Bar- chester, who earned his bread from ecclesiastical business. His father, and his uncle, and his grandfather and gramliincles, Iiad all been con- cerned in the affairs of the diocese of Barches- .ter. His uncle had been bailifl'to the episcopal estates, or steward as he had been called, in Bishop Grantly's time, and still contrived to draw his income in some shape from the prop- erty of the see. The nei)hew had also been the legal assistant of the bishop in his latter days, and had been continued in that position by Bishop Proudie, not from love, but from expe- diency. Mr. John Chadwick was one of those gentlemen, two or three of v.hom are to be seen in connection with every see — who seem to be hybrids — half lay, half cleric. They dross like clergymen, and aftect that mixture of clerical solemnity and clerical waggishness which is gen- erally to be found among minor canons and vicar chorals of a cathedral. They live, or at least have their offices, half in the Close and half out of it — dwelling as it were just on the borders of holy orders. They always wear white neck- handkerchiefs and black gloAcs; and would be altogether clerical in their ajipearance were it not that as regards the outward man they ira- ])inge somewhat on the characteristics of the un- dertaker. They savor of the church, but the savor is of the church's exterior. Any stranger thrown into chance contact with one of them would, from instinct, begin to talk of things ec- clesiastical without any reference to things the- ological or things religious They are always most worthy men, much respected in tlie society of the Close, and I never heard of one of them whose wife was not comfortable or Mhose chil- dren were left without provision. Such a one was Mr John Chadwick, and as it was a portion of his duties to acconijjany the ' bishop to consecrations and ordinations, he knew Dr. Proudie very well. Having been brought up, as it were, under the very wing of Bishop Grantly, it could not well he that he should love Bishop Grantly's successor. The old bishop and the new bishop had been so dif- ferent that no man could like, or even esteem, them both. But Mr. Chadwick was a prudent man, who knew well the source from which he earned his bread, and he had never quarreled with Bishop Proudie. He knew Mrs. Proudie also — of necessity- — and when I say of him that be had hitherto avoided any open quarrel with her, it will I think be allowed that he was a man of prudence and sngacity. But he had sometimes been sorely tried, and he felt when he got her note that he was now about to encounter a very sore trial. He muttered something which might -have been taken for an oath, were it not that the outward signs of the man gave warranty that no oath could proceed from such a one. Then he wrote a .short note ]iresenting his compliments to Mrs. Proudie, and saying that he would call at the palace at eleven o'clock on the following morn- ing. "But, in the mean time, Mrs. Proudie, who could not be silent on the subject for a moment, did learn something of the truth from ber hus- band. The information did not come to her in the way of instruction, but Avas teased out of the unfortunate man. "I know that you can proceed against him in the Court of Arches, under the ' Church Discipline Act,' " she said. "No, my dear, no," said the bishop, shaking his bead in his misery. "Or in the Consistori::! Court. It's all the same thing." "There must be an inquiry first — by his broth- er clergy. There must indeed. It's the only way of proceeding." 148 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. "But there has been an inquiry, and ho has been committed." " That does not signify, my dear. That's the Civil Law." "And if tlic Civil Law condemns him, and locks him up in prison — as it most certainly will do?" " But it liasn't done so yet, my dear. I really think that as it has gone so far it will be best to leave it as it is till he has taken his trial." "What ! leave him there after what occurred tliis morning in this palace?" The jmlace with Mrs. I'roudic was always a palace, and never a house. "No, no; ten thousand times, no. Are you not aware that he insulted you, and grossly, most grossly insulted me ? I was never treated witli such insolence by an}' clergyman before since I first came to this palace — never, never. And we know tlie man to be a thief — we absolutely know it. Tiiink, my lord, of the souls of iiis people!" "Oh dear! oh dear! oh dear!" said the bishop. " Why do you fret yourself in that way?" "Because you will get me into trouble. I tell you the only thing to be done is to issue a commission with the rural dean at the head of it." "Then issue a commission." "And they will take three months." "Why should they take three months ? Why should they take more than three days — or.thrce hours ? It is all plain sailing." "These things are never plain sailing, my dear. When a bishop has to oppose any of his clergy it is always made as difficult as possible." "More shame for them who make it so." "But it is so. If I were to take legal pro- ceedings against him, it would cost — oh dear! — more than a thousand pounds, I should say." " If it costs two, you must do it." Mrs. Prou- dic's anger was still very hot, or she would not have spoken of an unremunerative outlay of money in such language as tliat. In this manner slie did come to understand, before the arrival of Mr. Chadwick, that lier hus- band could take no legal steps towaril silencing Mr. Crawley until a commission of clergymen had been appointed to inquire into the matter, and that that commission should be headed by the rural dean within the limits of whose rural deanery the parish of Hogglestock was situated, or by some beneficed parochial clergyman of re- pute in the neighborhood. Now the rural dean was Dr. Tempest of Silverbridge — who had held that position before the coming of Dr. Proudic to the diocese ; and there had grown up in the bosom of Mrs. Proudie a strong feeling that un- due mercy had been shown to Mr. Crawley by the magistrates of Silverbridcc, of whom Dr. Tempest had been one. " These magistrates had taken bail for his appearance at the assizes, instead of committing him to prison at once — as they were bound to do, when such an offense as that had been committed by a clergyman. But , no — even though there was a clergyman among I them, they had thought nothing of the souls of the poor iicojile !" In such language Mrs. Prou- die had spoken of the affair at Silverbridge, and having once committed herself to such an opin- ion, of course she thought that Dr. Tempest would go through fire and water — would omit no stretch of what little judicial power might be committed to his hands — with tlie view of op- posing his bishop and maintaining the culprit in his position. "In such a case as this can not you name an acting rural dean yourself? Dr. Tempest, you know, is very old." "No, my dear; no, I can not." "You can ask Mr. Chadwick, at any rate, and then you could name Mr. Thumble." "But Mr. Thumble doesn't even hold a living in the diocese. Oh dear! oh dear! oh dear!" And so the matter rested until Mr. Chadwick came. Mrs. Proudie had no doubt intended to have Mr. Chadwick all to herself — at any rate so to encounter him in the first instance. But hav- ing been at length convinced that the inquiry by the rural dean was really necessary as a pre- liminary, and having also slcj)! upon the ques- tion of expenditure, she gave directions that the lawyer sliould be shown into tiie bishop's study, and she took care to be absent at the moment of his arrival. Of course she did not intend that Mr. Chadwick should leave the palace with- out having heard what slie had to say, but she thought that it would be well that lie should be made to conceive that though the summons had been written by her, it had really been intended on the part of the bishop. " Mr. Chadwick will be with you at eleven, bishop," she said, as she got up from the breakfast-table, at which she left his lordship with two of his daughters and with a married son-in-law,, a clergyman wlio was staying in the house. "Very well, my dear," said tlie bishop, with a smile — for he ' was anxious not to betray any vexation at his wife's interference before his daughters or the Rev. Mr. Tickler. But he understood it all. Mr. Chadwick had been sent for with reference to Mr. Crawley, and he was driven — absolutely driven, to propose to his lawyer tliat this com- mission of inquiry should be issued. Punctually at eleven Mr. Chadwick came, wearing a very long fiice as he entered the palace door — for he felt that he would in all pi'obability be now compelled to quarrel with Mrs. Proudie. Much he coukl bear, but there was a limit to his endurance. She had never absolutely sent for him before, though she had often interfered with him. "I shall have to tell her a bit of my mind," he said, as he stepped across the Close, habited in his best suit of black, with most exact white cravat, and yet looking not quite like a clergyman — with some touch of the undertaker in his gait. When he found that ho was shown into the bishop's room, and that the bishop was there — and the bishop only — his mind was relieved. It would have been better that the bishop should have written himself, or that the chaplain should have written in his lord- ship's name ; that, however, was a trifle. THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 149 But the l)ishop did not know what to say to him. If he intended to direct an inquiry to be made by the rural dean, it would be by no means becoming that lie should consult Mr. Chadwick as to doing so. It might be well, or if not well at any rate not improper, that he should make the application to Dr. Tempest through Mr. Ciiadwick ; but in that case he must give the order at once, and he still wished to avoid it if it were possible. Since he had been in the diocese no case so grave as this had been pushed upon him. The intervention of the rural dean in an ordinary way he had used — had been made to use — more than once by his wife. A vicar had been absent a little too long from one parish, and there had been rumors about brandy-and- water in another. Once he had been very near- ly in deep water because Mrs. Proudie had taken it in' dudgeon that a certain young rector, who had been left a widower, had a very pretty gov- erness for his children ; and there had been that case, sadly notorious in the diocese at the time, of our excellent friend Mr. Robarts of Farmley, when the bailiffs were in his house because he couldn't pay his debts — or rather, the debts of his friend for whom he had signed bills. But in all these cases some good fortune had intervened, and he had been saved from the terrible neces- sity of any ulterior process. But now — now he was being driven beyond himself, and all to no purpose. If Mrs. Proudie would only wait three months the civil law would do it all for him. But here was Mr. Chadwick in the room, and he knew that it would be useless for him to at- tempt to talk to Mr. Chadwick about other mat- ters, and so dismiss him'. The wife of his bo- som would be down upon them before Chadwick ' could be out of the room. ; "H — m — ha! How d'ye do, Mr. Chadwick — won't you sit down ?" Mr. Chadwick thanked his lordship, and sat down. "It's very cold, isn't it, Mr. Chadwick?" "A hard frost, my lord, but a beautiful day." "AVon't you come near the fire?" The bishop knew that Mrs. Proudie was on the road, and liad an eye to the proper strategical position of his forces. Mrs. Proudie would certainly take up her position in a certain chair from whence the light enabled her to rake her hus- band thoroughly. What advantage she might have from this he could not prevent — but he could so place Mr. Chadwick that the lawyer should be more within the reach of liis eye than that of his wife. So the bishop pointed to an anu-chair opposite to himself and near the fire, and ]\Ir. Chadwick seated himself accordingly. '•This is a very sad affair about Mr. Craw- ley," said the bishop. '•Very sad indeed," said the lawyer. "I never pitied a man so much in my life, my lord." This was not exactly the line which the bish- !']> was desirous of taking. "Of course he is to be pitied — of course he is. But from all I bear, Mr. Chadwick, I am afraid — I am afraid V c must not acquit him." "As to that, my lord, he has to stand his trial, of course." " But you see, Mr. Chadwick, regarding him as a beneficed clergyman — with a cure of souls — the question is whether I should be justified in leaving him where he is till his trial shall come on." " Of course your lordship knows best about that, but — " "I know there is a difficulty. I know that. But I am inclined to think that in the interests of the parish I am bound to issue a commission of inquiry." "I believe your lordship has attempted to si- lence him, and that he has refused to comply." " I thought it better for every body's sake — especially for his own, that he should for a while be relieved from his duties ; but he is an obstinate man, a very obstinate man. I made the attempt with all consideration for his feel- ings." ' ' He is hard put to it, my lord. I know the man and his pride. The dean has spoken of him to me more than once, and nobody knows him so well as the dean. If I might venture to offer an opinion — " "Good-morning, Mr. Chadwick," said Mrs. Proudie, coming into the room and taking her accustomed seat. "No, thank you, no; I will stay away from the fire, if you please. His lordship has spoken to you, no doubt, about this unfortunate, wretched man?" "We are speaking of him now, my dear." " Something must of course be done to put a stop to the crying disgrace of having such a man preaching from a pulpit in this diocese. When I think of the souls of the people in that poor village my hair literally stands on end. And then he is disobedient !" "That is the worst of it," said the bishop. " It would have been so much better for himself if he would have allowed me to provide quietly for the services till the trial be over." " I could have told you, my lord, that he would not do that from what 1 knew of him," said Mr. Chadwick. " But he must do it," said Mrs, Proudie. "He must be made to do it." "His lordship will find it difficult," said Mr. Chadwick. "I can issue a commission, you know, to the rural dean," said the bishop, mildly. "Yes, j-ou can do that. And Dr. Tempest in two months' time will have named his as- sessors — " "Dr. Tempest must not name them; the bishop must name them," said Mrs. Proudie. "It is customary to leave that to the rural dean," said Mr. Chadwick. "The bishop no doubt can object to any one named." " And can specially select any clergyman he ])leases from tlie archdeaconry," said the bishop. " I have kuown it done." "The rural dean in such case has probably been an old man, and not active," said the law- yer. 150 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. " And Dr. Tempest is a very old man," said Jlrs. Proudic, " and in such a matter not at all trust-worthy. He was one of the magistrates who took bail." "His lordship could hardly set him aside," said the lawyer. "At any rate I would not reconinicnd iiim to try. I tiiink you might sug- gest a commission of five, and propose two of the number yourself. I do not think that in such a case Dr. Tempest would raise any ques- tion." At last it was settled in this way. Mr. Chadwick was to prcjjarc a letter to Dr. Tem- pest, for the bishop's signature, in which the doctor should be requested, as the rural dean to whom Mr. Crawley was subject, to hold a com- mission of five to inquire into ISIr. Crawley's conduct. The letter was to exjilain to Dr. Tempest that the bishop, moved by his solic- itude for the souls of the jicople of Hogglestock, had endeavored, "in a friendly way," to induce Mr. Crawley to desist from his ministrations ; but that having failed through Mr. Crawley's ob- stinacy, he had no alternative but to proceed in this way. "You had better say that his lord- ship, as bishop of the diocese, can take no heed of the coming trial," said IMrs. I'roudic. " I think his lordship had better say nothing at all about the trial," said Mr. Chadwick. "I think that will be best," said the bishop. " But if they report against him," said ]\Ir. Chadwick, "you can only then proceed in the ecclesiastical court — at your own expense." " He'll hardly bo so obstinate as that," said the bishop. " I'm afraid you don't know him, my lord," said the lawyer. The bishop, thinking of the scene which had taken place in that very room only yesterday, felt that he did know Mr. Craw- ley, and felt also that the hope which ho had just expressed was one in which he himself put no trust. But something might turn up ; and it was devoutly to be hoped that Dr. Temiiest would take a long time over his inquiry. Tlie assizes might come on as soon as it was term- inated, or very shortly afterward ; and then every thing might be Avell. "You won't find Dr. Tempest very ready at it," said Mr. Chad- wick. The bishop in his heart was comforted by the words. " But he must be made to be ready to do his duty," said Mrs. Proudie, impe- riously. I\Ir. Chadwick slirugged his shoulders, then got up, spoke his farewell little speeches, and left the palace. CHAPTER XXXV. LILT DALIi WRITES TWO WORDS IN HER BOOK. John E.vmes saw nothing more of Lily Dale till he packed up his portmanteau, left his mo- ther's house, and went to stay for a few days with his old friend Lady Julia ; and this did not happen till he had been above a week at Guestwick. Mrs. Dale repeatedly said that it was odd that Johnny did not come to sec them ; and Grace, s])eaking of him to Lily, asked why he did not come. Lily, in her funny way, de- clared that he would come soon enough. But even wliile she was joking there was somctliing of half-expressed consciousness in her words — as though she felt it to be foolish to sjieak of his coming as she might of that of any other young man, before people who knew her whole story. "He'll come quick enough. He knows, and I know, that his coming will do no good. Of course I shall be glad to see him. Why shouldn't I be glad to see him? I've known him and liked him all my life. I liked hini when there did not seem to be much about him to like, and now that he is clever, and agreea- ble, and good-looking — which he never was as a lad — why shouldn't I go on liking him ? He's more like a brother to me than any body else I've got. James" — James was her brotlier-in- law. Dr. Crofts — " tliinks of nothing but his pa- tients and his babies, and my cousin Bernard is much too grand a person for me to take the lib- erty of loving him. I shall be very glad to sec Johnny Eames." From all which Mrs. Dale was led to believe that Johnny's case was still hopeless. And how should it not be hopeless? Had Lily not confessed within the last week or two that she still loved Adolphus Crosbie ? IMrs. Eamcs also, and Mar}', were surprise^ that John did not go over to Allington. "Yoa haven't seen ]Mrs. Dale yet, or the squire?" said his mother. " I shall see them when I am at the cottage."] "Yes; no doubt. But it seems strange that! you should be hei'e so long without going to, them." "There's time enough," said he. "I shall have nothing else to do when I'm at the cot- tage." Then, when Mary had spoken to him again in private, expressing a hope that there was "nothing wrong," he had been very angry^ with his sister. "What do you mean by wrong ? What rubbish you girls talk ! and you never have any delicacy of feeling to make you silent." "Oh, John, don't say such hard tilings as that of me !" " Biit I do say them. You'll make me swear among you some day that I will never see Lily Dale again. As it is, I wish I never had seem her — simply because I am so dunned about it.'^ In all of which I think that Johnny was manl festly wrong. When the humor was on him he was fond enougii of talking about Lily Dale Had he not taught her to do so, I doubt wheth-i er his sister would ever have mentioned Lily's name to him. "I did not mean to dun you John," said Mary, meekly. But at last he went to Lady Julia's, and wai no sooner there than he was ready to start foi Allington. When Lady Julia spoke to hin about Lily he did not venture to snub her Indeed, of all his friends. Lady Julia was th< one with whom on this subject he allowed him self the most unrestricted confidence. He cami THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAKSET. 151 over one day, just before dinner, and declared his intention of walking over to AUington im- mediately after breakfast on tlic followinp; morn- ing. "It's the last time, Lady Julia," he said. " So you say, Johnny." " And so I mean it ! "What's the good of a man frittering away his life? What's the good of wishing for what you can't get?" "Jacob was not in such a hurry when he wished for Rachel." "That was all very well for an old patriarch who had seven or eight hundred years to live." " My dear John, you forget your Bible. Jacob did not live half as long as that." "He lived long enough, and slowly enough, to be able to wait fourteen years ; and then he had sonictliing to comfort him in the mean time. And after all, Lady Julia, it's more than seven years since I "first thouglit Lily was the prettiest girl I ever saw." "How old are you now?" "Twenty-seven — and she's twenty-four." "You've time enough yet, if you'll only be patient." "I'll be patient for to-morrow. Lady Julia, but never again. Not that I mean to quarrel with her. . I'm not such a fool as to quarrel with a girl because she can't like me. I know how it all is. If that scoundrel had not come across my ])ath just when he did — in that very nick of time, all might have been right betwixt her and me. I couldn't have offered to marry her before, when I hadn't as much income as would have found her in bread-and-butter. And then, just as better times came to me, he stepped in ! I wonder whether it will be expected of me that I should forgive him?" "As far as that goes, you have no right to be angry with him." "But I am— all the same." "And so was I — but not for stepping in, as you call it." "You and I are different, Lady Julia. I was angry with him for stepping in ; but I couldn't show it. Then he stepped out, and I did manage to show it. And now I shouldn't wonder if lie doesn't step in again. After all, why should he have such a power? It was simply the nick of time which gave it to him." That John Eames should be able to find some iconsolation in this consideration is devoutly to be hoped by us all. There was nothing said about Lily Dale the •next morning at breakfast. Lady Julia ob- served tliat John was dressed a little more neatly than usual — though the change was not such as tij have called for her special observation had ^'le not known the business on which he was in- tent. "You have nothing to send to the Dales?" i;c said, as he got up from the table. '• Nothing but my love, Johnny." •■ No worsted or embroidery work — or a pot i" ^pocial jam for the squire?" ' "No, Sir, nothing; tliough I should like to kuake you carry a pair of panniers, if I could." "They would become me well, " said Johnny, "for I am going on an ass's errand." Then, without waiting for the word of affection which was on the old woman's lij)s, he got himself out of the room, and started on his journey. Tiie walk was only three miles, and the weather was diy and frosty, and he had come to the turn leading up to tlie church and the squire's house almost before he remembered that he was near AUington. Here he paused for a moment to think. If he continued his way down by the " Red Lion" and through Ailing- ton Street, he must knock at Mrs. Dale's door, and ask for admission by means of the servant — as would be done by any ordinary visitor. But he could make his way on to the lawn by going up beyond the wall of the church-yard and through the squire's garden. He knew the path well — very well; and he thought that he might take so much liberty as that, both with the squire and with Mrs. Dale, although his visits to AUington were not so frequent now as they used to bo in the days of his boyhood. He did not wish to be admitted by the servant, and therefore he went through the gardens. Luck- ily he did not see the squire, who would hare detained him, and he escaped from Hopkins, the old gardener, with little more than a word. " I'm going down to see the ladies, Hopkins ; I suppose I shall find them?-" And then, while Hopkins was arranging his spade so that he might lean upon it for a little chat, Johnny was gone and had made his M^aj^ into the other gar- den. He had thought it possible that he might meet Lily out among the walks by herself, and such a meeting as this Avould have suited him better than any other. And as he crossed the little bridge wliich separated the gardens he thought of more than one such meeting — of one especial occasion on which he had first ventured to tell her in plain words that he loved her. But before that day Crosbie had come there, and at the moment in which he was speaking of his love she regarded Crosbie as an angel of light upon the earth. What hope could there have been for him then ? What use was there in his telling such a tale of love at that time ? When he told it he knew that Crosbie had been before him. He knew that Crosbie was at that moment the angel of light. But as he had never before been able to speak of his love, so was he then unable not to speak of it. He had spoken, and of course had been simply rebuked. Since that day Crosbie had ceased to be an angel of light, and he, John Eames, had spoken often. But he had spoken in vain, and now he ^^xuld speak once again. He went through the garden and over the lawn belonging to the Small House and saw no one. He forgot, I think, that ladies do not come out to pick roses when the ground is frozen, and that croquet is not often in progress with the hoar-frost on the grass. So he walked up to the little terrace before the drawing-room, and looking in saw Jlrs. Dale, and Lily, and Grace at their morning work. Lily was draw- 152 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAKSET. in;^, ajul Mrs. Dale was writinj^, and Grace had her needle in her hand. As it happened, no one at first perceived him, and he had time to feci that after all he would have managed better if he had been announced in the usual way. As, however, it was now necessary that he should announce himself, he knocked at tlic window, and they all immediately looked up and saw him. "It's my cousin John," said Grace. "Oh, Johnny, how are you at last?" said Mrs. Dale. But it was Lily who, without sjicaking, opened the. window for him, who was the first to give him her hand, and who led him through into the room. " It's a great shamo my coming in this way," said John, "and letting all the cold air in upon you." " We shall survive it," said Mrs. Dale. " I suppose you have just come down from my broth- er-in-law ?" "No; I have not seen the squire as yet. I will do so before I go back, of course. But it seemed such a commonplace sort of thing to go round by the village." "We arc very glad to see you, by whatever way von como — arc we not, mamma?" said Lily. " "I'm not so sure of that. We were only saying yesterday that as you had been in the country a fortnight without coming to us, we did not think we would be at homo when you did come." "But I have caught you, you see," said Johnny. And so they went on, chatting of old times and of mutual friends very comfortably for full an hour. And there was some serious conver- sation about Grace's father and his affairs, and John declared his opinion that Mr. Crawley ought to go to his uncle, Thomas Toogood, not at all knowing at that time that Mr. Crawley himself had come to the same opinion. And John gave them an elaborate description of Sir llaffleBuffle, standing up with his back to the fire with his hat on his head, and speaking with a loud, harsh voice, to show them the way in which he declaimed that that gentleman received his inferiors ; and then bowing and scraping and rubbing his hands together and simpering with would-be softness — declaring that after that fashion Sir Raffle received his superiors. And they were very merry — so that no one would have thought that Johnn/ was a de- spondent lover, now bent on throwing the dice for his last stake ; or that Lily was aware that she was in the presence of one lover, and that she was like to fall to the gi'ound between two stools — having two lovers, neither of whom conld serve her turn. "How can you consent to serve him if he's such a man as that?" said Lily, speaking of Sir Raffle. " I do not serve him. I serve the Queen — or rather the public. I don't take his wages, and he does not play his tricks with me. He knows that he can't. lie has tried it, and has failed. And he only keeps me where I am be- cause I've had some money left me. He thinks it fine to have a private secretary with a for- tune. I know that he tells people all manner of lies about it, making it out to be five times as much as it is. Dear old Iluffle Snuffle. He is such an ass ; and yet he's had wit enough to get to the top of the tree, and to keep himself there. He began the world without a penny. Now he has got a handle to his name, and ho'U live in clover all his life. It's very odd, isn't it, Mrs. Dale ?" " I suppose he docs his work?" " When men get so high as that, there's no knowing whether they work or whether they don't. There isn't much for them to do, as far as I can see. They have to look beautiful, and frighten the young ones." "And does Sir Raffle look beautiful?" Lily asked. "After a fashion, he docs. There is some- thing imposing about such a man till you're used to it, and can see through it. Of course it's all padding. There are men who work, no doubt. But among the bigwigs, and bishops, and cabinet ministers I fancy that the looking beautiful is the chief part of it. Dear me, you don't mean to say it's luncheon-time?" But it was lunclieon-time, and not only had he not as yet said a word of all that which he had come to say, but had not as yet made any move toward getting it said. How was he to arrange that Lily should be left alone with him ? Lady Julia had said that she should not expect him back till dinner-time, and he had answered her lackadaisically, " I don't suppose I shall be there above ten minutes. Ten minutes will say all I've got to say, and do all I've got to do. And then I suppose I shall go and cut names about upon bridges — eh. Lady Julia?" Lady Julia understood his words ; for once, upon a former occasion, she had found him cutting Lily's name on the rail of a wooden bridge in her brother's grounds. But he had now been a couple of hours at the Small House, and had not said a word of that which he had come to say. "Are you going to walk out with us aftet lunch ?" said Lily. "He will have had walking enough," said Mrs. Dale. "We'll convoy him back part of the way," said Lily. "I'm not going yet," said Johnny, "unless you turn me out." "But we must have our walk before it is dark," said Lily. " You might go up with him to your uncle,' said Mrs. Dale. " Indeed, I promised to go UJ myself, and so did you, Grace, to see the mi- croscope. I heard Mr. Dale give orders tha one of those long-lqgged reptiles should b, caught on purpose for your inspection." ' Mrs. Dale's little scheme for bringing the twi together was very transparent, but it was no the less wise on that account. Schemes wil. THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 153 often be successful, let tliem be ever so trans- parent. Little intrigues become necessary, not to conquer nnwilling people, but people who are willing enough, who, nevertheless, can not give way except under the machinations of an intrigue. "I don't think I'll mind looking at the long- legged ci-caturc to-day," said Johnny. "I must go, of course," said Grace. Lily said nothing at the moment either about the long-legged creature or the walk. That wJiich must be, must be. She knew well why John Eames had come there. She knew that the visits to his mother and to Lady Julia would never have been made but that he might hava' this interview. And he had a right to demand', at any rate, as much as that. That which must be, must be. And therefore when both Mrs. Dale and Grace stoutly maintained their purpose of going up to the squire, Lily neither attempted to persuade John to acconijiany them, nor said that she would do so herself. "I will convoy you homo myself," she said, " and Grace, when she has done with the beetle, shall come and meet me. Won't you, Grace ?" " Certainly." " "We arc not helpless young ladies in these parts, nor yet timorous," continued Lily. "We can walk about without being afraid of ghosts, robbers, wild bulls, young men, or gipsies. Come the field-path, Grace. I will go as far as tlic big oak with him, and then I shall turn back, and I shall come in by the stile opposite the church gate, and through the garden. So you can't miss me." "I dare say he'll come back with yon," said Grace. " No, he won't. lie will do nothing of the kind. He'll have to go on and open Lady Julia's bottle of port-wine for his own drink- ing." All tliis was very good on Lily's part, and very good also on the part of Mrs. Dale ; and John was of course very much obliged to them. But there was a lack of romance in it all which did not seem to him to argue well as to his success. He did not think much about it, but he felt that Lily would not have been so ready to arrange their walk had she intended to yield to his en- treaty. No doubt in these latter days plain good sense had become the prevailing mark of her char- acter — perhaps, as Johnny thought, a little too strongly prevailing ; but even with all her plain good sense anddetermination to dispense with the absurdities of romance in the aflfairs of her life, she would not have proposed herself as his com- panion for a walk across the fields merely that she miglit have an opportunity of accei)ting his hand. lie did not say all this to himself, but lu' instinctively felt that it was so. And he felt also that it should have been his duty to arrange the walk, or the proper oi>portunity for the scene that was to come. She had done it instead — she and her mother between them — thereby for- cing upon him a painful conviction that he lam- self had not been equal to the occasion. "I always make a mull of it," he s.iid to himself, when tlie girls went up to get their hats. They went down together through the gar- den, and parted where tiie paths led away, one to the Great House and the other toward the church. "I'll certainly come and call upon the squire before I go back to London," said Johnny. "We'll tell him so," said Mrs. Dale. "He would be sure to hear that you had been with us, even if we said nothing about it." "Of course he would," said Lily ; " Hopkins has seen him." Then they separated, and Lily and John Eames were togetlicr. Hardly a word was said, perhaps not a word, till they had crossed the road and got into the field opposite to the churcli. And in this first field there was more than one path, and the cliildrcn of the village were often there, and it had about it something of a public nature. John Eames felt that it was by no means a fitting field to say that which he had to say. In crossing it, there- fore, he merely remarked that the day was very fine for walking. Then he added one special word, " And it is so good of you, Lily, to come with me." " I am very glad to come with you. I would do more than that, John, to show how glad I am to see you." Then they had come to the second little gate, and beyond that tlie fields were really fields, and there were stiles instead of wicket-gates, and the business of the day must be begun. "Lily, whenever I come here you say you are glad to see me." " And so I am — very glad. Only you would take it as meaning what it does not mean, I would tell you, that of all of my friends living away from the reach of my daily life, you are tlie one whose coming is ever the most j)leasant to me." "Oh, Lily!" "It was, I think, only yesterday that I was telling Grace that you arc more like a brother to me than any one else. I wish it might be so. I wish we might swear to be brother and sister. I'd do more for you then than walk aci'oss the fields witii you to Guestwick Cottage. Your jn-osperity would then be the thing in tlie world for which I should be most anxious. And if you should many — " "It can never be like that between us," said Johnny. " Can it not? I think it cnn. Perhaps not this year, or next year; perhaps not in the next five years. But I make myself happy witli thinking that it may be so some day. I shall wait for it patiently, very patiently, even though you should rebuff me again and again — as you have done now." "I have not rebuffed you." "Not maliciously, or injuriously, or offens- ively. I will bo very ])atient, and take little rebuffs without complaining. Tiiis is the worst stile of all. When Grace and I are here to- gether we can never manage it without tearing 154 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. LILY WISIIF.S TIIAX TUEY .MKillT BWEAH TO UK UUOTUEE AM> SISTICK. ouvsclvcs all to pieces. It is much nicer to have you to help me." "Let me help you always," he said, keeping her hands in his after he had aided her to jump from the stile to the ground. "Yes, as my brother." " That is nonsense, Lily." " Is it nonsense ? Nonsense is a hard word." " It is nonsense as coming from you to me. Lily, I sometimes think that I am persecuting you, writing to you, coming after you, as I am doing now — telling the same whining story- asking, asking, and asking for that whicli you say you will never give me. And then I feel ashamed of myself, and swear that I will do it no more." "Do not be ashamed of yourself; but yet do it no more." ■ " And then," he continued, without minding her words, "at other times I feel that it must be my own fault; that if I only persevered with sufficient energy I must be successful. At THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. such times I swear that I will never give it up." " Oh, John, if you could only know how little wortliy of such pursuit it is." "Leave me to judge of tliat, dear. When a man has taken a month, or perhaps only a week, or perhaps not more than half an hour, to make up his mind, it may be very well to tell him that he doesn't know what he is about. I've been in the office now for over seven years, and the first day I went I put an oath into a book that I would come back and get you for my wife when I had got enough to live upon." "Did you, John ?" " Yes. I can show it you. I used to come and hover about the place in the old days, be- fore I went to London, when I was such a fool that I couldn't speak to you if I met you. I am speaking of a time long before — before that man came down here." "Do not speak of him, Johnny." " I must speak of him. A man isn't to hold his tongue when every thing he has in the world is at stake. I suppose he loved you after a fashion once." "Pray, pray do not speak ill of him." "I am not going to abuse him. You can judge of him by his deeds. I can not say any thing worse of him than what they say. I sup- pose he loved you ; but lie certainly did not love you as I have done. I have at any rate been true to you. Yes, Lily, I liave been true to j'ou. I am true to you. He did not know what he was about. I do. I am justified in saying that I do. I want you to be my wife. It is no use your talking about it as though I only half wanted it." "I did not say that." "Is not a man to have any reward? Of course if you had married him there would have been an end of it. lie had come in be- tween me and my happiness, and I must have j borne it, as other men bear such sorrows. But I you have not married him ; and, of course, I can not but feel that I may yet have a chance. I Lily, answer me this. Do you believe that I lo ve you i But she did not answer him. "You can at any rate tell me tliat. Do you think that I am in earnest ?" "Yes, I think you are in earnest." " And do you believe that I love you with all ? "Oh, John!" [ "But do you?" I " I think you love me." " Think ! what am I to say or to do to make you understand that my only idea of happiness j is the idea that sooner or later I may get you I to be my wife ? Lily, will you say that it shall j :be so? Speak, Lily. There is no one that j jwill not be glad. Your uncle will consent — | I has consented. Your mother wishes it. Bell j ■wishes it. My mother wishes it. Lady Julia \ Bwishes it. Y''ou would be doing what every Ibody aliout you wants you to do. And why [should you not do it? It isn't that you dislike me. You wouldn't talk about being my sister if you had not some sort of regard for me." " I have a regard for you." " Then why will you not be my wife? 0!i, Lily, say the word now, here, at once. Say the word, and you'll make me the happiest fellow in all England." As he spoke he took her by both arms, and held her fast. She did not strug- gle to get away from him, but stood quite still, looking into his face, while the first sparkle of a salt tear formed itself in each eye. " Lily, one little word will do it — half a word, a nod, a smile. Just touch my arm with your hand and I will take it for a yes." I think that she almost tried to touch him ; that the word was in her throat, and that she almost strove to speak it. But there was no syllable spoken, and her fingers did not loose themselves to fall upon his sleeve. "Lily, Lily, what can I say to you ?" "I wish I could," she whispered — but the whisper was so hoarse that he hardly recognized the voice. "And why can you not? "What is there to hinder you? There is nothing to hinder you, Lily." "Yes, John ; there is that which must hinder me." "And what is it?" " I will tell you. You arc so good and so true, and so excellent — such a dear, dear, dear friend, that I will tell you every thing, so that you may read my heart. I will tell you as I tell mamma — you and her and no one else — for you are the choice friend of my heart. I can not be your wife because of the love I bear for another man." "And that man is he — he who came here?'' "Of course it is he. I think, Johnny, j-ou and I are alike in this, that when we have loved we can not bring oui'selvcs to change. You will not change, though it would be so much better you should do so." "No ; I will never change." " Nor can I. When I sleep I dream of him. When I am alone I can not banish him from my thoughts. I can not define what it is to love him. I want nothing from him — nothing, no- thing. But I move about tlnough my little ■world thinking of him, and I shall do so to the end. I used to feel proud of my love, though it made me so wretched that I thought it would kill me. I am not proud of it any longer. It is a foolish, poor-spirited weakness — as though my heart had been only half formed in the mak- ing. Do you be stronger, John. A man should be stronger than a woman." " I have none of that sort of strength." " Nor have I. What can we do but pity each other, and swear that we will be friends — dear friends ? There is the oak-tree and I have got to turn back. AVe have said every thing that we can say — unless you will tell me that you will be my brother." "No; I will not tell you that." " Good-by, then, Johnny." He paused, holding her by the hand and 156 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. thinkinfj of another question wliicli he longed to i)ut to lier — considering whether lie would ask her tliiit question or not. lie hardly know wliether he were entitled to ask it — whether or no the askinj^ of it would he ungenerous. She had said that slie would tell him every thing — as she had told every thing to her mother. "Of course," he said, "I have no right to ex- ])cct to know any thing of your future inten- tions ?" '•Yon may know them all — as far as I know tlicm myself. I have said that you should read my heart." "If this man, whose name I can not bear to mention, should come again — " •'If he were to come again ho would come in vain, John." She did not say that he had come again. She could tell her own secret, but not that of anotlier person. "You would not marry him now that he is free?" She stood and thought a while before she an- swered him. " No, I should not ma^Ty him now. I think not." Then she jiaused again. "Nay, I am sure I would not. After what has passed I could not trust myself to do it. There is my hand on it. I will not." "No, Lily, I do not want that." " But I insist. I will not marry Mr. Crosbie. But you must not misunderstand me, John. Tiiere — all that is over for me now. All those dreams about love, and marriage, and of a house of my own, and children — and a cross husband, and a wedding-ring growing always tighter as I grow fatter and older. I have dreamed of such things as other girls do — more perhaps than oth- er girls, more than I should have done. And now I accept the thing as finished. You wrote something in your book, you dear John — some- thing that could not be made to come true. Dear John, I wish for your sake it was other- wise. I will go home and I will write in my book, this very day, Lilian Dale, Old Maid. If ever I make that false, do you come and ask me for the page." "Let it remain there till I am allowed to tear it out." "I will write it, and it shall never be torn out. You I can not marry. Him I will not marry. You may believe me, Johnny, when I say there can never be a third." " And is that to be the end of it ?" " Yes ; that is to be the end of it. Not the end of our friendshi]). Old maids have friends." " It shall not be the ei\d of it. There shall be no end of it with me." " But, John — " "Do not sujtpose that I will trouble you again — at any rate not for a while. In five years' time, perhaps — " "Now, Johnny, you are laughing at me. And of course it is the best way. If there is not Grace, and she has caught me before I have turned back. Good-by, dear, dear John ! God bless you I I think you tlic finest fellow there is in the world. I do, and so does mam- ma. Remember always that there is a temple at Allington in wliich your worship is never for- gotten." Then she jjresscd his hand, and turned away from him to meet Grace Crawley. John did not stop to speak a word to his cousin, but ])ursucd his way alone. "That cousin of yours," said Lily, "is sim- l)ly the dearest, warmest-hearted, finest creat- ftvc that ever was seen in the sliape of a man." " Have you told him that you think him so?" said Grace. "Indeed I have," said Lily. "But have you told this finest, warmest, dearest creature tiiat he shall be rewarded with the j)rize he covets'?" "No, Grace, I have told him nothing of the kind. I think he understands it all now. If he does not, it is not for the want of my telling him. r don't supjiose any lady was ever more open-spoken to a gentleman than I ha\e been to him." "And why have you sent him away disap- pointed ? You know you love him." "You see, my dear," said Lily, "you allow yourself, for the sake of your argument, to use a word in a double sense, and you attempt to confound me by doing so. But I am a great deal too clever for you, and have thought too much about it to be taken in in that way. I certainly Jove your cousin John ; and 50 I do love Mr. Boyce, the vicar." " You love Johnny much better than you do Mr. Boyce." " True ; very much better ; but it is tlie same sort of love. However, it is a great deal too deep for you to understand. You're too young, and I sha'n't try to explain it. But the long and the short of it is — I am not going to marry your cousin." " I wish you were," said Grace, "with all my heart." John Eames as he returned to the cottage was by no means able to fall back upon those resolutions as to his future life which he had formed for himself and communicated to his friend Dalrymple, and which he had intended to bring at once into force in the event of his being again rejected by Lily Dale. " I will cleanse my mind of it altogether," he had said, "and though I may not forget her, I will live as though she were forgotten. If she declines my proposal again, I will accept her word as final. I will not go about the world any lon- ger as a stricken deer— to be pitied or else bul- lied by the rest of the herd." On his way down to Guestwick he had sworn twenty times that it should be so. He would make one more effort, and then he would give it up. But now, after fhis interview with Lily, he was as little disposed (to give it up as ever. He sat upon a gate in a paddock through whicii there was a back entrance into Lady Ju- lia's garden, and tliere swore a thousand oaths that he would never give her up. He was, at any rate, sure that she would never become the wife of any one else. He was equally sure that THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 157 ]ie would never become tlic husband of any oth- er wife. He could trust her. Yes; he was sure of that. But could he trust himself? Com- muning with himself, he told himself that after all he was but a poor creature. Circumstances had been very good to him, but he had done nothing for himself. He was vain, and fool- ish, and unsteady. So lie told himself while sitting upon the gate. But he had, at any rate, been constant to Lily, and constant he would remain. Ho would never more mention her name to any one — unless it were to Lady Julia to- night. To Dalrym]ile he would not open his mouth about her, but would plainly ask his friend to be silent on that subject if her name should be mentioned by him. But morning and evening he would pray for her, and in liis prayers he would always think of her as his wife. He would never speak to another girl without remembering that he was bound to Lily. He would go nowhere into society without re- calling to mind the fact that he was bound by the chains of a solemn engagement. If he knew himself he would be constant to Lily. And then he considered in what manner it would be best and most becoming that he should still ]n-osccute his endeavor and repeat his offer. He thought that he would write to her every 3'ear, on the same day of the year, year after year, it might be for the next twenty years. And his letters should be very simple. Sitting there on the gate he planned the wording of his letters — of his first letter, and of his second, and of his third. They should be very like to each other — should hardly be more than a repetition of the same words. "If now you are ready for me, then, Lily, am I, as ever, still ready for you." And then '"if now" again, and again "if now — and still if now." When his hair should be gray, and the wrinkles on his cheeks — ay, though they should be on hers, he would still continue to tell her from year to year that lie was ready to take her. Surely some day that " if now" would prevail. And should it never prevail, the merit of his constancy should be its own reward. Such letters as those she would surely keep. Then he looked forward, down into the valley of coming years, and fancied her as she might sit reading them in the twilight of some long evening — letters which had been written all in vain. He thought that he could look forward with some satisfaction toward the close of his own career, in having been the hero of such a .love-story. At any rate, if such a story were to be his story, the melancholy attached to it should arise from no fault of his own. He would still press her to be his wife. And then, as he remembered that he was only twenty- seven and that she was twenty-four, he began to marvel at the feeling of gray old age which had come upon him, and tried to make himself believe that he would have her yet before the i bloom was off her check. He went into the cottage and made his way at once into the room in whicli Lady Julia was sitting. She did not speak at hrst, but looked anxiously into his face. And he did not speak, but turned to a table near the window and took up a book, though the room, was too dark for him to see to read the words. "John," at last said Lady Julia. "Well, my lady?" "Have you nothing to tell me, John?" "Nothing on earth — except the same old story, which has now become a matter of course." " But, John, will you not tell me what she has said ?" "Lady Julia, she has said no; simply no. It is a very easy word to say, and she has said it so often that it seems to come from her quite naturally." Then he got a candle and sat down over the fire with a volume of a novel. It was not yet past five, and Lady Julia did not go up stairs to dress till six, and therefore there was an hour during which they ^vere together. John had at first been rather grand to his old friend, and very uncommunicative. But before the dressing-bell had rung he had been coaxed into a confidential strain and had told every thing. " I suppose it is wrong and selfish," he said. "I suppose I am a dog in a manger. But I do own that there is a consolation to me in the assurance that she will never be the wife of that scoundrel." "I could never forgive her if she were to marry him now," said Lady Julia. " I could never forgive him. But she has said that she will not, and I know that she will not forswear herself. I shall go on with it, Lady Julia. I have made up my mind to that. I suppose it will never come to any thing, but I shall stick to it. I can live an old bachelor as well as another man. At any rate I shall stick to it." Then the good, silly old woman com- forted him and applauded him as though he were a hero among men, and did reward him, as Lily had predicted, by one of those now rare bottles of superexcellent port which had come to her from her brother's cellar. John Eames staid out his time at the cottage, and went over more than once again to Alling- ton, and called on tlic squire, on one occasion dining with him and meeting the three ladi,es from the Small House ; and he walked with the girls, comporting himself like any ordinary man. But lie was not again alone with Lily Dale, nor did he learn whether she had in truth written those two words in her book. But the reader may know that she did write them there on the evening of the day on which the prom- ise was made. "Lilian Dale — Old Maid." And when John's holiday was over he re- turned to his duties at the elbow of Sir Kafiio Buftle. THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. '* 'Mi; CHAPrLR XXX VL GKACK CKAAVLET RETCKXS HOME. Ar.oi'T this time Grace Crawley received two letters, the first of them reaching lier wliile John Eames was still at the cottage, and the other immediately after his return to London. They hotli help to tell our story, and our reader shall," tliercfore, read them if he so please — or rather, lie shall read the first and as much of the second as is necessary for him. Grace's answer to the first letter Kc shall see also. Iler answer to the second will he told in a very few words. The first was from Major Grantly, and the task of answering that was hy no means easy to Grace. " C08BT Lodge, — February, ISfi-. "Dearest Grace, — I told you when I part- ed from you that I should write to you, and I think it hest to do so at once, in order that yon may fully understand me. Spoken words are soon forgotten" — "I shall never forget his words," Grace said to herself as she read this — ".and are not always as plain as they might be. Dear Grace, I sujjpose I ought not to say so, but I fancied wlien I parted from you at Ailing- ton that I had succeeded in making myself dear to you. I believe you to be so true in spirit that you were unable to conceal from me the fact tliat you love me. I shall believe that this is so till I am deliberately and solemnly assured by yourself that it is not so — and I conjure you to think what is due both to yourself and to my- self, before you allow yourself to think of mak- ing such an assurance unless it be strictly true. "I have already told my own friends that I have asked you to be my wife. I tell you this in order that you may know how little cftect ^■our answer to mc has had toward inducing me to give you up. "What you said about your fa- ther and your family has no weight with nie, and ought ultimately to have none with you. This business of your father's is a great misfor- tune — so great that, probably, had we not known each other beft)re it happened, it might have pre- vented our becoming intimate when we chanced to meet. But we had met before it hajipened, and before it happened I had determined to ask you to be my wife. What should I have to think of myself if I allowed my heart to be al- tered by such a cause as that? " I have only further to say that I love you better than any one in the world, and tliat it is my best hojje that you will be my wife. I will not press you till this affair of your father's has been settled ; but when that is over I shall look for my reward without reference to its result. Not that I doubt the result if there be any thing like justice in England ; but that your debt to me, if you owe mc any debt, will be altogether irrespective of that. If, as I suppose, you will remain at Allington for some time longer, I shall not see you till after the trial is over. As soon as that is done I will come to you wher- ever you are. In tlic mean time I sliall look for an answer to this : and if it be true that vou love me, dear, dear Grace, pray have the cour- age to tell me so. " Most afiectionately your own, "Henry Grantly." When the letter was given to Grace across the breakfast-table both Mrs. Dale and Lily sus- pected that it came from Major Grantly, but not a word was spoken about it. When Grace with hesitating hand broke the envelope neither of her friends looked at her. Lily had a letter of her own, and Mrs. Dale opened the newspa- per. But still it was impossible not to perceive that her face became red with blushes, and then they knew that the letter must be from Major Grantly. Grace herself could riot read it, though her eye ran down over the two pages, catching a word here and a word there. She had looked at the name at once, and had seen the manner of his signature. " Most affectionately your own !" What was she to say to him ? Twice, thrice, as she sat at the breakfost-table she turned the page of the letter, and at each turning she read the signature. And she read the beginning, "Dearest Grace." More than that she did not really read till she had got the letter away with her into the seclusion of her own room. Not a word was said about the letter at bre.ik- fast. Poor Grace went on eating or ])retending to eat, but could not bring herself to utter a word. IMrs. Dale and Lily spoke of various matters which were quite indifferent to them; but even with them the conversation was so dif- ficult that Grace felt it to be forced, and was conscious that they were thinking about her and her lover. As soon as she could make an excuse she left the room, and hurrying up stairs took the letter from her pocket and read it in earnest. ' "That Avas from Major Grantly, mamma," said Lily. " I dare say it was, my dear." THE LAST CimONICLE OF BARSET. 159 "And what had wc better do; or \v!iat had we better say ?" " Nothing— I should say. Let him fight his own battle. If we interfere we may probably only make her more stubborn in clinging to her old idea." " I think she will cling to it." "For a time she will, I dare say. And it will be best that she should. He himself will respect her for it afterward." Thus it was agreed between them that they should say no- thing to Grace about the letter unless Grace should first speak to them. Grace read her letter over and over again. It was the first love-letter she had ever had — the first letter she had ever received fi-om any man except her father and brother — the first, al- most, that had ever been written to her by any other than her own old special friends. The words of it were very strange to her ear. He had told her when he left her that he would write to her, and therefore slie had looked forward to the event which had now come ; but she had thought that it would be much more distant — and she had tried to make herself believe that when it did come it would be very different ICO THE LAST CIIKONICLE OF BARSET. from tliis letter wliicli she now possessed. "lie will tell nic that he has altered his mind. He oiiiilit to do so. It is not proper that he should still think of me when we are in such disj,'racc." But now tlic letter had come, and she acknowl- cdy gone away to his lady-love. "You must not. judge him as you do other men." "That is just it," said Mr. Walker. " AnJ to what result will that bring us?" "That we ought to stretch a point in his fa-, vor," said Toogood. "But why?" asked the attorney from Silver- bridge. "What do w^e mean when we say that one man isn't to be trusted as another? We simply imply that he is not what we call respons- ible." "And I don't think Jlr. Crawley is responsi- ble," said Johnny. " Then how can he be fit to have charge of a parish?" said Mr. Walker. "You see where the difficulty is. How it embarrasses one all round. The amount of evidence as to the check is, I tliink, sufficient to get a verdict in an or- dinary case, and the Crown has no alternative but so to treat it. Then his friends come for- ward — and from sympathy with his sufferings I desire to be ranked among the number — and say, ' Ah ! but you should spare this man, be- THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 17; cause he is not responsible.' Were he one who filled no jtoiition requiring special rcsi)onsil)i]ity that niiglit be very well. His friends might un- dertake to look after him, and the prosecution might perhaps be smotliered. But Mr. Crawley holds a living, and if he escape he will be tri- umphant — especially triumjihant over the bish- op. Now, if he has really taken this money, and if his only excuse be that he did not know when he took it whether he was stealing or whether he was not — for the sake of justice that ouglit not to be allowed." So spoke Mr. Walker. ''You think he certainly did steal the mon- ev?" said Johnny. "You have heard the evidence, no doubt?" said Mr. Walker. "I don't feel quite sure about it j'et," said Mr. Toogood. "Quite sure of what?" said JNIr. Walker. " That the check was dropped in his house." "It was at any rate traced to his hands." "I have no doubt about that," said Toogood. "And he can't account for it," said Walker. "A man isn't bound to show where he got his money," said Johnny. "Suppose that sov- ereign is marked" — and Johnny produced a coin from his pocket — "and I don't know but what it is ; and suppose it is proved to have belonged to some one who lost it, and then to be traced to my hands — how am I to say where I got it ? If I were asked I should simply decline to an- swer." " But a check is not a sovereign, Mr. Eames," said Walker. "It is presumed that a man can account for the possession of a check. It may be that a man should have a check in his pos- session and not be able to account for it, and should yet be open to no grave suspicion. In ' such a case a jury has to judge. Here is the fact : that Mr. Crawley has the check, and brings I it into use some considerable time after it is drawn ; and the additional fact that the drawer of the check had lost it, as he thought, in Mr. Crawley's house, and had looked for it there, soon after it was drawn, and long before it was paid. A jury must judge; but, as a lawyer, I should say that the burden of disproof lies with Mr. Crawley." "Did you find out any thing, Mr. Walker," said Toogood, "about the man who drove Mr. Soames that day?" " No — nothing." "The trap was from 'The Dragon' at Bar- chester, I think?" "Yes— from 'The Dragon of Wantly.'" " A respectable sort of house ?" "Pretty well for that, I believe. I've heard that the people are poor," said Jlr. Walker. "Somebody told me that they'd had a queer lot about the house, and that three or four of them left just then. I think I heard that two or three men from the place went to New Zea- land together. It just came out in conversation' while I was in the inn-yard." "I have never heard any thing of it," said Mr. Walker. "I don't say that it can help us." " I don't see that it can," said Mr. Walker. After that there was a pause, and Mr. Too- good pushed about the old port, and made some very stinging remarks as to the claret-drinking propensities of the age. " Gladstone claret the most of it is, I fancy," said Mr. Toogood. "I find that port-wine which my father bought in the wood five-and-twenty years ago is good enough for me." Mr. Walker said that it was quite good enough for him, almost too good, and that he thought that he had had enough of it. The host threatened another bottle, and was up to draw the cork — rather to the satisfaction of John Eames, who liked his uncle's port — but Mr. Walker stopped him. "Not a drop more for me," he said. "You are quite sure?" "Quite sure." And Mr. Walker moved to- ward the door. "It's a great pity, Mr. Walker," said Too- good, going back to the old subject, "that this dean and his wife should be away." "I understand that they will both be home before the trial," said Mr. Walker. "Yes — but you know how very important it is to learn beforehand exactly what yoiu- wit- nesses can prove and what they can't prove. And moreover, though neither the dean nor his wife might perhaps be able to tell us any thing themselves, they might help to put us on the proper scent. I think I'll send somebody after them. I tliiidi I will." " It would be a heavy expense, Mr. Toogood." "Yes," said Toogood, mournfully, tliinking of the twelve children; "it would be a heavy expense. Bat I never like to stick at a thing when it ought to be done. I think I shall send a fellow after them." "I'll go," said Johnny. "How can you go ?" " 111 make old Snuffle give me leave." " But will that lessen the expense ?" said Mr. Walker. "Well, yes, I think it will," said John, mod- estl}'. "Sly nephew is a rich man, Mr. Walker," said Toogood. "That alters the case," said Mr. Walker. And thus, before they left the dining-room, it was settled that John Eames should be taught his lesson and should seek both Mrs. Arabia and Dr. Arabin on their travels. CHAPTER XLI. GRACE CRAWLEY AT HOME. Ox the morning after his return from London Mr. Crawley showed symptoms of great fatigue, and his wife implored him to remain in bed. But this he would not do. He would get up and go out down to the brick-fields. He had specially bound himself, he said, to see that the duties of the parish did not sufi'cr by being left in his hands. The bishop had endeavored to place them in other hands, but he had persisted i:g THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. in vetaining tliem. As he had clone so he could allow no weariness of his own to interfere — and especially no weariness induced by labors un- dertaken on his own behalf. The day in the week had come round on which it was his wont to visit the bricknnikers, and he would visit them. ?o he drajrged himself out of his bed and went forth amidst tlie cold storm of a harsh wet Marcli morning. His wife well knew when she heard his lirst word on that morning tliat one of tliosc terrible moods liad come upon him which made her doubt whether she ought to al- low him to go any whore alone. Latterly there had been some imjirovement in his mental health. Since the day of his encounter with tlic bishop and Mrs. Proudic, though lie had been as stub- liorn as ever, he had been less apparently un- hai)i)y, less dejiresscd in spirits. And the journey to London had done him pood. His wife had congratulated herself on finding him able to set about his work like another man, and l:c. liimself had experienced a renewal, if not of hope, at any rate, of courage, which had given I'.im a comfort whicli he had recognized. His common-sense had not been very striking in his interview with Mr. Toogood, butyet he had talk- ed more rationally then and had given a better account of the matter in hand tlian could have been expected from him for some weeks pre- viously. But now that the labor was over a reaction had come upon him, and he went away from his house having hardly S])okcn a word to his wife after tlie speech whicli he made about Ills duty to liis jiarisli. I think that at this time nobody saw clearly the working of liis mind — not even his wife, who studied it very closely, who gave him credit for all his high qualities, and who had gradually learned to acknowledge to herself that she must distrust his judgment in many tilings. She knew that he was good and yet weak ; that he was afflicted by false pride and supported by true pride ; that his intellect was still very bright, yet so dismally obscured on many sides as almost to justify pco])le in saying that lie was mad. She knew tliat he was almost a saint, and yet almost a castaway through vanity and hatred of those above him. But she did not know that he knew all this of himself also. She did not compre- hend that he sliould be hourly telling himself tliat people wore calling him mad, and were so calling him with truth. It did not occur to her that he could see her insight into him. She doubted as to the way in wliich he had got the check — never imagining, however, tliat he had willfully stolen it ; thinking that his mind had been so much astray as to admit of his finding it and using it without willful guilt — thinking also, alas ! that a man who could so act was hardly fit for such duties as those \vliich were intrusted to him. But she did not dream that this was precisely his own idea of his own state and of his own position ; that he was always in- quiring of himself wliether he was not mad ; whether, if mad, he was not boiind to lay down his ofBce ; that he was ever taxing himself with improper hostility to the bishop — never forgetting I'or a moment his wrath against the bishop and the bisIio])'s wife, still comforting himself with his triumph over the bisho]) and the bishop's wife — but for all that accusing himself of a heavy sin, and ])ro])osing to himself to go to the j palace and there humblj^ to relinquish his cler- ical authority. Such a course of action he Avas proposing to himself, but not with any realized idea that he would so act. He was as a man who walks along a river's bank thinking of sui- cide, calculating how best he might kill himself — whether the river docs not oiler an o]iportunity too good to be neglected, telling himself that for many reasons he had better do so, suggesting to himself that the water is jdeasant and cool, and that iiis ears would soon be deaf to the harsh noises of the world — but 3 et knowing, or think- ing that he knows, that he never will kill him- self. So it was with Mr. Crawley. Though his imagination ])ictured to himself the whole scene — how he would humble himself to the ground as he acknowledged his unfitness, how ho would endure the small-voiced triumph of the little bishoj), how, from the abjectncss of his own humility, even from the ground on which he would be crouching, he would rebuke the loud- mouthed triumjih of the bishoji's wife; though there was no touch Avanting to the picture which he tlius drew, he did not really propose to him- self to commit this professional suicide. His wife, too, had considered whether it might be in trutli becoming that he should give up his cler- ical duties, at any rate for a while ; but she had never thought that the idea was ]>resent to his mind also. ' Mr. Toogood had told him that ])eo])le would say that he was mad ; and Mr. Toogood had looked at him, when he declared for the second time that he had no knowledge whence the check had come to him, as though his Avords were to be regarded as the words of some sick child. "INIad!" he said to himself, as he walked home from the station that night. "Well; yes; and what if I am mad ? When I think of all that I have endured my wonder is that I should not have been mad sooner." And then he j)rayed — yes, prayed, that in h'is madness the Devil might not be too strong for him, and that he might be preserved from some terrible sin of murder or violence. What if tiie idea sliould come to him in his madness tliat it would be well for him to slay his wife and his children ? Only that was M-anting to make him of all men the most unfortunate. He went down among the brickmakers on the following morning, leaving the house almost ! without a morsel of food, and he remained at Hoggle End for the greater part of the day. Tliere were sick persons there with whom he prayed, and then he sat talking with rough men while they ate their dinners, and he read pas- sages from the Bible to women while they washed their husbands' clothes. And for a while he sat with a little girl in his lap teaching the child her alphabet. If it were possible for him he THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 177 woulJ do his duty. He •would spare himself in nothing, though he might suffer even to faint- in"'. And on this occasion he did suffer — al- most to fainting ; for as he returned home in the afternoon he was forced to lean from time to time against the banks on tlie road-side, while tlic cold sweat of weakness trickled down his face in order that he mi>iht recover strength to go on a few yards. But he would persevere. If God would but leave to him mind cnougli for his work, he would go on. No personal suffer- ing should deter him. lie told himself that there had been men in the world whose suffer- ings were shar])cr even than his own. Of what sort had been the life of tlie man who had stood for years on tlie top of a jiillar ? But then the man on the pillar had been honored by all around him. And tlius, though he had thought of the man on the ])illar to encourage himself by remembering how lamentable liad been that man's suiFering, he came to reflect that after all his own sufferings were perhaps keener than those of the man on the pillar. AVhen he reached home he was very ill» Tliere was no doubt about it tlieu. lie stag/ gered to his arm-chair, and stared at his wire tirst, tlien smiled at her with a ghastly smile. He trembled all over, and when food was brought to him he could not eat it. Early on the next morning the doctor was by his bedside, and be- fore that evening came he was delirious. He had been at intervals in this state for nearly two days when Mrs. Crawley wrote to Grace, and though she had restrained lierself from tell- ing every thing, she had written with sufficient strength to bring Grace at once to her father's bedside. He was not so ill when Grace arrived but that , he knew her, and he seemed to receive some comfort from her coming. Before she liad been in the house an hour sjie was reading Greek to him, and there was no wandering in liis mind as to the due emphasis to be given to the jilaints of the injured heroines, or as to the proper meaning of the choruses. And as he lay with his head half buried in the pillows he shouted out long passages, lines from tragic plays by the score, and for a while seemed to have all the enjoy- ment of a dear old pleasure placed newly within his reach. But he tired of this after a while, and then, having looked round to see that his ^vife was not in the room, he began to talk of himself. " So you have been at Allington, my dear?" " Yes, papa." " Is it a pretty place ?" "Yes, papa — very pretty." "And they were good to you ?" "Yes, papa — very good." "Had they heard any thing there about — mo ; of this trial that is to come on ?" "Yes, papa; they had heard of it." "And what did they say? You need not think that you will shock me by telling me. They can not say worse there tlian people liave said here — or think worse." "They don't think at all badly of you at Al- lington, pa])a." "But they must think badly of me if the magistrates were right ?"' " They sui)posc that there has been a mistake — as we all think." "They do not try men at the assi/es for mis- takes." "That you have been mistaken, I mean — and the magistrates mistaken." "Both can not have been mistaken, Grace." " I don't know liow to explain myself, papa; but we all know that it is very sad, and arc quite sure that you have never meant for one moment to do any thing that was wrong." " But people when they are — you know what I mean, Grace ; when they are not themselves — do things that are wrong without meaning it. " Tlien he ))aused, while she remained stand- ing by him with her hand on the back of his. Siie Avas looking at his face, whicli had been turned toward her wdiile they were reading to- gether, but which now was so far moved that she knew that his eyes could not be fixed upon hers. "Of course, if the bishop orders it, it sliall be so," he said. " It is quite enough for me that he is the bishop." " What has the bishop ordered, papa?" " Nothing at all. It is she who does it. Ho ims given no opinion about it. Of course not. He has none to give. It is the woman. You go and tell her from me that in such a matter I will not obey the word of any woman living. Go at once, when I tell you." Then she knew that her father's mind was wandering, and she knelt down by the bedside, still holding his hand. " Grace," he said. " Yes, papa, I am here." ' ' Why do you not do what I tell you ?" And ho sat upright in his bed. "I suppose you are afraid of the woman ?" " I should be afraid of her, dear papa." "I was not afraid of her. AVhen she spoke to me I would have notliing to say to her ; not a word — not a word — not a word." As he said this he waved his hands about. "But as for him — if it must be, it must. I know I'm not fit for it. Of course I am not. Who is ? But what has he ever done that he should be a dean ? I beat him at every thing ; almost at every thing. He got the Newdegatc, and that was about all. Upon my word I think that was all." " But Dr. Arabin loves you truly, dear papa." "Love me I pshaw! Does he ever come here to tea, as he used to do ? No ! I remember but- tering toast for him down on my knees before the fire, because he liked it — and keeping all the cream for him. He should have had my heart's-blood if he wanted it. But now— look at his books, Grace. It's t!ie outside of them he cares about. They are all gilt, but I doubt if he ever reads. As for her — I will not allow any woman to tell me my duty. No ; by my Maker — not even your mother, who is the best 178 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. of women. Ami as for her, with her little hus- band dangling at lier a])rcin-strings, as a call- wiiistlu to be blown into wlien she pleases — that she shonld dare to teach nic my duty ! No ! The men in the jury-box may decide it how they will. If they can believe a i>Iain story, let them ! If not, let tlieni do as they please. I am ready to bear it all." "Dear ])apa, you arc tired. AYill you not try to slceii?" " Tell IMrs. Proudic wliat I say ; and as for Arabia's money, I took it. I know I took it. What would you have had nie do ? Siiall I — see tlicm — all — starve ?" Then he fell back upon his bed and did sleep. The next da}' lie was better, and insisted upon getting out of bed, and on sitlini,' in his old arm- chair over the fire. And the Greek books were again had out ; and Grace, not at all unwilling- ly, was put through her facings. " If you don't take care, my dear,"' he said, "Jane will beat you yet. Slie understands the force of the verbs better than you do." "I am very glad that she is doing so well, papa. I am sure I shall not begrudge her her superiority." " Ah, but you should begrudge it her !" Jane was sitting by at the time, and the two sisters were holding each other by the hand. " Al- ways to be best — always to be in advance of others. That should be your motto." " Eut we can't both be best, papa," said Jane. "Yon can both strive to be best. But Grace has the better voice. I remember when I knew the whole of the Antigone by heart. You girls should see which can learn it first.'" " It would take such a long time," said Jane. "You are young, and what can you do bet- ter with 3-our leisure hours ? Fie, Jane ! I did not expect that from you. When I was learniug.it I had eight or nine pupils, and read an hour a day with each of them. But I think that nobody works now as they used to work then. Where is your mamma? Tell her I think I could get out as far as Mrs. Cox's, if she would help me to dress." Soon after this he was in bed again, and his head was wander- ing ; but still they knew that he was better than he had been. "You arc more of a comfort to your papa than I can be," said Mrs. Crawley to her eldest daughter that night as they sat together when every body else was in bed. " Do not say that, mamma. Papa does not think so." "I can not read Greek plays to him as you can do. I can only nurse him in his illness and endeavor to do my duty. Do you know, Grace, that I am beginning to fear that he half doubts me?" "Oh, mamma!" "That he half doubts me, and is half afraid of me. He does not think as he used to do, that I am altogether, heart and soul, on his side. I can see it in his eye as he watches me. He thinks that I am tired of him — tired of his sufferings, tired of his poverty, tired of the evil which men say of him. I am not sure but what he thinks that I susjiect him." " Of what, mamma?" "Of general unfitness for the work he has to do. The feeling is not strong as yet, but I fear that he will teach himself to think that he has an enemy at his hearth — not a friend. It will be the .saddest mistake he ever made." " He told me to-day that you were tlie best of women. Those were his very words." " Were they, my dear? I am glad at least that he should say so to you. He has been bet*, ter since you came — a great deal better. For one day I was frightened ; but I am sorry now that I sent for you." "I am so glad mamma; so very glad." " You were hajipy there — and comfortalde. And if they were glad to have you, why should I have brought 3'ou away?" "But I was not happy — even though they were very good to me. How could I be happy there wlicn I was thinking of you and jiapa and Jane here at home? Whatever there is here, I would sooner share it witli you than be any where else — while this trouble lasts." "My darling! — it is a great comfort to seel you again." " Only that I knew that one less in the liouse| would be a saving to you I should not have gone.i When there is unhappiness, people should stay, together — shouldn't they, mamma?" Theyj were sitting quite close to each other, on an oldi sofa in a small np-stairs room, from which ai door opened into the larger chamber in wliiehi Mr. Crawley was lying. It had been arranged' between them that on this night jMrs. Crawley should remain with her husband, and that Grace! should go to her bed. It was now past one o'clock, but she Avas still there, clinging to her mother's side, with her mother's arm drawn round her. "Mamma," she said, when they had both been silent for some ten minutes, "Jj iKive got something to tell you." / "To-night?" "Yes, mamma ; to-night, if you will let me.'' " But you promised that you would go to bed., You were up all last night." "I am not sleepy, mamma." " Of course you shall tell me what you please, dearest. Is it a secret ? Is it something I am not to repeat?" " You nlust say how that ought to be, mam- ma. I shall not tell it to any one else." "Well, dear?" " Sit comfortably, mamma — there ; like that,! and let me have your hand. It's a terrible storyf to have to tell." "A terrible story, Grace?" "I mean that you must not draw away fromt| me. I shall want to feel that you are quite;^ close to me. Mamma, while I was at Alling-i ^on Major Grantly came there." '' "Did he, my dear?" "Yes, mamma." "Did he know them before?" THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 179 'ilAlUIA, I'VE GOT SOMETUI> \ " No, mamma ; noi at the Small House. But he came there— to see me. He asked me— to Ibe his wife. Don't move, mamma." "My darling child! I won't move, dearest. Well; and what did you say to him? God bless him, at any rate ! May God bless him, because he has seen ■with a true eye, and felt jwith a noble instinct. It is something, Grace, |to have been wooed by such a man at such a 'time." ' • Mamma, it did make me feci proud ; it did." "You had known him well before — of course ? I knew that you and he were friends, Grace." "Yes, we were friends. I always liked him. I used not to know what to think about him. Miss Anne Prettyman told mc that it would bo so; and once before I thought so myself." " And had you made up your mind what to say to him ?" "Yes, I had then. But I did not say it." "Did not say what you had made up your mind to say?" ISO THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET "That was before all this had hapiicncJ to pajia." '•I mulcrstand you, dearest." " Wiicn Miss Anne I'rettyman told mo that I should be rcad\- with my answer, and when I taw that Miss Prcttynian herself used to let him come to tlie Iiouse, and seemed to wish that I should s-'e him wlion he came, and when he once was — so very f;'entle and kind, and when he said that he wanted me to love Editli — Oh, mamma !" "Yes, darling, I know. Of course you loved him.'' '• Yes, mamma. And I do love him. IIow could one not love him?" "I love him — for loving you." "But, mamma, one is bound not to do a harm to any one that one loves. So when he camo to Allington I told him that I could not bo his witb." "Did you, my dear?" "Yes,'l did.' Was I not right? Ought I to go to him to bring a disgrace upon all tho fiimily, just because he is so good that he asks me ? Shall I injure him because he wants to do me a service?" "If he loves you, Grace, the service he will require will be your love in return." "That is all very well, mamma — in books; but I do not believe it in reality. Being in love is very nice, and in poetry they make it out to be every thing. But I do not think I should make Major Grantly happy if when I became his wi^e his own father and mother would not see him. I know I should be so wretched ray- self that I could not live." "But would it be so?" "Yes — I think it would. And the archdea- con is very rich, and can leave all his money away from Major Grantly if he pleases. Think what I should feel if I were the cause of Edith losing her fortune!" "But why do you suppose these terrible things ?" "I have a reason for supposing them. This must be a secret. Miss Anne I'rcttyraan wrote to me." "I wish ]Miss Anne Prettyman's hand had been in the fire." "No, mamma; no; she was right. Would not I have wished, do yon think, to have learn- ed all the truth about the matter before I an- swered him? Besides, it made no difference. I could have made no other answer while papa is under swell a terrible ban. It is no time for lis to think of being in love. We have got to love each otiier. Isn't it so, mamma?" The mother did not answer in words, but slipping down on her knees before her child threw her arms round her girl's body in a close embrace. "Dear mamma! dearest mamma! this is what I wanted — that yon should love me !" " Love yon, my angel !" "And trust me — and tliat wc should under- stand each other and stand close bv each other. We can do so much to comfort one another — but we can not comfort other people." "He must know that best himself, Grace; but what did he say more to you ?" " I don't think he said any thing more." " He just left you then ?" "He said one thing more." " And what was that ?" " He said — but he had no right to say it." | "What was it, dear?" j " That he knew I loved him, and that there-! fore — But, mamma, do not think of that. I will never be his wife — never, in opposition to his family." "But he did not take your answer?" "He must take it, mamma. He shall take it. If. he can bo stubborn, so can I. If he knows how to think of me more than himself, I can think of him and Edith more than of my-: self. That is not quite all, mamma. Then hci wrote to me. There is his letter." Mrs. Crawley read the letter. "I suppose you answered it?" "Yes, I answered it. It was very bad, my letter. I should think after that lie will never want to have any thing more to say to me. I tried for two days, but I could not write a nice letter." [ "But what did you say ?" i "I don't in the least remember. It does not; in the least signify now, but it was such a bad! letter." .; " I dare say it was very nice." ; "It was terribly stiff, and all about a gcntle-i man." "All about a gentleman! What do youi mean, my dear?" " Gentleman is such a frightful word to havei: to use to a gentleman ; but I did not know what else to say. Mamma, if you please, we won'l talk about it — not about the letter, I mean. A^ for him, I'll talk about him forever if you lib it. I don't mean to be a bit broken-hearted." "It seems to me that he is a gentleman." "Yes, mamma, that he is; and it is thai which makes me so proud. When I think of i1 I can hardly hold myself. But now I've tolc you every thing, and I'll go awav, and go tc bed." CHAPTER XLII. MR. TOOGOOD TKAVELS rEOFESSIONALLY. / Mr. Toogo.od paid another visit to Barset^ shire, in order that he might get a little furthel information which he thought would be necesi sary before dispatching his nephew upon thd traces of Dean Arabin and his wife. Ho wen) down to Barchester, after his work was over, bj an evening train, and put himself up at "Th* Dragon of Wantly," intending to have the wholt of the next day for his work. Mr. Walker had asked him to come and take a return pot-lucJ dinner with jMrs. Walker at Silverbridge ; am' this he had said that ho would do. After hav ing "rummaged about for tidings" in Barchesi tcr, as he called it, he would take the train foi THE LAST CimONICLE OF BARSET. 181 ! Silverbi'iilgc, and ^vould get back to tcnvn in I time for business on the third day. " One day l^von't be much, you know," he said to his part- i nor, as he made half an apology for absenting I himself on business which was not to be in any I degree remunerative. "That sort of thing is : very well when one does it without any ex- pense," said Crump. " So it is, " said Toogood ; " and the expense won't make it any worse." He had made up his mind, and it was not prob- jable that any thing Mr. Crump might say would deter him. lie saw John Eames before he started. "You'll be ready this day week, will you?" ; John Eames promised that he would. " It will I cost you some forty pounds, I should say. By George — if you have to go on to Jerusalem, it 'will cost you more." In answer to this, Johnny ! pleaded that it would be as good as any other [tour to him. He would see the world. "I'll [tell you what," said Toogood; "I'll pay half. Only you mustn't tell Crump. And it will be 1 quite as well not to tell Maria." But Johnny would hear nothing of this scheme. He would I pay the entire cost of his own journey. He had lots of money, he said, and would like nothing 'better. "Then I'll run down," said Toogood, ;and " rummage up what tidings I can. As for 1 writing to the dean, what's the good of writing to a man when you don't know where he is? 'Business letters always lie at hotels for two ' months, and then come back with double post- lage. From all I can hear, you'll stumble on licr before you find him. If we do nothing else but bring him back, it will be a great thing to l:ave the su])port of such a friend in the court. A Barchestcr jury won't like to find a man guilty ■ho is liand and glove with the dean." ^Ir. Toogood reached the "Dragon" about •i eleven o'clock, and allowed the boots to give jhim a pair of slippers and a candlestick. But he would not go to bed just at that moment. He would go into tlie coffee-room first, and have a glass of hot brandy-and-water. So the hot brandy-and-water was brought to him, and a cigar, and as he smoked and drank he conversed witli the waiter. The man was a waiter of the ancient class, a gray -haired waiter, with seedy clothes, and a dirty towel under his arm ; not a dapper waiter, with black shiny hair, and dress- ed like a guest for a dinner-party. Tlicre arc two distinct classes of waiters, and as far as I have been able to perceive, the special status of the waiter in question can not be decided by observation of the class of waiter to which he belongs. In such a town as Barchester you may find the old waiter with the dirty towel in the head inn, or in the second-class inn, and so you may the dapper waiter. Or you may find both in each, and not know which is senior . waiter and which junior waiter. But for serv- ice I always prefer the old waiter with the dirty towel, and I find it more easy to satisfy him in the matter of sixpences when my rela- tions with the inn come to an end. " Have you been here long, John ?" said Mr. Toogood. " A goodish many years, Sir." " So I tliought, b}' the look of yon. One can see that yotx belong in a way to the place. You do a good deal of business here, I su])pGse, at this time cf the year ?" "Well, Sir, pretty fair. The house ain't what it used to be, Sir." " Times are bad at Barchester — are they?" "I don't know much about the times. It's the peo)ile is worse than the times, I think. They used to like to have a little bit of dinner now and again at a hotel, and a drop of some- thing to drink after it." "And don't they like it now?" " I think they like it well enough, but they don't do it. I suppose it's their wives as don't let 'em come out and enjoy theirselves. There used to be the Goose and Glee club — that was once a month. They've gone and clean done away with themselves— that club has. There's old Bumpter in the High Street — he's the last of the old Geese. They died ofi^, you see, and wlien Mr. Biddle died they wouldn't choose another president. A club for having dinner, Sir, ain't nothing without a president." "I suppose not." " And there's the Freemasons. They must meet, you know. Sir, in course, because of the dooties. But if you'll believe mo. Sir, they don't so much as wet their whistles. They don't in- deed. It always used to be a supper, and that was once a month. Now they i)ays a rent for the use of the room ! Who is to get a living out of that. Sir ? not in the way of a waiter, that is." " If that's the way things are going on I sup- pose the servants leave their places pretty often ?" " I don't know about that. Sir. A man may do a deal worse than ' The Dragon of AVantly.' Them as goes away to better themselves often 182 THE LAST CUEONICLE OF BARSET. MR. TOOGOOD AND THE OLD WAITEK. worses themselves, as I call it. I've seen a good deal of that." "And you stick to the old shop ?" " Yes, Sir ; I've been here fifteen year, I think it is. There's a many goes away as doesn't go out of their own heads, you know, Sir." " They get the sack, you mean ?"' "There's words between tliem and master — or more likely missus. That's where it is. Servants is so foolisli. I often tell 'cm how wrong folks are to say that soft words butter no parsnips, and hard words bi-eak no bones." "I think you've lost some of the old hands here since this time last year, John." "You knows the house then, Sir?" " Well; I've been here before." "There were four of them went, I think it's just about twelve months back, Sir." "There M-as a man in the yard I used to know, and last time I was down here I found that he was gone." THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 183 "There was one of 'cm out of the yard, and terness of grief; there is no repining that the twc out of the house. IMaster and them had end has come, but S)iin])ly a toucli of sorrow tliat got to very higli words. Tiierc was ])0()r Scut- so mucli that is dear must be left behind. Mr. tie, who had been post-boy at ' The (compasses' 1 Harding shook hands witli his visitor, and in- bcfore he came here." vited him to sit down, and then seated himself, " He went away to New Zealand, didn't he ?" folding his hands together over his knees, and B'levc he did, Sir ; or to some foreign jjarts And Anne, as was under-chambcr-niaid here, she went with him, fool as she was. They got theirselves married and went off, and he was well-nigh as old as nie. But seems he'd saved a little money, and that goes a long way with any girl." " Was he the man who drove Mr. Soames that d.iy the check was lost?" INIr. Toogood asked this question perhaps a little too abruptl}'. At any rate he obtained no answer to it. The waiter said he knew nothing about Mr. Soames or the check, and the lawyer, suspecting that the waiter was suspecting him, finished his brandy- and-water and went to bed. Early on the following morning he observed that he was specially regarded by a shabby-look- ing man, dressed in black, but in a black suit that was very old, witli a red nose, whom he had seea in the hotel on the preceding day; and he learned that this man was a cousin of the land- lord — one Dan Stringer — who acted as a clerk in the hotel bar. He took an opportunity also of saying a word to Mr. Stringer, the landlord, whom he found to be a su.iiewhat forlorn and gouty individual seated on cushions in a little parlor behind the bar. After breakfast he went out, and having twice walked round the cathe- dral close, and inspected the front of the palace, and looked up at the windows of the prebenda- ries' houses, he knocked at the door of the dean- ery. Tlic dean and Mrs. Arabin M'ere on the continent, he was told. Then he asked for Mr. Harding, having learned that Mr. Harding was IVIrs. Arabin's father, and that he lived at the deanery. Mr. Harding was at home, but was/~ not very well, the servant said. Mr. Toogood,/ however, persevered, sending up his card, and saying that he wished to have a few minutes' conversation with Mr. Harding on very ])articn- lar business. He wrote a word upon iiis card before giving it to the servant — '• about Mr. Crawley." In a few minutes he was shown into the library, and had hardly time, while looking at the shelves, to remember what Mr. Crawley had said of his anger at the beautiful bindings, before an old man, very thin and very pale, shuffled into the room. He stooped a good deal, and his black clothes were very loose about his sliruuken limbs. He was not decrepit, nor did lie seem to be one who had advanced to extreme old age ; but yet he shuffled rather thau walked, hardly raising his feet from the ground. ]Mr. Toogood, as he came forward to meet iiim, thought that he had never seen a sweeter face. There was very much of melan- choly in it, of that soft sadness of age which seems to acknowledge, and in some sort to re- gret, the waning oil of life ; but the regret to be real in such faces has in it nothing of the bit- he said a few words in a very low voice as to the absence of his daughter and of the dean. "I hope you will excuse my troubling you," said Mr. Toogood. " It is no trouble at all — if I could be of any use. I don't know whether it is proper, but may I ask whether you call as — as — as a friend of Mr. Crawley's?" "Altogether as a friend, Mr. Harding." "I'm glad of that; though of course I am M'ell aware that the gentlemen engaged on the prosecution must do their duty. Still — I don't know — somehow I would rather not hear tliem speak of this poor gentleman before the trial." " You know Mr. Crawley, then ?" " Very slightly — very slightly indeed. He is a gentleman not much given to social habits, and has been but seldom here. But he is an old friend wliom my son-in-law loves dearly." "I'm glad to hear you say that, Mr. Harding. Perhaps before I go any furtiier I ought to tell you that Mrs. Crawley and I are first-cousins." " Oh, indeed. Then you are a friend." "I never saw him in my life till a few days ago. He is very queer, you know — very queer indeed. I'm a lawyer, Mr. Harding, practicing in London — an attorney, that is." At each sep- arate announcement Mr. Harding bowed, and when Toogood named his sj^ecial branch of his profession Mr. Harding bowed lower than before, as though desirous of showing that he had great respect for attorneys. "And of course I'm anx- ious, if only out of respect for the family, that my wife's cousin should pull through this little difficulty, if possible." "And for the sake of the poor man himsoflf too, and for his wife, and his children — and for the sake of the cloth." "Exactly; taking it all together it's such a ])ity, you know. I think, Mr. Harding, he can hardly have intended to steal the money." " I'm sure he did not." "It's very hard to be sure of any body, Mr. Harding — very hard." "I feel quite sure that he did not. He has been a most pious, hard-working clergyman. I can not bring myself to think that he is guilty. What does the Latin proverb say ? ' No one of a sudden becomes most base.' " "But the temptation, iMr. Harding, was very strong. He was awfully badgered about his debts. That butcher in Silverbridge was play- ing the mischief with him." "All the butchers in Barsetshire coulil not make an honest man steal money, and I tliink that ]\Ir. Crawley is an honest man. You'll excuse me for being a little hot about one of my own order." " Why, he's my cousin — or rather, my wife's. But the fact is, Mr. Harding, we must get hold 1S4 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAESET. of the dean as soon as possible ; and I'm going to send ji gentleman after liim." "To send a gentleman after him?" said Mr. Harding, almost in dismay. "Yes; I thinly tliat will be best." "I'm afraid lie'll have to go a long way, Mr. Toogood." "The dean, I'm fold, is in Jerusalem." "I'm afraid he is — or on his journey tlierc. He's to be there for tlie Easter week, and Sun- day week will be Easter Sunday. Hut why should the gentleman want to go to Jerusalem after tlic dean ?'' Then I\Ir. Toogood cx])lained as well as ho was able tliat the dean miglit liave something to say on tlie subject which would serve Mr. Craw- ley's defense. "We shouldn't leave any stone unturned," said Mr. Toogood. "As far as I can judge, Crawley still tliinks— or half thinks — tliat he got the check from your son-in-law." Jlr. Harding shook his head sorrowfully. "I'm not saying he did, you know," continued Mr. Toogood. "I can't sec myself how it is pos- sible — but still we ought not to leave any stone unturned. And Mrs. Arabin — can you tell mo at all where wc shall find her?" "Has she any thing to do with it, Mr. Too- good ?" "I can't quite say that she has, but it's just possible. As I said before, Mr. Harding, we mustn't leave a stone unturned. They're not expected here till the end of A])ril?" "About the 25th or 2Cth, I think." "And the assizes arc the 28th. The judges come into tlic citj' on that day. It will be too late to wait till then. We must have our de- fense ready, you know. Can you say where my friend will find Mrs. Arabin ?" Jilr. Harding began nursing his knee, ])atting it and being very tender to it, as he sat medita- ting witli liis head on one side — meditating not so much as to the nature of his answer as to tliat of the question. Could it be necessary that any emissary from a lawyer's ofiicc should be sent after his daughter? He did not like the idea of his Eleanor being disturbed by questions as to a theft. Though she had been twice married and had a son who was now nearly a man, still she was his Eleanor. But if it was necessary on Mr. Crawley's behalf, of course it must be done. ' ' Her last address was at Paris, Sir ; but I think slie has gone on to Florence. She has friends there, and she purposes to meet tiic dean at Venice on his return." Then Mr. Hard- ing turned the table and wrote on a card his daugliter's address. " I suppose Mrs. Arabin must have heard of the affair ?" said Mr. Toogood. " She had not done so when she last wrote". I mentioned it to her the other day, before I knew tliat she had left Paris. If my letters and her sister's letters have been sent on to her she must know it now." Then Mr. Toogood got np to take his leave. •'You will excuse mc for troubling you, I hope, Mr, Harding." "Oh, Sir, pray do not mention that. It is no trouble, if one could only be of any service." "One can always try to be of service. In tl'.esc affairs so much is to be done by rummag- ing about, as I always call it. There have been many theatrical managers, you know, Mr. Hard- ing, who have usually made up their jiieces ac- cording to the dresses they have happened to have in their wardrobes." "Have there, indeed, now? I never .should have thought of that." " And we lawyers liave to do the same thing." "Not with your clotlics, I\Ir. 'i'oogood ?" "Not exactly with our clotiies — but with our information." " I do not quite understand you, Mr. Toogood." " In preparing a defense we have to rummage about and get up w hat we can. If wc can't find ■ any thing that suits us exactly, mc arc obliged to use what we do find as well as wc can. I remember, when I was a young man, a hostler was to be tried for stealing some oats in tho Borough ; and he did steal them too, and sold tiiem at a rag-shop regularly. The evidence against him was as plain as a pike-staff. All I could find out was that on a certain day a horse had trod on the fellow's foot. So we put it to the jury whether tlie man could walk as far as the rag-shop M'ith a bag of oats when he was dead lame — and we got liim off"." " Did you tliongh?" said Mr. Harding. "Yes, wc did." "And he was guilty?" "He had been at it regularly for months." "Dear, dear, dear! Wouldn't it have been better to have had him punished for tlie fault — gently ; so as to warn him of the consequences of such doings ?" "Our business was to get him off — and we got him off". It's my business to get my cousin's husband off, if I can, and we must do it, by hook or crook. It's a very difficult ])iece of work, because he won't let us employ a barrister. However, I sliall have one in the court and say nothing to him about it at all. Good-by, Mr. Harding. As you say, it would be a thousand pities that a clergyman should be convicted of a theft — and one so well connected too." Mr. Harding, when he was left alone, began to turn the matter over in his mind and to reflect whether the thousand j)ities of whicli IMr. Too- good had spoken a])]iertaiued to the conviction of the criminal or the doing of tlie crime. "If he did steal tlie money I suppose he ought to be punished, let him be ever so much a clergyman," said Mr. Harding to himself. But yet — how terrible it would be ! Of clergymen convicted of fraud in London he had often heard ; but nothing of the kind had ever disgraced the dio- cese to which he belonged since he had known it. He could not teach himself to hope that Mr. Crawley should be acquitted if Mv. Crawley were guilty — but he could teach himself to be- lieve that Mr. Crawley was innocent. Some- thing of a doubt had crept across his mind as he talked to tho lawyer. Mr. Toogood, thoughl THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 185 Mrs. Crawley v.as his cousin, seemed to believe that the money had been stolen ; and Mr. Too- good as a lawyer ought to understand such mat- ters better than an old secluded clergyman in Barciiester. But, nevertheless, Mr. Toogood miglit be wrong; and Mr. Harding succeeded in satisfying himself at last that he could not be doing harm in thinking that Mr. Toogood was wrong. When he had made up his mind on this matter he sat down and wrote tlie following letter, which he addressed to his daughter at the post-office in Florence : " Deaneky, March — , 1S(5-. ) " Dearest Nelly, — When I wrote on Tues- day I told you about poor Mv. Crawley, that he was the clergyman in Barsetsliire of whose mis- fortune you read an account in Gal'KjnanVs Mes- senger — and I tliink Susan must have written about it also, because every body here is talking of nothing else, and because, of course, we know how strong a regard tlie dean has for Mr. Craw- ley. But since that something has occurred which makes me write to you again — at once. A gentleman has just been here, and has indeed only this moment left me, who tells me that he is an attorney in London, and that he is nearly related to Sirs. Crawley. He seems to be a very good-natured man, and I dare say he understands his business as a lawyer. His name is Toogood, and lie has come down as he says to get evidence to help the poor gentleman on iiis trial. I can not understand how this should be necessary, because it seems to me that the evidence should all be wanted on the other side. I can not for a moment suppose that a clergyman and a gen- tleman such as Mr. Crawley should have stolen money, and if he is innocent I can not under- stand why all this trouble should be necessary to prevent a jury finding him guilty. '• Mr. Toogood came here because he wanted to see the dean — and you also. He did not ex- plain, as far as I can remember, why he wanted to see you ; but he said it would be necessary, and that he was going to send off a messenger to find you first, and the dean afterward. It has something to do with the money which was given to Mr. Crawley last year, and which, if I remember riglit, was your present. But of course Mr. Toogood could not have known any thing about tliat. However, I gave him the address — poste restante, Florence — and I dare say that somebody will make you out before long if you are still stopping at Florence. I did not like letting him go without telling you about it, as I thought that a lawyer's coming to 3r ten pounds. Mr. Gaze- bee had beaten him at litigation, and his own lawyer had advised him that it would be foolish to try tlie matter further. In his marriage with the noble daughter of the De Courcys he had allowed tiie framers of the De Courcy settlement to tie liim up in such a Avay that now, even when chance had done so mucli for him in freeing him from his wife, lie was still bound to the De Courcy faction. Money had been paid away — on his behalf, as alleged by Mr. Gazebee — like running water; money for furniture, money for the lease of a iiouse, money when he had been separated from liis wife, money wliile slie was living abroad. It had seemed to him that lie had been made to pay for the entire support of the female moiety of the De Courcy family which had settled itself at Baden-Baden, from the day; and in some respects from before the day, on whif-h liis wife had joined that moiety. He had done all in his power to struggle against these payments, but every such struggle had only cost him more money. Mr. Gazebee had written to him the civilcst notes ; but every note seemed to cost him money — every word of eacli note seemed to find its way into some bill. His wife had died and her body liad been brought back, with all tiie pomp befitting the body of an earl's daughter, that it might be laid with the old De Courcy dust — at his expense. The em- balming of her dear remains had cost a won- drous sum, and was a terrible blow upon liim. All these items were showered upon him by Mr. GazeDec with the most courteously worded de- mands for settlement as soon as convenient. And then, when he applied that Lady Alexan- drina's small fortune should be made over to him — according to a certain agreement under which he had made over all his possessions to his wife should she have survived him — Mr. Gazebee expressed a mild < pinion that he was wrong in liis law, and blandly recommended an amicable lawsuit. The amicable lawsuit was carried on. His own lawyer seemed to throw him over. Mr. Gazebee was successful in every thing. No money came to him. Money was demanded from him on old scores and on new scores; and all that he received to console him for wliat he had lost was a momning ring witli his wife's hair — for which, with sundry other mourning rings, he had to pay — and an intro- duction to Mr. Dobbs Broughton. To Mr. Dobbs Broughton he owed five hundred pounds ; and as regarded a bill for the one-half of that sum which was due to-morrow, Mr. Dobbs liroughton had refused to grant him renewal for a single month ! I know no more uncomfortable walking than that wliicli falls to the lot of men who go into the City to look for money, and who find none. Of all the lost steps trodden by men, surely the steps lost after that fashion are tlie most nielan- choly. It is not only tliat they are so vain, but that they are accompanied by so killing a sense of shame ! To wait about in dingy rooms, w inch look on to bare walls, and are ajiproaclied through some Hook Court; or to keep appoint- ments at a low coffee-house, to which tryst ings the money-lender will not trouble himself to come unless it pleases him ; to be civil, almost suppliant, to a cunning knave whom the bor- rower loathes; to be refused thrice, and then cheated with his eyes open on the fourth at- tempt ; to submit liimself to vulgarity of the foulest kind, and to have to seem to like it; to be badgered, reviled, and at last accused of want of honesty by the most fraudulent of mankind ; and at the same time to be clearly conscious of the ruin that is coming: this is the fate of him who goes into the City to find money, not know- ing where it is to be found ! Crosbie went along the lane into Lombard Street, and then he stood still for a moment to think. Though he knew a good deal of afhiirs in general, he did not quite know what would liajipen to him if his bill should be dislionored. That somebody would bring it to Iiim noted, and require him instantly to ])ut his hand into his pocket and bring out the amount ol'-the liill, ■ pluy the amount of certain cxpcn.-cs, he thought that he did know. And he knew that were he in trade he would become a bankrujit ; and ho was well aware that such an occurrence would prove him to be insolvent. But he did not know what his creditors would immediately have the jiower of doing. That the fact of the bill having been dishonored would reach the Board under which he served — and, tlicrcfore, also the fiiet that he had had recourse to such bill transactions — this alone was enough to fill him with dismay. In early life he had carried his head so high, he had been so much more than a mere Government clerk, that the idea of the coming disgrace almost killed him. Would it not be well that he should put an end to him- self, and thus escape ? What was there in tlio THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 191 f world now for which it was worth his while to live? Lily, whom he had once gained, and by that gain had placed himself liigli in all hopes of happiness and riches — whom he had then thrown away from him, and who had again seemed to be almost within his reach — Lily had so refused him that he knew not how to ap- proacli her with a further jirayer. And, had she not refused him, how could he have told her of his load of debt? As he stood at the corner where the lane runs into Lombard Street he came for a while to think almost more of Lily than of his rejected bill. Then, as he thought of both his misfortunes together, %e asked himself whether a pistol would not conveniently put an end to them together. At that moment a loud, harsh voice greeted his ear. " Halloo, Crosbic, what brings you so far east? One does not often see tou in the City." It was the voice of Sir Rafflj Buffle, which in former days had been very odious to Crosbie's ears ; for Sir Raifle Buffle had once been the presiding genius of the oOice to which Crosbie still belonged. "No, indeed, not very often,'* said Crosbie, smiling. Who can tell, who has not felt it, the pain that goes to the forcing of such smiles? But Sir Raffle was not an acutely observant per- son, and did not see that any thing was wrong. "I suppose you're doing a little business?"' said Sir Raffle. " If a man has kept a trifle of money by him this certainly is the time for turning it. You have always been wide awake about such things." "No indeed," said Crosbie. If he could only make up his mind that he would shoot himself, would it not be a pleasant thing to inflict some condign punishment on this odious man before he left the world? But Crosbie knew that he was not going to shoot himself, and he knew also that he had no power of inflicting condign punishment on Sir Raffle Buffle. He could only hate the man, and curse him inwardly. " Ah, ha !" said Sir Raffle. "You wouldn't be here unless you knew where a good thing is to be picked up. But I must be off. I'm on the Rock}- IMountain Canal Company Directory. I'm not above taking my two guineas a day. Good-bj', my boy. Remember me to old Opti- mist." And so Sir Raffle passed on, leaving Crosbie still standing at the corner of the lane. What was he to do? This interruption had at least seemed to drive Lily from his mind, and to send his ideas back to the consideration of his pecuniary difficulties. He thought of his own bank, a West-End establishment at which he was personally known to many of the clerks, and where he had been heretofore treated with great consideration. But of late his balances had been very low, and more than once he had been reminded that he had overdrawn his ac- count. He knew well tliat tlie distinguished firm of Bounce, Bounce, and Bounce would not cash a bill for him or lend him money without security. He did not even dare to ask them to do so. On a sudden he jumped into a cab, and was driven back to his office. A tiiought had come ui)on him. He would throw himself upon the kindness of a friend there. Hitherto he had contrived to hold his head so high above the clerks below him, so high before the Commis- sioners who were above him, that none there suspected him to be a man in difficulty. It not seldom happens that a man's character stands too high for his interest — so high that it can not be maintained, and so high that any fall will be dangerous. And so it was with Crosbie and his character at the General Committee Of- fice. The man to whom he was now thinking of applying as his friend was a certain Mr. But- terwell, who had been his predecessor in the secretary's chair, and wiio now filled the less onerous but more dignified position of a Com- missioner. Mr. Crosbie had somewhat despised Mr. Butterwell, and had of late years not been averse to showing that he did so. He had snubbed Mr. Butterwell, and Mr. Butterwell, driven to his wits' ends, had tried a fall or two with him. In all these struggles Crosbie had had the best of it, and Butterwell had gone to the wall. Nevertheless, for the sake of official decency, and from certain wise remembrances of the sources of official comfort and official dis- comfort, Mr. Butterwell had always maintained a show of outward friendship with the secretary. They smiled and were gracious, called each oth- er Butterwell and Crosbic, and abstained from all cat-and-dog absurdities. Nevertheless it was the frequently expressed opinion of every clerk in the office that Mr. Butterwell hated Mr. Crosbie like poison. This was the man to whom Crosbie suddenl}^ made up his mind that he would have recourse. As he was driven back to his office he re- solved that he would make a plunge at once at the difficulty. He knew that Butterwell was fairly rich, and he knew also that he was good- natured — with that sort of sleepy good-nature which is not active for philanthropic purposes, but which dislikes to incur the pain of refusing. And then Mr. Butterwell was nervous, and if the thing. was managed well he might be cheat- ed out of an assent before time had been given him in which to pluck up courage for refusing. But Crosbie doubted his own courage also — fearing that if he gave himself time for hesita- tion he would hesitate, and that, hesitating, ho would feel the terrible disgrace of the thing and not do it. So, without going to his own desk, or ridding himself of his hat, he went at once to Butterwell's room. When he opened the door he found Mr. Butterwell alone, reading the Tunes. " Butterwell," said he, beginning to speak before he had even closed the door, "I have come to you in great distress. I wonder whether you can help me — I want you to lend me five hundred pounds? It must be for not less than three months." Mr. Butterwell dropped the paper fiom his hands, and stared at the ^sccrctary over his spec- tacles. 192 THU LAST CimONICLE OF BARSET. CHAPTER XLIV. "i surrosE i must let you have it." Crosbie had been preparing the exact words with whicli he assailed Mr. Butterwell for the last quarter of an hour before they were uttered. There is always a difficulty in the choice, not only of the words with which money should be borrowed, but of the fashion after which they should be spoken. There is the slow, deliberate manner, in using which tlie borrower attempts to carry the wished-for lender along with liim by force of argument, and to prove that the desire to borrow sliows no imprudence on his own part, and that a tendency to lend will show none on the part of the intended lender. It may be said that this mode fails oftener than any otlier. There is tliei)iteous manner — the plea for com- miseration. "My dear fellow, unless you will see me through now, upon my word I shall be very badly off." And this manner may be di- vided again into two. There is the plea piteous with a lie, and the jilea piteous with a truth. '■You shall have it again in two months as sure as the sim rises." That is generally the plea piteous with a lie. Or it may be as follows: " It is only fair to say that I don't quite know when I can pay it back." This is the plea pit- eous with a truth, and upon the whole I think tliat tliis is generally tlie most successful mode of borrowing. And there is the assured de- mand — which betokens a close intimacy. " Old fellow, can you let me have thirty pounds ? No. Just put your name, then, on the back of this, and I'll get it done in tlie City." Tiic worst of tliat manner is, that the bill so often does not get itself done in the City. Then there is the sudden attack — that being the manner to which Crosbie had rccourso in the present instance. Tliat there are other modes of borrowing l)y means of which youtfi becomes indebted to age, I and love to respect, and ignorance to experience, is a matter of course. It will be understood that I am here speaking only of borrowing and lending between the Eutterwells and Crosbies of the world. " I have come to yoii in great distress," said Crosbie. " I wonder whether : you can help me. I want you to lend me five liundrcd jiounds." Mr. Butterwell, when he hoard the words, dropped the paper which he was reading from his hand, and stared at Cros- bie over bis s])ectaclcs. "Five hundred i)ounds!"he said. "Dear me, Crosbie; that's a large sum of money." "Yes, it is — a very large sum. Half that is what I want at once ; but I shall want the othcj" half in a month." "I thouglit that yon were always so much above the world in money-matters. Gracious me! nothing tiiat I have heard for a long time has astonished me more. I don't know why, but I always tliought that you had your things so very snug." " Crosbie was aware that he liad made one very great step toward success. Tlie idea had been presented to Mr. Biitterwcll's mind, and had not been instantly rejected as a scandalous- ly iniquitous idea, as an idea to which no rj- cejition could be given for a moment. Croshie had not been treated as was the needy knife- grinder, and had ground to stand upon while he urged his request. "I have been so pressed since my marriage," he said, " that it has been impossible for me to keep things siraight." " But Lady Alexandrina — " " Y''es ; of course — I know. I do not like to trouble you Avith my private affairs — there is no- thing, I think, so bad as washing one's dirty linen in public — but the truth is, tliat I am onl}' now free from the rai)acity of tlie De Cour- cys. You would hardly believe me if I told you what I've had to pay. What do you think of two hundred and forty-five pounds for bringing her body over here, and burying it at De Cour- cyV" "I'd have left it where it was." "And so would I. You don't suppose I or- dered it to be done. Poor dear thing! If it could do her any good God knows I would not begrudge it. We had a bad time of it when we were together, but I would have spared nothing for her, alive or dead, that was reasonable. But to make me pay for bringing tiie body over here, when I never had a shilling with her! By George ! it was too bad. And that oaf John De Courcy — I had to pay his traveling bill too." "He didn't come to be buried — ^did he?" " It's too disgusting to talk of, Butterwell ; it is indeed. And when I asked for her money that was settled upon me — it was only two thou- sand pounds- — they made me go to law, and it seems there was no two thousand pounds to set- tle. If I like, I can have another lawsuit with the sisters when the mother is dead. Oh, Butterwell, I have made such a fool of myself! I have come to such shipwreck! Oh, Butter- well, if^'ou could but know it all !" THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 193 "Are you free from the De Courcys now ?" "I owe Gazebec, tli^ man who married the other woman, over a thousand ])Ounds. But I pay that off at two hundred a year, and he has a policy on my life." " What do you owe that for?" "Don't ask me. Not that I mind telling you ; furniture, and the lease of a house, and his Itill for the marriage settlement — d — him I" "God bless me! They seem to have been very hard upon you." " A man doesn't marry an earl's daughter for nothing, Butterwell. And then to tliink what I lost! It can't be helped now, you know. As a man makes his bod lie must lie on it. I am sometimes so mad with myself when I think over it all that I should like to blow my brains out." " You. must not talk in that way, Crosbie. I hate to hear a man talk like that." "I don't mean that I shall. I'm too much of a coward, I fancy." A man who desires to soften another man's heart should always abuse himself. In softening a woman's heart he should abuse her. "But life has been so bitter with me for the last three years ! I haven't had an hour of comfort — not an hour. I don't know why I should trouble you with all this. Butter- well. Oh ! about the money ; yes ; that's just how I stand. I owed Gazebee something over a thousand pounds, which is arranged as I have told you. Then there were debts due by ray wife — at least some of them were, I suppose — and that horrid, ghastly funeral — and debts, I don't doubt, due by the cursed old countess. At any rate, to get myself clear I raised something ovtr four hundred pounds, and now I owe five which must be paid, part to-morrow, and the remainder this day month." •• And you've no security?" '■ Not a rag, not a shred, not a line, not an aero. There's my salary, and after paying Ga/.ebee what comes due to him I can manage to let you have the money within twelve months — that is, if you can lend it me. I can just do that and live : and if you will assist me with the muuey I will do so. That's wliat I've brought 111} self to by my own folly." •'Five hundred pounds is such a large sum of money." •• Iiideed it is." "And without any security !" ••I know, Butterwell, that I've no right to a>k for it. I feel that. Of course I should pay yuu wiiat interest you please." " Money's about seven now;" said Butterwell. " I've not the slightest objection to seven per cent.," said Crosbie. "But that's on security," said Butterwell. "You can name your own terms," said Criisbie. Mr. Butterwell got out of his chair, and walked about the room with his hands in his I'liikcts. He was thinking at that moment wiiat Mrs. Butterwell would say to him. "Will an -answer do to-morrow morning?" he said. "I would mucii rather have it to-day," said Cros- bie. Then Mr. Butterwell took another turn about the room. " I suppose I must let you have it," he said. "Butterwell," said Crosbie, "I'm eternally obliged to you. It's hardly too much to say that you've saved me from ruin." " Of course I was joking about interest," said Butterwell. " Five per cent, is the jjroper thing. You'd better let me have a little acknowledg- ment. I'll give you the first half to-morrow." They were genuine tears which filled Cros- bie's eyes as he seized hold of the senior's hand. "Butterwell," he said, "what am I to say to you?" " Nothing at all — nothing at all." "Your kindness makes me feel that I ought not to have come to you." "Oil, nonsense ! By-the-by, would you mind telling Thompson to bring those papers to me which I gave him yesterday ? I promised Op- timist I would read them before tiiree, and it's past two now." So saying he sat himself down at his table, and Crosbie felt that he was bound to leave the room. Mr. Butterwell, when he was left alone, did not read the papers which Thompson brought him ; but sat, instead, thinking of his five hun- dred pounds. "Just put them down," he said to Thompson. So the jiapers were put down, and there they lay all that day and all the next. Then Thompson took them away again, and it is to be hoped that somebody read them. Five hundred pounds ! It was a large sum of mon- ey, and Crosbie was a man for whom Mr. But- terwell in truth felt no very strong aftection. "Of course he must have it now," he said to himself. " But where should I be if any thing happened to him?" And then he remembered that Mrs. Butterwell especially disliked Mr. Crosbie — disliked him because she knew that he snubbed her husband. "But it's hard to refuse, when one man has known another for moi-e than ten years." Then he comforted him- self somewhat with tlie reflection that Crosbie would no doubt make himself more pleasant for the future than he had done lately, and with a second reflection that Crosbie's life was a good life — and with a third, as to his own great good- ness in assisting a brother officer. Nevertlie- less, as he sat looking out of the omnibus-win- dow on his journey home to Putney, he was not altogether comfortable in his mind. Mrs. But- terwell was a very prudent woman. But Crosbie was very comfortable in his mind on that afternoon. He had hardly dared to hope for success, but he had been successful. He had not even thought of Butterwell as a pos- sible fountain of supply till his mind had been brought back to the afl^airs of his ofiice by the voice of Sir Raffle Buffle at the corner of the street. Tlie idea that his bill would be dislion- ored, and that tidings of his insolvency would be conveyed to the commissioners at bis Board, had been dreadful to him. The way in which he had been treated by Musselboro and Dobbs i94 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. Broiij;hton had made liim liatc City men, and ■what he supposed to be City ways. Now tiiorc had come to liim a relief whicli suddenly made every thing feel light. He could almost think of Air. Mortimer Gazcbcc without disgust. Per- haps after all thei'C might be some hapjnness yet in store for him. Might it not bo jxissible that Lily would yet accept him in sjiite of the chill- ing letter — the freezing letter which he had re- ceived from Lily's mother? Of one thing he was quite certain. If ever he had an o]i])ortu- nity of pleading his own cause with her he cer- tainly would tell her every thing respecting his own money diflioiltics. In' that last resolve I think wo may say that he was right. If Lily would ever listen to him again at all, slic certainly would not be deterred from marrying him by his own story of his debts. CHAPTER XLV. LILT DALE GOES TO LONDO\. One morning toward the end of March the 'squire rapped at the window of the drawing-room of the Small House, in which Mrs. Dale and her daughter were sitting. He had a letter in his hand, and both Lily and her mother knew that he had come down to speak about the con- tents of the letter. It was always a sign of good-humor on the squire's part, this rapping at the window. When it became necessary to him in his gloomy moods to see his sistei'-in- law he would write a note to her, and she would go across to him at the Great House. At other times, if, as Lily would say, he was just then neither sweet nor bitter, he would go round to the front door and knock, and be admitted after the manner of ordinary peojilc ; but when he was minded to make himself thoroughly jdeas- ant he would come and rap at the drawing-room window, as he was doing now. "I'll let you in, uncle ; wait a moment," said Lily, as she unbolted the window which opened out upon the lawn. "It's dreadfully cold, so come in as fast as you can." "It's not cold at all," said the squire. "It"s more like spring than any morning we've had yet. I've been sitting without a fire." " You won't catch us without one for the next two months; will he, mamma? You have got a letter, uncle. Is it for us to see?" "Well — yes; I've brought it down to show you. Mary, what do you think is going to hap- pen ?" A terrible idea occurred to Mrs. Dale at that moment, but she was much too wise to give it ex- pression. Could it be possible that the squire was going to make a fool of himself and get mar- ried? " I am very bad at guessing," said Mrs. Dale. "You had better tell us." "Bernard is going to be married," said Lily. " How did you know ?" said the squire. " I didn't know. I only guessed." " Tlicn you've guessed right," said the squire, a little annoyed at having his news thus taken out of his mouth. "I am so glad," said Mrs. Dale ; "and I know from your manner that you like the match." " Well — yes. I don't know the young lady, but I think that upon the whole I do like it. It's quite time, you know, that he got married," " He's not thirty yet," said Mrs. Dale. "He will be in a month or two." " And who is it, uncle ?" "Well — &s you're so good at guessing, I sup- pose you can guess that." "It's not that Miss Partridge he used to talk about?" "No; it's not Miss Partridge — I'm glad to say. I don't believe that the Partridges have a shilling among them." "Then I suppose it's an heiress?" said Mrs. Dale. " No ; not an heiress ; but she will have some money of her own. And she has connec- tions in Barsetshirc, which makes it pleasant." "Connections in Barsetshirel Who can it be?" said Lily. " Her name is Emily Dunstable," said the Squire, "and she is the niece of that Miss Dun- stable who married Dr. Thorne and who lives at Chaldicotes." " She was the woman who had millions ujion millions," said Lily, "all got by selling oint- ment." "Never mind how it was got," said the squire, angrily. "Miss Dunstable married most respect- ably, and has always made a most excellent use of her money." "And will Bernard's wife have all her for- tune?" asked Lily. " She will have twenty thousand pounds the day she marries, and I suppose that will be all." "And quite enough, too," said Mrs. Dale. "It seems that old Dr. Dunstable, as he was called, who, as Lily says, sold the ointment, quarreled with his son or with his son's widow, and left nothing either to her or her child. The mother is dead, and the aunt, Dr. Thome's wife, has always provided for the child. That's how it is, and Bernard is going to marry her. They are to be married at Chaldicotes in May." "I am delighted to hear it," said Mrs. Dale. "I've known Dr. Thorne for the last forty years ;" and the squire now spoke in a low, mel- ancholy tone. "I've written to him to say that the young people shall have the old place up there to themselves if they like it." " What ! and turn you out ?" said Mrs. Dale. "That would not matter," said the squire. "You'd have to come and live with us, "said Lily, taking him by the hand. "It doesn't matter much now where I live," said the squire. "Bernard will never consent to that," said Mrs. Dale. "I wonder whether she'll ask me to be a bridemaid?" said Lily. "They say that Chal- dicotes is such a pretty place, and I should see THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 195 TUFA' PEONOUNCKD UEB TO liE VERY MUCH LIKE A lAUT. all the Barsetshire people that I've been hear- in.!,' about from Grace. Poor Grace ! I know that the Grantlys and the Thornes are very in- timate. Fancy Bernard liaving twenty thou- s:mil pounds from the making of ointment!" " What does it matter to you where it comes fiom ?" said the squire, half in anger. "Not in the least ; only it sounds so odd. I do hope she's a nice girl." 'riicn the squire produced a photograph of/ Emily Dunstable which his nephew had sent tcf him, and they all prononnced her to be very pretty, to be very much like a lady, and to be very good-humored. Tiie squire was evidently pleased with the match, and therefore the ladies were pleased also. Bernard Dale was the heir to the estate, and his marriage was of course a matter of moment ; and as on such properties as that of Allington money is always wanted, the squire may be forgiven for the great import- ance which he attached to the young lady's for- tune. "Bernard could hardly have married 196 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. prudently without any money," he said, "un- less he had chosen to wait till I am gone." "And then he would have been too old to marry at all," said Lily. l?ut the sijuire's budget of news had not yet been enij)ticd. lie told them soon afterward that he himself had been summoned up to Lon- don. Bernard had written to liini, begging him to come and see the young lady ; and tiie fam- ily lawyer had written also, saying that his ])res- ence in town would be very desirable. "It is very troublesome, of course; but I shall "go," said the sipiire. "It will do you nil tiie good in the world," said Mrs. Dale; "and of course you ought to know her personally before the marriage." And then the squire made a clean breast of it and declared his full ])urpose. "I was thinking tiiat, perhajis, Lily would not ob- ject to go up to London with me." "Oh, uncle Christojiher, I should so like it!" said Lily. "If your mamma does not object." "Mamma never objects to any thing. I should like to see her objecting to that!" And Lily shook her head at her mother. "Bernard says that Miss Dunstable particu- larly wants to see you." ' ' Does she, indeed ? And I particularly want to see Miss Dunstable. How nice ! Mamma, I don't think I've ever been in London since I wore short frocks. Do you remember taking lis to the pantomime ? Only tliink how many years ago that is. I'm quite sure it's time that Bernard sliould get married. Uncle, I hope you're prepared to take me to the play." " We must see about that !" " And the opera, and Madame Tussaud, and the Horticultural Gardens, and tiie new conjur- or, who makes a woman lie upon notiiing. The idea of my going to London ! And then I sup- pose I slmll be one of the bridemaids. I de- clare a new vista of life is opening out to me ! Mamma, you mustn't be dull while I'm away. It won't be very long, I suppose, uncle ?" " About a month, probaijly," said the squire. " Oil, mamma ; what will you do':'" "Never mind me, Lily." "You must get Bell and the children to come. But I can not imagine living away from home a month. I was never away from home a month in my life." And Lily did go up to town witii her uncle, two days only having been allowed to her for her prei)arations. Tiiere was very mueii for her to think of in such a journey. It was not only that she would see Emily Dunstable who was to be her cousin's wife, and that she would go to the Jilay, and visit the new conjuror's en- tertainment, but that she would be in the same city both witli Adolphus Crosbie and with John Eames. Not having personal experience of the wideness of London, and of the wilderness which it is — of the distance which is set tliere between persons who are not purposely brought together — it seemed to her fancy as though for this month of her absence from home she would be brought into close contiguity with both her | lovers. She had hitherto felt herself to be at any rate safe in her fortress at Allington. When Crosbie had written to her mother, making a i renewed offer which had been rejected, Lily had , felt that she certainly need not see him unless it i ])leased her to do so. He could hardly force liimself ni)on her at Allington. And as to John Eames, though he would, of course, be welcome at Allington as often as he jtleased to show him- self, still there was a security in the place. She .; was so much at home there that she could al- ways bo mistress of tlie occasion. She knew that slie could talk to him at Allington as though ; from ground jiigher than that on which he stood i himself; but she felt that this would hardly be; the case if she should chance to meet him in London. Crosbie jirobably would not come in, her way. Crosbie, siie thought — and she blushed for the man she loved as the idea came across i her mind — would be afraid of meeting her uncle. But John Eames would certainly find her ; and| she was led by the experience of latter days tO| imagine that John would never cross her path, without renewing his attempts. But she said no word of all this, even to her mother. She was contented to confine her out- spoken expectations to Emily Dunstable, and the play, and the conjurer. "The chances are, ten to one against my liking her, xnamma," Bhe| said. "I don't see that, my dear." "I feel to be too old to think that I shall, ever like any more new people. Three years ago I should have been quite sure that I should love a new cousin. It would have been like, having a new dress. But I've come to think that ■ an old dress is the most comfortable, and an old cousin certainly the best." / The squire had had taken for them a gloomy, 'lodging in Sackville Street. Lodgings in Lon-i don are always gloomy. Gloomy colors wear, ('better than bright ones for curtains and carpets,, and the keepers of lodgings in London seem to think that a certain dinginess of appearance is, j-espectable. I never saw a London lodging in, which any attempt at cheerfulness had been made, and I do not tliink that any such attempt,^ if made, would pay. The lodging-seeker would, be frightened and dismayed, and would uncon- sciously be led to fancy that something was wrong. Ideas of burglars and improper persons, would ])resent themselves. Tliis is so certainly, the case tliat I doubt whetlier any well-eondi-, tioned lodging-house matron could be induced to show rooms that were prettily drajied or pleas-, antly colored. Tlie big drawing-room and two, large bedrooms which the s(piire took were all that was jiroper, and were as brown, and as, gloomy, and as ill-suited for the comforts of or- dinary life as though they had been prepared for, two prisoners. But Lily was not so ignorant i to expect cheerful lodgings in London, and was satisfied. "And what are we to do nowT" said Lily, as soon as they found themselves set-) tied. It was still March, and whatever may THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 197 have been the nature of the wcatlier at Ailing- ton, it was very cokl in London. They reached Sackville Street about five in the evening, and an hour was taken up in unpacking their trunks and making themselves as comfortable as their circumstances allowed. "And now what are we to do?" said Lily. " I told them to have dinner for us at half past six." "And what after that? "Won't Bernard come to us to-night? I expected him to be standing on the dooi--steps waiting for us with his bride in his hand." "I don't suppose Bernard Avill be here to- night," said the squire. "He did not say that he would ; and as for Miss Dunstable, I proni- 'ised to take you to her aunt's house to-mor- row." ■But I wanted to see her to-night. Well, if course bridemaids must wait upon brides. And ladies with twenty thousand pounds can't "he expected to run about like common people. As for Bernard — but Bernard never was in a hur- ry."' Tlien they dined, and when the squire T.\d very nearly fallen asleep over a bottle of 'ort-wine which had been sent in for him from -OHIO neigiiboring public house, Lily began to \-cl that it was very dull. And she looked .oiind the room, and she thought that it was very ugly. And she calculated that thirty even- ings so spent would seem to be very long. And ;!ie reflected that the hours were probably going much more quickly with Emih^ Dunstable, who, no doubt, at this moment had Bernard Dale by her side. And then she told herself that the 'lioui-s were not tedious witli her at home, while sitting with her mother, with all her daily oc- :apations within her reach. But in so telling iierself she took herself to task, inquiring of her- self whether such an assurance was altogether :rae. "Were not the hours sometimes tedious jvcn at home ? And in this way her mind Aaiidercd oti" to thouglits upon life in general, md she repeated to herself over and over again he two words which slie had told John Eames hat she would write in her journal. The reader viU remember those two words — Old Maid. A.iid she had written them in her book, making -^ach letter a capital, and round them she had Irawn a scroll, ornamented after her own fash- on, and she had added the date in quaintly ornied figures — for in such matters Lily had ■onic little skill and a dash of fun to direct it; Hid she had inscribed below it an Italian motto —""Who goes softly, goes safely;" and above lev work of art she had put a heading — "As irranged by Fate for L. D." Now she thought 'f all tills, and reflected whether Emily Dun- talile was in truth very happy. Presently the cars came into her eyes, and she got up and .vent to the window, as though she were afraid hat her uncle might wake and see them. And 'is she looked out on the blank street she mut- !;ered a word or two — "Dear motlier! Dear- ;Jst mother!" Then the door was opened, and laer cousin Bernard announced himself. She had not heard his knock at the door as she had been thinking of the two words in her book. " What ; Bernard ! — ah, yes, of course," said the squire, rubbing his eyes as he strove to wake himself. " I wasn't sure you would come, l)ut I'm delighted to see you. I wish you joy with all my heart — with all my heart." "Of coiu'se I should come," said Bernard. "Dear Lily, this is so good of you! Emily is so delighted." Then Lily sjjokc her congratu- lations warmly, and there was no trace of a tear in her eyes, and she was thorouglily hajjjiy as she sat by her cousin's side and listened to his raptures about Emily Dunstable. "And you will be so fond of her aunt," he said. "But is she not awfully rich ?" said Lily. "Frightfully rich," said Bernard ; "but real- ly you would hardly find it out if nobody told you. Of course she lives in a big house, and has a heap of servants ; but she can't help that." "I hate a heap of servants," said Lily. Then there came another knock at the door, and who should enter the room but John Eames. Lily for a moment was taken aback, but it was only for a moment. She had been thinking so much of him that his presence dis- turbed her for an instant. "He probably will not know that I am here," she had said to her- self; but she had not yet been three hours in London, and he was already with her! At first he hardly spoke to her, addressing himself to the squire. "Lady Julia told me you were to be here, and as I start for the Continent early to-morrow morning I thought you would let me come and see you before I went." "I'm always glad to see you, John," said the squire — " very glad. And so you're going abroad, are you?" Then Johnny congratulated his old acquaint- ance, Bernard Dale, as to his coming marriage, and explained to them how Lady Julia in one of her letters had told him all about it, and had even given him the number in Sackville Street. " I suppose she learned it from you, Lily," said the squire. " Yes, uncle, she did." And then there came questions as to John's projected jour- ney to the Continent, and he exjdained that he was going on law-business, on belialf of Mr. Crawley, to catch the dean and Mrs. Arabin, if it might be possible. "You see. Sir, Mr. Too- good, who is Mr. Crawley's cousin, and also his lawyer, is my cousin, too ; and that's why I'm going." And still there had been hardly a word spoken between him and Lily. " But you're not a lawyer, John ; are you?" said the squire. "No. I'm not a lawyer myself." "Nor a lawyer's clerk." "Certainly not a law3''er's clerk," said John- ny, laughing. " Then why should you go?" asked Bernard Dale. Then Johnny had to explain ; and in doing so he became very eloquent as to the hardships of ^Ir. Crawlev's case. "You see, Sir, nobody 198 TUE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. can possibly believe that such a man as that stole twenty pounds. " " I do not for one," said Lily. " God forbid that I should say he did ! " said the squire. "I'm (iiiite sure he didn't," said Johnny, wanning to liis subject. "It couldn't be that such a man as that should become a thief all at on;e. It's not human nature, Sir; is it?" "It is very hard to know what is human na- ture," said tlie squire. " It's the general opinion down in Barsetsliire that he did steal it," said Bernard. ''Dr. Tliorne was one of the magistrates who committed him, and I know he thinks so." "I don't blame the magistrates in the least," said Johnny. "That's kind of you," said the squire. " Of course you'll laugh at me. Sir ; but you'll see tliat we shall come out right. There's some mystery in it of which we haven't got at the bottom as yet ; and if there is any body that can help us it's the dean." " If the dean knows any thing, why has he not written and told what he knows ?" said the squire. " That's what I can't say. The dean has not had an opj)ortunity of writing since he heard — even if he lias yet heard — that Mr. Crawley is to be tried. And then he and Mrs. Arabin are not together. It's a long story, and I will not trouble you with it all ; but at any rate I'm going off to-morrow. Lily, can I do any thing for you in Florence ?" "In Florence?" said Lily; "and are you really going to Florence ? IIow I envy you !" "And who pays your expenses?" said the squire. " Well ; as to my expenses, they are to be paid by a person who won't raise any unpleasant questions about tiie amount." " I don't know what you mean," said the squire. " He means himself," said Lily. " Is he going to do it out of his own pocket?" " He is," said Lily, looking at her lover. "I'm going to have a trip for my own fun," said Johnny, "and I shall pick up evidence on the road as I'm going — that's all." Then Lily began to take an active part in the conversation, and a great deal was said about Mr. Crawley and about Grace, and Lily de- clared tliat she would be very anxious to hear any news which Jolin Eames miglit be able to send. "You know, John, how fond we are of your cousin Grace at Allington. Are we not, uncle?" "Yes indeed," said the squire. " I thought her a very nice girl." " If you should be able to learn any thing that may be of use, John, how happy you will be." "Yes, I shall," said Johnny. "And I think it so good of you to go, John. But it is just like you. You were always gen- erous." Soon after that he got up and went. It was very clear to liim that he would have no moment in which to say a word alone to Lily ; and if he could find such a moment what gooii would such a word do liim ? It was as yet but a few weeks since she had positively refused him. And he too remembered very well those twu words which slie had told him that she would write in her book. As he had been coming to the house he had told himself that his coming would be — could be of no use. And yet he was disappointed with the result of his visit, although she had spoken to him so sweetly. ' ' I suppose you'll be gone when I come back ?" he said. "We shall be here a month," said the squire. "I shall be back long before that, I hope," said Johnny. " Good-by, Sir. Good-by, Dale. Good-by, Lily." And he put out his hand to her. " Good-by, John." And then she added, al- most in a whisper, "I think you are very, very right to go." IIow could he fail after that to hope as he walked home that she might still re- lent. And she also thought much of him, but her thoughts of him made her cling more firmly than ever to the two words. She could not bring herself to marry him ; but, at least, she would not break his heart by becoming the wife of any one else. Soon after this Bernard Dale went also. I am not sure that he had been well l)leased at seeing John Eames become suddenly the hero of the hour. When a young mati is going to perform so important an act as that of mari-iage he is apt to think that he ought to be the hero of the hour himself — at any rate among his own family. Early on the next morning Lily was taken ly her uncle to call upon Mrs. Thorne and to 'sec Emily Dunstable. Bernard was to meet them there, but it had been arranged that they should reach the house first. " Tiiere is nothing so absurd as these introductions," Bernard hat^ said. "You go and look at her, and wher you've had time to look at her then I'll come !' So the squire and Lily went off to look at Emil) Dunstable. " You don't mean to say that she lives in thn house," said Lily, when tiic cab was stopped be- fore an enormous mansion in one of the mos fashionable of the London squares. "I believe she does," said the squire. " I never shall be able to speak to any bodj! living in such a house as that," said Lily. ".^1 duke couldn't have any thing grander." "Mrs. Thorne is richer than half the dukes,^ said the squire. Then the door was opened M a ])orter, and Lily found herself within the hall Every thing was very great and very magnifi cent, and, as she thought, very uncomfortable! Presently she heard a loud jovial voice on tb stairs. ' ' Mr. Dale, I'm delighted to see you And tills is your niece, Lily. Come up, mi dear. There is a young woman up stairs dyinj to embrace you. Never mind the imibrelia. Ptr it down any where. 1 want to have a look at yoni THE LAST CllliONlCLE OF BARSET. 199 because Barnard swears that you're so pretty." This was Mrs. Thorno, once Miss Dunstable, the richest woman in England, and the aunt oV Bernard's bride. The reader may perhaps ref member the advice which she once gave to Ma- jor Grantiy, and her enthusiasm on that occa- sion. "There she is, Mr. Dale ; what do you think of her?" said Mrs. Thorne, as she opened the door of a small sitting-room wcdyed in be- tween two large saloons, in which Emily Dun- stable was sitting. "Aunt Martha, how can you be so ridicu- lous?" said the young lady. "I suppose it is ridiculous to ask the ques- tion to which one really wants to have an an- swer," said Mrs. Thorne. "But Mr. Dale has, in truth, come to inspect yon, and to form an opinion ; and, in honest truth, I shall be very anxious to know what he thinks — though, of course, he won't tell me." The old man took the girl in his arms, and kissed her on both cheeks. "I have no doubt you'll find out what I think," he said, " though I sliould never tell you." " I generally do find out what people think," she said. " And so you're Lily Dale ? " "Yes, I'm Lily Dale." " I have so often heard of you, particularly of late ; for j'ou must know that a certain Major Grantiy is a friend of mine. We must take care that that affair comes off all right, must we not?" " I hope it will." Then Lily turned to Emi- ly Dunstable, and, taking her hand, went up and sat beside her, while Mrs. Tiiorne and the squire talked of the coming marriage. " How long have 3'ou been engaged ?" said Lily. " Really engaged, about three weeks. I tliink it is not more than three weeks ago." ' ' How very discreet Bernard has been I He never told us a word about it while it was going on." "Men never do tell, I suppose," said Emily Dunstable. " Of course you love him very dearly ?" said Lily, not knowing wimt else to say. " Of course I do." •' So do we. You know he's almost a brother to us; that is, to me and my sister. We never liad a brother of our own." And so the morn- ing was passed till Lily was told by her uncle to come away, and was told also by Mrs. Thorne that she w^as to dine with them in the square on that day. "You must not be surprised that my husband is not here," she said. " He is a very odd sort of man, and he never comes to London if he can help it." CHAPTER XL VI. THE BATSWATER E03IANCE. Eames had by no means done his work for ,. ithat evening when he left Mr. Dale and Lily at [i^ [their lodgings. He had other business on hand Pj to which he had promised to give attention, and another person to see who would welcome his coming quite as warmly, though by no means as pleasjuUly, as Lily Dale. It was then just nine o'clock, and as he had told Miss Demo- lines — Madalina we may as well call her now — that he would be in Ponhcstcr Terrace bv nine at the latest, it was incumbent on him to make haste. He got into a cab, and bid the cabman drive hard, and lighting a cigar, began to inquire of himself whether it was well for him to hurry away from the presence of Lily Dale to that of Madalina Demolines. He felt that he was half ashamed of what he was doing. Though he declared to himself over and over again that he never had said a word, and never intended to say a word, to Madalina, which all the world might not hear, yet he knew that he was doing amiss. He was doing amiss, and half repented it, and yet he was half proud of it. He was most anxious to be able to give himself credit for his constancy to Lily Dale ; to be able to feel that he was steadfast in his passion ; and yet he liked the idea of amusing himself with hisBayswater romance, as he would call it, and was not without something of conceit as he thought of the progress he had made in it. " Love is one tiling and amusement is another," he said to himself as he puffed the cigar-smoke out of his mouth ; and in his heart he was proud of his own capacity for enjoyment. He thought it a fine thing, although at the same moment he knew it to be an evil thing — this hurrying away from the young lady whom he really loved to an- other as to whom he thought it very likely that he should be called upon to pretend to love her. And he sang a little song as he went: "If she be not fair for me, what care I how fair she be ?" That was intended to ap]jly to Lily, and was used as an excuse for his fickleness in going to Miss Demolines. And he was, jierhajis, too, a little conceited as to his mission to the Conti- nent. Lily had told him that she was very glad that he was going ; that she thought him very right to go. The words had been pleas- ant to his cars, and Lily had never looked j-ret- ticr in his eyes than when she had spoken them. Jolinny, therefore, was rather proud of himself as he sat in the cab smoking his cigar. He had, moreover, beaten his old enemy Sir Raffle Buttle in another contest, and he felt that the world was smiling on hiiu — that the world was smiling on him in spite of his cruel fate in the matter of his real lovesuit. There was a mystery about the Bayswater romance which was not without its allurement, and a portion of the mystery was connected with Madalina's mother. Lady Demolines was very rarely seen, and John Eames could not quite un- derstand what was the manner of life of that unfortunate lady. Her daughter usually spoke of her Avith affectionate regret as being unable to appear on that particular occasion on account of some passing malady. She was suft'eiing from a nervous headache, or was afflicted with bron- chitis, or had been touched with rheumatism, so that she was seldom on the scene when John- 200 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. ny was passing his time at Porchestei" Terrace. Ami yet he heard of her dining out, and going to Jilays and ojwras ; and wiicn lie did chance to sec her he found that she was a sprightly old woman enough. I will not venture to say that he much regretted the ahsence of Lady Dcniolincs, or tliat he was keenly alive to the im]ii-oin-icty of being left alone with tlie gentle Jladalina; but the customary ahsence of the elder lady was an incident in the romance which did not fail to strike him. Jlailalina was alone when he was shown up into t!ic drawing-room on the evening of which we arc sjieaking. "Mr. Karnes," she said, "will you kindly look at that watch which is lying on the table." She looked full at him with her great eyes wide open, and the tone of her voice was intended to show him that she was aggrieved. "Yes, I see it," said John, looking down on Miss Dcmolines's little gold Geneva watch, with which he had already made sufficient acquaint- ance to know that it was worth nothing. ' ' Shall I give it you ?" "No, Mr. Eamcs; let it remain there, that it may remind me, if it does not remind you, by how long a time you have broken your word." " Upon my word I couldn't help it — upon my honor I couldn't." "Upon your honor, Mr. Eames !" "I was obliged to go and see a friend who has just come to town from my part of the coun- try.'"' "That is the friend, I suppose, of whom I have heard from Maria." It is to be feared that Conway Dalrymple had not been so guarded as he should have been in some of his conversa- tions with Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, and that a word or t\vo had escaped from him as to the love of John Eames for Lily Dale. "I don't know what you may have heard," said Johnny, "but I was obliged to see these people before I left town. There is going to be a marriage and all that sort of thing." "Who is going to be married?" " One Captain Dale is going to be married to one Miss Dunstable." "Oh! And as to one Miss Lily Dale — is she to be married to any body?" "Not tliat I have heard of," said Johnny. "She is not going to become the wife of one Mr. John Eames?" He did not wish to talk to Miss Demolines about Lily Dale. He did not choose to disown the imputation or to acknowledge its truth. "Silence gives consent," she said. "If it be so, I congratulate you. I have no doubt she is a most charming young woman. It is about seven years, I believe, since that little aftair with Mr. Crosbie, and therefore that, I suppose, may be considered as forgotten." "It is only three years," said Johnny, an- grily. "Besides, I don't know what that has to do with it." "You need not be ashamed," said Madalina. " I have heard how well you behaved on that occasion. You were quite the preux chevalier; and if any gentleman ever deserved well of a lady you deserved well of her. I wonder how Mr. Crosbie felt when he met you tiie other day at Maria's. I had not heard any tiling about it then, or I should have been much more inter- ested in watching your meeting." " I really can't say how he felt." " I dare say not ; but I saw him shake hands with you. And so Lily Dale has come to town ?" "Yes — Miss Dale is here with heruncle." "And you are going away to-morrow?" "Yes — and I am going away to-morrow." After that there was a pause in the conversa- tion. Eames was sick of it, and was very anx- ious to change the conversation. Miss Demo- lines was sitting in the shadow, away from the light, with her face half hidden by her hands. At last she jumped up, and came round and stood opposite to him. "I charge you to tell me truly, John Eames," she said, "whether Miss Lilian Dale is engaged to you as your fu- ture wife?" He looked up into her face, but made no immediate answer. Then she repeat- ed her demand. "I ask you whether you are engaged to marry Miss Lilian Dale, and I ex- pect a reply." "What makes you ask me such a question as that?" "What makes me ask you ? Do you deny my right to feel so much interest in you as to de- sire to know whether you are about to be mar- ried? Of course you can decline to tell me if you choose." " And if I were to decline ?" " I should know then that it was true, and I should think that you were a coward." "I don't see any cowardice in the matter. One does not talk about that kind of thing to every body." "Upon my word, Mr. Eames, you are com- plimentary — indeed you are. To every body ! I am every body, am I ? That is your idea of — friendship ! You may be sure that after that I shall ask no further questions." " I didn't lucau it in the way you've taken it, Madalina." " In what Avay did you mean it. Sir? Every body ! Mr. Eames, you must excuse me if I say that I am not well enoiigli this evening to bear the company of — every body. I think you had better leave me. I think that you had better go." " Arc you angry with me?" "Yes, I am — very angry. Because I have condescended to feel an interest in your wel- fare, and have asked you a question which I thought that our intimacy justified, you tell me that that is a kind of thing that you will not talk about to — every body. I beg you to under- stand that I will not be your every body. Mr. Eames, there is the door." Things had now become very serious. Hither- to Johnny had been seated comfortably in the corner of a sofa, and had not found himself bound to move, though Miss Demolines was standing before him. But now it was absolutely neces- THE LAST CHRONICLE OF DARSET. 201 caiv that lie should do something. He must ritlicr go, or else he must make entreaty to be aUowed to remain. Would it not be expedient that lie sliould take the lady at her word and es- (•a]ie ? She was still pointing to the door, and the WA}' was open to him. If he were to walk out iii)\v of course lie would never return, and there Avould be the end of the Bayswater romance. If lie remained it might be that the romance would liLHome troublesome. He got up from his scat, aiul had almost resolved that he would go. Had i-he not somewhat relaxed the majesty of her au- -cr as he rose, had the fire of her eye not been S'linewhat quenched and the lines of her mouth sot'tcned, I think that he would have gone. The loniance would have been over, and he would June felt that it had come to an inglorious end ; but it would have been well for him that he t-hiiuld have gone. Though the fire Avas some- wliat quenched and the lines were somewhat softened, she was still pointing to the door. "Do you mean it?" he said. " I do mean it — certainly." , "And this is to be the end of every thing?"/ "I do not know what you mean by every tiling. It is a very little every thing to you, I should say. I do not quite imderstand your every thing and your every body." " I will go, if you wish me to go, of course." "I do wish it." " But before I go you must permit me to ex- cuse myself. I did not intend to oftend you. I merely meant — " "You merely meant! Give me an honest answer to a downright question. Are you en- gaged to Miss Lilian Dale?" "No— I am not." "Upon your honor?" " Do you think that I would tell you a false- hood about it ? What I meant was that it is a kind of thing one doesn't like talking about, merely because stories are bandied about. Peo- ple are so fond of saying that this man is en- gaged to that woman, and of making up tales; and it seems to be so foolish to contradict such things." "I^it you know that you used to be very fond of her?" He had taken up his hat when he had risen from the sofli, and was still standing with it ready in his hand. He was even now half-mind- ed to escape ; and the name of Lily Dale in Miss Demolines's mouth was so distasteful to him that he would have done so — he would have :gone in sheer disgust, had she not stood in his way, so that he could not escape without mov- ing her or going round behind the sofa. She did not stir to make way for him, and it may i be that she understood that he was Iier prisoner I in spite of her late command to him to go. It imay be, also, that she understood his vexation and the cause of it, and that she saw the expc- ' diency of leaving Lily Dale alone for the pres- ent. At any rate, she pressed him no more upon the matter. ' ' Arc we to be friends again ?" she said-. N " I hope so," replied Johnny. " There is my hand, then." So Johnny took her hand and pressed it, and held it a little while — ^just long enough to seem to give a mean- ing to the action. " You will get to understand me some daj'," she said, "and will learn that I do not like to be reckoned among the every bodies by those for whom I really — really — really have a regard. When I am angry, I am angry." "You were very angry just now, when you showed me the way to the door." " And I meant it too — for the minute. Only think — supposing you had gone ! We should never have seen each other again ; never, never I What a change one word may make!" " One word often does make a change." "Does it not? Just a little 'yes,' or 'no.' A ' no' is said when a 'yes' is meant, and then there comes no second chance, and what a change that may be from bright hopes to deso- lation ! Or, worse again, a 'yes' is said when a ' no' should be said — when the speaker knows that it should be ' no.' What a difference that ' no' makes ! When one thinks of it one won- ders that a woman should ever say any thing but ' no.'" "They never did say any thing else to me," said Johnny. "I don't believe it. I dare say the truth is you never asked any body." " Did any body ever ask you ?" "What would you give to know? But I will tell you frankly — yes. And once — once I thought that my answer would not have been a 'no.' " "But you changed your mind ?" "When the moment came I could not bring myself to say the word that should rob me of my liberty forever. I had said ' no' to him often enough before — poor fellow ! and on this occa- sion he told me that he asked for the last time. ' I shall not give myself another chance,' he said, ' for I shall be on board ship within a week.' I merely bade him good-by. It was the only an- swer I gave him. He understood me, and since that day his foot has never pressed his native soil." " And was it all because you were so fond of your liberty ?" said Johnny. "Perhaps — I did not — love him," said Miss Demolines, thoughtfully. She was now again seated in her chair, and John Eames had gone back to his corner of the sofa. " If I had really loved him I suppose it would have been other- wise. He was a gallant fellow, and had two thousand a year of his own, in India stock and other securities." "Dear me ! And he has not married yet ?" "He wrote me word to say that he would never marry till I was married — but that on tlic day that he should hear of my wedding he would go to the first single woman near him and ]iro- pose. It was a droll thing to say ; was it not ?" "The single woman ought to feel herself flattered." 202 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. "lie would fiiul iilonty to accept him. Be- sitles bciiifj; so well oil' he was a very handsome tVllow, and is connected with people of title. lie had every thing to recommend him." "And yet you refused him so often?" "Yes. You think I was foolish; do you not?" "I don't think you were at all foolish if you didn't care for him." " It was my destiny, I suppose ; I dare say I was wrong. Other girls marry without vio- lent love, and do very well afterward. Look at IMaria Clntterhuck." The name of Maria Clutteibnck had become odious to John Eamcs. As long as ^liss Denio- lincs would continue to talk about herself he could listen with some amount of gratification. Conversation on that subject was the natural prog- ress of the Bayswater romance. And if Mad- alina would only call her friend by her ])rescnt name he had no strong objection to an occasional mention of the lady ; but the combined names of JMaria Clntterhuck had come to be absolutely distasteful to him. He did not believe in the JMaria Clutterbuck friendship — either in its past or present existence, as described by Madalina. Indeed, he did not put strong faitli in anything that ]\Iadalina said to him. In the handsome gentleman with two thousand a year he did not believe at all. But the handsome gentleman had only been mentioned once in tlie course of his accpiaintance with Miss Demolincs, whereas Maria Clutterbuck had come up so often ! "Upon my word I must wish you good-by," he said. " It is going on for eleven o'clock, and I have to start to-morrow at seven." "What difference does that make?" "A fellow wants to get a little sleep, you know." " Go, tlien — go and get your sleep. What a sleei)y-lieaded generation it is !" Johnny longed to ask her wliether the last generation was less sleepy-lieaded, and whether the gentleman with two thousand a year had sat up talking all night l.'cfore he pressed his foot for the last time on his native soil ; but he did not dare. As he said to himself afterward, "It would not do to bring tlie Bayswater romance too suddenly to its termination!" "But before you go," she con- tinued, "I must say the word to you about tliat picture. Did you speak to Mr. Dalrymple?" " I did not. ' I have been so busy with differ- ent things that I have not seen him." " And now you arc going?" "Well, to tell the truth, I think I shall see him to-night, in spite of my being so sleepy- headed. I wrote him a line that I would look in and smoke a cigar with him if he chanced to be at home." "And tliat is why you want to go. A gen- tleman can not live without his cigar now." "It is especially at your bidding that I am going to see him." "Go, then, and make your friend under- stand that if he continues this picture of his he will bring himself to great trouble, and will l)robably ruin the woman for whom he professes, I presume, to feel something like friendship. You may tell him that Mrs. Van iSiever has al- ready heard of it." "Who told her?" demanded Johnny. "Never mind. You need not look at me like that. It was not I. Do you sujipose that secrets can be kept when so many peo))le know them ? Every servant in Maria's house knows all about it.' " As for that, I don't suppose Mrs. Brough- ton makes any great secret of it." " Do you think she has told Mr. Broughton? I am sure she has not. I may say I know she has not. Maria Clutterbuck is infatuated. Tiiere is no other excuse to be made for her." " Good-by," said Johnny, hurriedly. " And you really are going ?" "Well — yes. I suppose so." "Go, then. I have nothing more to say to you." " I shall come and call directly I return," said Johnny. " You may do as you ]ileasc about that. Sir." "Do you mean that you won't be glad to see me again ?" "I am not going to flatter you, Mr. Eames. Mamma will be well by tliat time, I hope, and I do not mind telling you that you arc a favor- ite with her." Johnny thought that this was particularly kind, as he had seen so very little of the old lady. " If you choose to call upon her," said Madalina, " of course she will be glad to see you." "But I was speaking of yourself, you know ;" and Johnny permitted himself for a moment to look tenderly at her. "Then from myself pray understand that I will say nothing to flatter your self-love." " I thought yoit would be kinder just when I was going away." "I think I have been quite kind enough. As you observed yourself just now, it is nearly elev- en o'clock, and I must ask you to go away. Bon voyage, and a happy return to you." " And you will be glad to see me when I am back ? Tell me that you will be glad to see me." " I will tell you nothing of the kind. Mr. Eames, if you do, I will be very angry with you." And then he went. On his way back to his own lodgings he did call on Conway Dalrymple, and in s])ite of his need for early rising sat smoking with the art- ist for an hour. "If you don't take care, young man," said his friend, " you will find yourself in a scrape with your Madalina." "What sort of a scrape?" As you walk away from Porchcster Terrace ome fine day you will have to congratulate yourself on having made a successful overture toward matrimony." "You don't think I atn such a fool as that comes to?" "Other men as wise as you have done the same sort of thing. Miss Demolines is very clever, and I dare say you find it amusing." THE LAST CIIKONICLE OF BARSET. 203 " It isn't so much tlfht she's clever, and I can liardly say that it is amusing. One gets awful- ly tired of it, you know. But a fellow must have something to do, and that is as good as any thing else." " I suppose you have not heard that one young man levanted last year to save himself./' from a breach of promise case ?" "I wonder whether he had any money in In- dian securities?" " What makes you ask that ?" "Nothing particular." ' ' Whatever little he had he chose to save, and I think I heard that he went to Canada. His name was Shorter ; and they say that, on the eve of his going, Madalina sent him word that she had no objection to the colonies, and that, under the pressing emergency of his expa- triation, she was willing to become Mrs. Sliort- er with more expedition than usually attends fashionable weddings. Shorter, however, es- caped, and has never been seen back again." Eames declared that he did not believe a word of it. Nevertheless as he walked home he came to the conclusion that Mr. Shorter must have been the handsome gentleman with Indian securities to whom "no" had been said once too often. While sitting with Conway Dalrymple he had forgotten to say a word about Jacl and Sisera. CHAPTER XL VII. DR. TEMPEST AT THE PALACE. Intimation had been sent from the palace to Dr. Tempest of Silverbridge of the bishop's in- tention that a commission should be held by him, as rural dean, with other neighboring cler- gymen, as assessors with him, that inquiry might be made on the part of the Church into the question of Mr. Crawley's guilt. It must be understood that by this time the opinion had be- come very general that Mr. Crawley had been guilty — that lie Iiad I'ound the check in his house, and that he had, after holding it for many months, succumbed to temptation, and ajjplied it to his own purposes. But various excuses were made for him by those who so believed. In the first place, it was felt by all who really knew any thing of the man's character, that the very foct of his committing such a crime proved him to be hardly responsible for his actions. He must have known, had not all judgment in such matters been taken from him, that the check would certainly be traced back to his hands. No attempt had been made in the disjiosing of it to dispose of it in such a way that the trace should be obliterated. He had simply given it to a neighbor with a direction to have it cashed, and had written his own name on the back of it. And therefore, though there could be no doubt as to the theft in the mind of those who sup- posed that he had found the check in his own house, yet the guilt of the tlieft seemed to be almost annihilated by the folly of the thief. And then his poverty, and his struggles, and the sufierings of his wife were remembered ; and stories were told from mouth to mouth of his in- dustry in his profession, of his great zeal among those brickmakers of Hoggle End, of acts of cliarity done by him which startled the people of the district into admiration — bow he had worked with his own hands for the .^ick poor to whom he could not give relief in money, turn- ing a woman's mangle for a coujde of hours, and carrying a boy's load along tiic lanes. Dr. Tempest and others declared tliat he had dero- gated from the dignity of his position as an En- glish parish clergyman by such acts ; but nev- ertheless tlie stories of these deeds acted strong- ly on the minds of both men and women, cre- ating an admiration for Mr. Crawley which was much stronger than the condemnation of his guilt. Even Mrs. Walker and her daughter, and the Miss Prettynians, had so far given way that they had ceased to asseverate their belief in Mv. Crawley's innocence. They contented them- selves now witli sim])ly expressing a hope that he would be acquitted by a jury, and that when he should be so acquitted the thing might be al- lowed to rest. If he had sinned, no doubt he had repented. And then there were serious debates whether he might not have stolen the money without much sin, being mad or half- mad — touched with madness when he took if ; and whether he might not, in spite of such tem- porary touch of madness, be well-fitted for his parish duties. Sorrow had afflicted him griev- ously ; but that sorrow, though it had incapaci- tated him for the management of his own af- fairs, had not rendered him unfit for the minis- trations of his parish. Such were the arguments now used in his favor by the women around 204 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAESET. him ; anil the men wcm not keen to contradict them. The wisli that he shoukl be acquitted and allowed to remain in his i)arsonage was very general. "When therefore it became known that tlic bishop liad decided to put on foot another in- vestigation, with the view of bringing Mr. Crawley's conduct under ecclesiastical condem- nation, almost every body accused the bisliop of persecution. The world of the diocese de- clared tliat Mrs. Proudic was at work, and tliat tlic bisIiop himself was no better than a puppet. It was in vain that certain clear-headed men among the clergy, of whom Dr. Tempest himself was one, pointed out tliat the bishop after all miglit perhajisbe right — that if Mr. Crawley were guilty, and if he should be found to have been so by a jury, it might be absolutely necessary that an ecclesiastical court should take some cogni/.ance of the crime beyond that taken by the civil law. "The jury," said Dr. Tempest, discussing the case with Mr. Kobarts and other clerical neighbors — "the jury may probably find him guilty and recommend him to mercy. Tiie judge will have heard his character, and will have been made acquainted with his man- ner of life, and will deal as lightly with the case as the law will allow him. For aught I know he may be imprisoned for a month. I wish it miglit be for no more than a day — or an hour. But w^hen lie comes out from his month's im- prisonment — how then ? Surely it should be a case for ecclesiastical inquiry whether a clergy- man who has committed a theft should be al- lowed to go into his puljtit directly he comes out of prison ?" But the answer to this was that Mr. Crawley always had been a good cler- gyman, was a good clergyman at this moment, and would be a good clergyman when he did come out of prison. But Dr. Tempest, though he had argued in this way, was by no means eager for the commence- ment of tiie commission over which he was to be called upon to preside. In spite of such argu- ments as the above, which came from the man's head wlien his head was brought to bear upon the matter, there was a thorough desire within his heart to oppose the bisliop. He had no strong sympathy with Mr. Crawley, as had others. He would have had Mr. Crawley silenced without regret, presuming Mr. Crawley to have been guilty. But he had a much stronger feeling with regard to the bishop. Had there been any question of silencing the bishop — could it have been possible to take any steps in that direction — he would have been very active. It may there- fore be understood that in spite of his defense of the bishop's present proceedings as to the commission, he was anxious that the bishop should fail, and anxious to put impediments in the bishop's way should it appear to liim that he could do so with justice. Dr. Tempest was well known among his parishioners to be hard and unsympathetic, some said unfeeling also, and cruel ; but it was admitted by those who disliked him the most that he was both practical and just, and that he cured for the welfare of many, though he was rarely touched by the misery of one. Such was the man who was rector of Silverbridge and rural dean in the dis- trict, and who was now called npon by the bish- op to assist him in making further inquiry as to this wretched check for twenty pounds. Once at this jjcriod Archdeacon Grantly and Dr. Tempest met each other and discussed the question of Jlr. Crawley's guilt. Both these men were inimical to the ])resent bishop of the dio- cese, and both had perhaps respected the old bishop beyond all other men. But they were different in this, that the archdeacon hated Dr. Proudic as a i)artisan — whereas Dr. Tempest opposed the bishop on certain principles which he endeavored to make clear, at any rate to himself. "Wrong !" said the archdeacon, s])cak- ing of the bishop's intention of issuing a com- mission — "of course he is wrong. How could any thing right come from him or fiom her? I should be sorry to have to do his bidding." "I think you are a little hard upon Bishop Proudie," said Dr. Tempest. "One can not be hard upon him," said the archdeacon. "He is so scandalously weak, and she is so radically vicious, that they can not but be wrong together. The very fact that such a man should be a bishop among us is to me terribly strong evidence of evil days coming." "You are more impulsive than I am," said Dr. Tempest. " In this case I am sorry for the poor man, who is, I am sure, honest in the main. But I believe that in such a case your father would have done just what the present bishop is doing — that he could have done nothing else; and as I think that Dr. Proudie is right I shall do all that I can to assist him in the commis- sion." The bishop's secretary had written to Dr. Tempest, telling him of the bislioj)'s purpose ; and now, in one of the last days of March, the bishop himself wrote to Dr. Tempest, asking him to come over to the palace. The letter was worded most courteously, and expressed very feelingly the great regret which the writer felt at being obliged to take these proceedings against a clergyman in his diocese. Bishop Proudie knew how to write such a letter. By the writing of such letters, and by the making of speeches in the same strain, he had become Bishop of Barchester. Now in this letter he begged Dr. Tempest to come over to him, say- ing how delighted Mrs. Proudie would be to see him at the palace. Then he went on to ex- plain the great difficulty which he felt, and great sorrow also, in dealing with this matter of Mr. Crawley. He looked, therefore, confi- dently for Dr. Tempest's assistance. Thinking to do the best for Mr. Crawley, and anxious to enable Mr. Crawley to remain in quiet retire- ment till the trial should be over, he bad sent a clergyman over to Ilogglestock, who would have relieved Mr. Crawley from the burden of the church services ; but Sir. Crawley would have none of this relief. Mr. Crawley had d THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 205 boon obstinate and overbearing, and had per- sisted in claiming his right to his own pulpit. Therefore was the bishop obliged to interfere legally, and therefore was he under the necessity of asking Dr. Tempest to assist him. Would Dr. Tempest come over on the Monday, and stay till the Wednesday ? The letter was a very good letter, and Dr. Tempest was obliged to do as he was asked. He so far modified the bishop's proposition tliat he reduced the sojourn at the palace by one night. He wrote to say that he would have the pleasure of dining with the bishop and Mrs. Proudic on the Monday, but would return home on the Tuesday, as soon as the business in hand would permit him. "I shall get on very well with him," he said to his wife before he started ; " but I am afraid of the woman. If she inter- feres there will be a row." "Then, my dear," said his wife, " there will be a row, for I am told that she always interferes." On reaching the palace about half an hour before dinner- time Dr. Tempest found that other guests were expected, and on descending to the great yellow drawing-room, which was used only on state oc- casions, he encountered Mrs. Proudie and two of her daughters arrayed in a full panoply of female armor. She received him with her sweetest smiles, and if there had been any former enmity between Silverbridge and the palace it was now all forgotten. She regret- ted greatly that Mrs. Tempest had not accom- panied the doctoi- — for Mrs. Tempest also had been invited. But Mrs. Tempest was not quite as well as she might have been, the doctor had said, and very rarely slept away from home. And then the bishop came in and greeted his guest with his pleasantest good-humor. It was quite a sorrow to him that Silverbridge was so distant, and that he saw so little of Dr. Tem- pest ; but he hoped that that might be somewhat mended now, and that leisure might be found for social delights — to all which Dr. Tempest said but little, bowing to the bishop at each sep- arate expression of his lordship's kindness. There were guests there that evening who did Tiot often sit at the bishop's table. The arch- deacon and Mrs. Grantly had been summoned) from Plumstead, and had obeyed the summons. Great as was the enmity between the bishop and the archdeacon, it had never quite taken the form of open palpable hostility. Each, there- fore, asked the other to dinner perhaps once every year ; and each went to the other per- haps once in two years. And Dr. Thorne from Chaldicotes was there, but without his wife, who in these days was up in London. Mrs. Proudie always expressed a warm friendship for Mrs. Thorne, and on this occasion loudly regretted her absence. "You must tell her. Dr. Thorne, how exceedingly much we miss her." Dr. Thorne, who was accustomed to hear his wife speak of her dear friend Mrs. Proudie with al- most unmeasured ridicule, promised that he would do so. "We are so sorry the Luftons couldn't come to us," said Mrs. Proudie — not alluding to the dowager, of whom it was well known that no earthly inducement would have sufhced to make her put her foot within Mrs. Proudie's room ; " but one of the children is ill, and she could not leave him." But the Grcshams were there from Boxall Hill, and the Thornes from Ullathorne, and, with the excep- tion of a single chaplain, who pretended to carve. Dr. Tempest and the archdeacon were the only clerical guests at the table. Prom all which Dr. Tempest knew that the bishop was anxious to treat him with special consideration on the present occasion. The dinner was rather long and ponderous, and occasionally almost dull. The archdeacon talked a good deal, but a by-stander with an acute ear might have understood from the tone of his voice that he was not talking as he would have talked among friends. Mrs. Proudie felt this, and understood it, and was angry. She could never find herself in the presence of the archdeacon without becoming angry. Her ac- curate ear would always appreciate the defiance of ejtiscopal authority, as now existing in Bar- chester, which was concealed, or only half con- cealed, by all the archdeacon's words. But the bishop was not so keen, nor so easily roused to wrath ; and though the presence of his enemy did to a certain degree cow him, he strove to fight against the feeling with renewed good-hu- mor. "You have improved so upon the old days," said the archdeacon, speaking of some small matter with reference to the cathedral, "that one hardly knows the old place." "I hope we have not fallen off," said the bishop, with a smile. " We have improved, Dr. Grantly," said Mrs, Proudie, with great emphasis on her words. "What you say is true. We have improved." " Not a doubt about that," said the archdea- con. Then Mrs. Grantly interposed, strove to change the subject, and threw oil upon the wa- tei's. " Talking of improvements," said Mrs. Grant- ly, "what an excellent row of houses they have built at the bottom of High Street ! I wonder who is to live in them ?" "I remember when that was the very worst part of the town," said Dr. Thorne. "And now they're asking seventy pounds apiece for houses which did not cost above six hundred each to build," said Mr. Thorne of Ul- lathorne, with that seeming dislike of modern success which is evinced by most of the elders of the world. "And who is to live in them?" asked Mrs. Grantly. "Two of them have been already taken by clergymen," said the bishop, in a tone of tri- umph. " Yes," said the archdeacon, "and the houses in the Close which used to be the residences of the prebendaries have been leased out to tallow- chandlers and retired brewers. That comes of the working of the Ecclesiastical Commission." 206 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. " And why not?" tlcniandcd Mrs. Proudie. " AVliy not, indeed, if you like to have tallow- chandlers next door to you?'' said the archdea- con. "In the old days wc would sooner have had our brethren near to us." " There is nothing, Dr. Grantly, so objection- able in a cathedral town as a lot of idle clergy- men," said Mrs. rroudic. "It is beginning to be a question to mo," said the archdeacon, " whether there is any use in clergymen at all for the ])resent generation." "Dr. Grantly, those can not be your real sentiments," said Mrs. I'roudie. Then Mrs. Grantly, working hard in her vocation as a peace-maker, changed the conversation again, and began to talk of the American war. But even that was made matter of discord on church matters — the archdeacon professing an opinion that tlic Southerners were Christian gentlemen, and the Nortlierners infidel snobs; whereas Mrs. Troudio had an idea that the Gospel was preached with gennine zeal in the Northern States. And at each such outbreak the poor bishop would laugh uneasily, and say a word or two to which no one paid much at- tention. And so the dinner went on, not al- ways in the most pleasant manner for those who preferred continued social good-humor to the occasional excitement of a half - suppressed battle. Not a word was said about ]\Ir. Crawley. When Mrs. Proudie and the ladies had left the dining-room the bishop strove to get up a little lay conversation. He spoke to Mr. Throne about his game, and to Dr. Thornc about his timber, and even to Mr. Gresham about his hounds. "It is not so many years, Mr. Gres- ham," said he, " since the Bishop of Barchcster was expected to keep hounds himself;" and the bishop laughed at his own joke. "Your lordship shall have them back at the palace next season," said young Frank Gresham, " if you will promise to do the county justice." "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the bishop. "What do you say, Mr. Tozer?" Mr. Tozer was the chaplain on duty. "I have not the least objection in the world, my lord," said ]\Ir. Tozer, " to act as second whip." "I'm afraid you'll find them an expensive adjunct to the episcopate," said the archdeacon. And then the joke was over ; for there had been a rumor, now for some years prevalent in Bar- chcster, that Bishop Proudie was not liberal in his expenditure. As Mr. Thorne said afterward to his cousin the doctor, the archdeacon might have spared that sneer. "The archdeacon will never spare the man who sits in his father's seat," said the doctor. " The pity of it is that men who are so thoroughly different in all their sym- pathies should ever be bronght into contact." "Dear, dear," said the archdeacon, as he stood afterward on the rug before the drawing-room fire, "how many rubbers of whist I have seen played in this room!" "I sincerely hope that you will never sec another played liere," said Mrs. Proudie. "I"m quite sure that I shall not," said the archdeacon. For this last sally his wife scolded him bitterly on their way home. "You know very well," she said, "that the times are changed, and that if you were Bishop of Barchcster yourself you would not have whist played in the palace." "I only know, " said he, " that when we had the whist we had some true religion along with it, and some good sense and good feeling also." "You can not be right to sneer at others for doing what you would do your- self," said his wife. Then the archdeacon threw himself sulkily into the corner of his carriage, and nothing more was said between him and his wife about the bishojj's dinner-party. Not a word was spoken tliat night at the pal- ace about Mr. Crawley ; and when that obnox- ious guest from Plumstead was gone !Mrs. 4^'roudic resumed her good-humor toward Dr. Tempest. So intent was she on conciliating him that she refrained even from abusing the archdeacon, whom she knew to have been inti- mate for very many years with the rector of Silvcrbridge. In her accustomed moods she would have broken forth in loud anger, caring nothing for old friendships ; but at present she was thoughtful of the morrow, and desirous that Dr. Temjicst should, if possible, meet her in a friendly humor when the great discussion as to Ilogglestock should be opened between them. But Dr. Tempest understood her bearing, and as he pulled on his night-cap made certain res- olutions of his own as to the morrow's proceed- ings. "I don't suppose she will dare to inter- fere," he had said to his wife ; "but if she does I shall certainly tell the bishop that I can not speak on the subject in her presence." At breakfast on the following morning there was no one present but the bishop, Mrs. Proudie, and Dr. Tempest. Very little was said at the meal. Mr. Crawley's name was not mentioned, but there seemed to be a general feeling among them that there was a task hanging over them which prevented any general conversation. The eggs were eaten and the coffee was drunk, but the eggs and the coffee disappeared almost in silence. When these ceremonies had been altogether com- pleted, and it was clearly necessary that some- thing further should be done, the bishop spoke : "Dr. Tempest," he said, "perhaps you will join me in my study at eleven. We can then say a few words to each other about the unfor- tunate matter on which I shall have to trouble you." Dr. Tempest said he would be punctual to his appointment, and then the bisliop with- drew, muttering something as to tlie necessity of looking at his letters. Dr. Tempest took a newspaper in his hand, which had been brought in by a servant, but Mrs. Proudie did not allow him to read it. "Dr. Tempest," she said, "this is a matter of most vital importance. I am quite sure that yon feel that it is so." " What matter, madam ?" said the doctor. "Tliis terrible affair of Mr. Crawley's. If something be not done the whole diocese will be disgraced." Then she waited for an answer, THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 207 but receiving none she was obliged to contimic. " Of the poor man's guilt there can, I fear, be no doubt." Then there was another pause, but still the doctor made no answer. "And if he be guilty," said Mrs. Proudie, resolving that she Avould ask a question that must bring forth some reply, "can any experienced clergyman think that he can be fit to preach from the pulpit of a parish church ? I am sure that you must agree with me. Dr. Tempest ? Consider the souls of the people !" " Mrs. Proudie," said he, "I think that we had better not discuss the matter." "Not discuss it?" "I think that we had better not do so. If I imderstand the bishop aright, he wishes that I should take some step in the matter." " Of course he does." "And therefore I must decline to make it a matter of common conversation." "Common conversation, Dr. Tempest! I should be the last person in the world to make it a matter of common conversation. I regard this as by no means a common conversation. God forbid that it should be a common conver- sation. I am sjieaking now very seriously with reference to the interests of the Church, which I think will be endangered by having among her active servants a man who has been guilty of so base a crime as theft. Think of it, Dr. Tem- pest. Theft ! Stealing money ! Appropria- ting to his own use a check for twenty pounds which did not belong to him ! And then tell- ing such terrible falsehoods about it ! Can any thing be worse, any thing more scandalous, any thing more dangerous ? Indeed, Dr. Tempest, I do not regard this as any common conversa- tion." The whole of this speech was not made at once, fluently, or without a break. From stop to stop Mrs. Proudie paused, waiting for her companion's words ; but as he would not speak she was obliged to continue. " I am sure that you can not but agree with me. Dr. Tem- pest?" she said. "I am quite sure that I shall not discuss it/ with you," said the doctor, very brusquely. "And why not? Are you not here to dis- cuss it?" "Not with you, Mrs. Proudie. You must excuse me for saj-ing so, but I am not here to discuss any such matter with you. "Were I to do so I should be guilty of a very great impro- priety." • "All these things are in common between mc and the bishop," said Mrs. Proudie, with an air that was intended to be dignified, but which nevertheless displayed her rising anger. "As to that I know nothing, but*thcy can not be in common between you and me. It grieves me much that I should have to speak to you in such a strain, but my duty allows me no alternative. I think, if you will permit me, I will take a turn round the garden before I keep my appointment with his lordship." And so saying he escaped from the lady without hear- ing her further remonstrance. It still wanted nearly an hour to the time named by the bishoj), and Dr. Tempest used it in preparing for his withdrawcl from the palace as soon as his interview with the bishop should be over. After what had passed he thought that he would be justified in taking his departure without bidding adieu formally to Mrs. Proudie. He would say a word or two, explaining his haste, to the bishop ; and then, if he could get out of the house at once, it might be that he would never see Mrs. Proudie again. He was rather proud of his success in their late battle, but he felt that, having been so completely vic- torious, it would be foolish in him to risk his laurels in the chance of another encounter. He would say not a word of what had happened to the bishop, and he thought it probable that nei- ther would Mrs. Proudie s])cak of it — at any rate till after he M-as gone. Generals who are beaten out of the field are not quick to talk of their own repulses. He, indeed, had not beaten Mrs. Proudie out of the field. He had, in fact, himself run away. But he had left his foe si- lenced ; and with such a foe, and in such a con- test, that was every thing. He put up his port- manteau, therefore, and prepared for his final retreat. Then he rang his bell and desired the servant to show him to the bishop's study. The servant did so, and when he entered the room the first thing he saw was Mrs. Proudie sitting in an arm-chair near the window. The bishop was also in the room, sitting with his arms upon the writing-table, and his head upon his hands. It was very evident that Mrs. Proudie did not consider herself to have been beaten, and that she was prepared to fight another battle. " Will you sit down. Dr. Tempest?" she said, motion- ing him with her hand to a chair opposite to that occupied by the bishop. Dr. Tempest sat ' down. He felt that at the moment he had no- thing else to do, and that he must restrain any remonsti'ance that he might make till Mr. Craw- ley's name should be mentioned. He was al- most lost in admiration of the woman. He had left her, as he thought, utterly vanquished and prosti"ated by his determined but uncourteous usage of her ; and here she was, present again upon the field of battle as though she had never been even wounded. He could see that there had been words between her and the bishop, and that she had carried a point on which the bishop had been very anxious to have his own way. He could perceive at once that the bishop had begged her to absent herself, and was greatly chagrined that he should not have prevailed with her. There she was — and as Dr. Tem- pest was resolved that he would neither give ad- vice nor receive instructions respecting Mr. Craw- ley in her presence, he could only draw upon his courage and his strategy for the coming war- fare. For a few moments no one said a word. The bishop felt that if Dr. Tempest would only begin, the work on hand might be got through even in his wife's presence. INIrs. Proudie was aware that her husband should begin. If he would do so, and if Dr. Tempest would listen 208 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. iiiid tlicn rei>ly, she might gradually make her way into the conversation ; and if lier words were once accepted then slie could say all that she desired to say ; then she could play herjiart and become somebody in the episcopal work. AVlien once she should have been allowed liber- ly of speech the enemy would be i)Owerless to stoji her. But all this Dr. Tempest understood quite as well as she understood it, and had tlicy waited till nii^ht lie would not liave been the fust to mention Mr. Crawley's name. The bishoj) siglied aloud. The sip;li might be taken as expressing grief over the sin of the erring brother whose conduct tliey were then to discuss, and was not amiss. But wlicn tlie sigh witli its attendant murmurs had passed away it was necessary tliat some initiative stc]i sliould be taken. " Dr. Tempest," said the bishop, " what arc we to do about tliis poor stiff-necked gentleman ?" Still Dr. Tempest did not speak. "There is no clergyman in the diocese," con- tinued the bishop, "in whose prudence and wis- dom I have more confidence than in yours. And I know, too, that you are by no means disposed to severity where severe measures are not neces- sary. Wliat ouglit we to do ? If he has been guilty lie should not surely return to his pulpit after the expiration of such punishment as the law of his country may award to Iiim." Dr. Tempest looked at i\Irs. Proudie, thinking that she might perhaps say a word now; but Mrs. Proudie knew her part better, and was si- lent. Angry as slie was, she contrived to hold her peace. Let the debate once begin and slie would bo able to creep into it, and then to lead it — and so she would hold her own. But she had met a foe as wary as herself. "My lord," said the doctor, " it will perhaps be well that you should communicate your wishes to me in writing. If it be possible for me to comply with them I will do so." "Yes — exactly; no doubt; but I thought that pei-liaps we miglit better understand each other if we had a few words of quiet conversa- tion upon the subject. I believe you know the steps that I have — " But here the bishop was interrupted. Dr. Tempest rose from his chair, and advancing to the table put botli his hands upon it. "My lord," he said, " I feel myself compelled to say that which I would very much rather leave un- said, were it possible. I feel the difficulty, and I may say delicacy, of my position ; but I should be untrue to my conscience and to my feeling of what is right in such matters if I were to take any part in a discussion on this matter in the presence of — a lady." " Dr. Tempest, what is your objection?" said Mrs. Proudie, rising from her chair, and com- ing also to the table, so that from thence she miglit confront her opponent ; and as slie stood opposite to Dr. Tempest she also put both her hands upon tlie table. " My dear, perhaps you will leave us for a few moments," said the bishop. Poor bishop! Poor weak bishop ! As the words came from his mouth he knew that they would be spoken in vain, and that, if so, it would have been better for him to have left them unspoken. " Why should I be dismissed from your room without a reason ?" said Mrs. Proudie. "Can- not Dr. Tempest understand that a wife may share her husband's counsels — as she must siiare his troubles ? If he can not. I pity him very much as to his own household." " Dr. Tempest," said the bishop, " Mrs. Prou- die takes the greatest possible interest in every tiling concerning tlio diocese." " I am sure, my lord," said the doctor, "that you will sec liow unseemly it would be that I should interfere in any way between you and Mrs. Proudie. I certainly will not do so. I can only say again that if you will communicate to me your wislies in writing I will attend to them — if it be possible," " You mean to be stubborn," said Mrs. Prou- die, whose ju'udence was beginning to give way under the great provocation to Avhich her tem- per was being subjected. " Yes, madam ; if it is to be called stubborn- ness, I must be stubborn. My lord, Mrs. Prou- die spoke to me on this subject in the breakfast- room after you had left it, and I tlien ventured to explain to her that in accordance with such light as I have on the matter I could not dis- cuss it in her presence. I greatly grieve that I failed to make myself understood by her, as otherwise this unpleasantness might have been spared." "I understood you very well, Dr. Tempest, and I think you to be a most unreasonable man. Indeed, I might use a much harsher word." "You may use any word you jdease, Mrs. Proudie," said the doctor. ,' ' ' My dear, I really think you had better leave us for a few minutes," said tlie bishop. "No, my lord — no," said Mrs. Proudie, turn- ing round upon hev husband. "Not so. It would be most unbecoming that I should be turned out of a room in this palace by an un- courteous word from a jiarish clergyman. It would be unseemly. If Dr. Tempest forgets his duty, I will not forget mine. There are other clergyman in the diocese besides Dr. Tempest who can undertake the very easy task of this commission. As for his having been a]q)ointed rural dean I don't know how many years ago, it is a matter of no consequence whatever. In such a preliminary inquiry any three clergymen will suffice. It need not be done by the rural dean at all." "My dear!" "I will not be turned out of this room by Dr. Tempest— and that is enough." "My lord," said the doctor, "you had better write to me as I proposed to you just now." "His lordship will not write. His lordship will do nothing of the kind," said Mrs. Proudie. "My dear!" said the bishop, driven in his perplexity beyond all carefulness of reticence. "My dear, I do wish you wouldn't — I do indeed. If you would only go away!" THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 209 "I will not go away, my lord," said Mrs. Proudie. *' But I will," said Dr. Tempest, feeling true compassion for the unfortunate man whom he saw writhing in agony before him. " It will manifestly be for the best that I should retire. My lord, I wish you good-morning. Mrs. Prou-^ die, good-morning." And so he left the room,' "A most stubborn and a most ungentleman- like man," said Jlrs. Proudie, as soon as the door was closed behind the retreating rural dean. " I do not think that in the whole course of my life I ever met with any one so insubor- dinate and so ill-mannered. He is worse than the archdeacon." As she uttered these words she paced about the room. The bishop said no- thing ; and when she herself had been silent for I a few minutes she turned upon him. "Bish- op," she said, "I hope that you agree with me. I expect that you will agree with me in a matter that is of so much moment to my comfort, and ' I may say to my position generally in the dio- cese. Bishop, why do you not speak?". " You have behaved in such a way that I do not know whether I shall ever speak again," said . the bishop. j "What is this that you say?" "I say that I do not know how I shall ever speak again. You have disgraced me." " Disgraced you ! I disgrace you ! It is you that disgrace yourself by saying such words." "Very well. Let it be so. Perhaps you will go away now and leave me to myself. I have got a bad headache, and I can't talk any more. Oh dear ! oh dear ! what will he think of it!" "And you mean to tell me that I have been wrong!" ' ' Yes, you have been wrong — very wrong. Why didn't you go away when I asked you? You are always being wrong. I wish I had never come to Barchester. in any other posi- tion I should not have felt it so much. As it is I do not know how I can ever show my face again." "Kot have felt what so much, Mr. Proudie?" said the wife, going back in the excitement of her anger to the nomenclature of old days. " And this is to be my return for all my care in your behalf! Allow me to tell you, Sir, that in any position in which you may be placed I know what is due to you, and that your dignity will never lose any thing in my hands. I wish that you were as well able to take care of it yourself." Then she stalked out of the room, and left the poor man alone. Bishop Proudie sat alone in his study through- out the whole day. Once or twice in the course of the morning his chaplain came to him on some matter of business, and Mas answered with a smile — the peculiar softness of which the chaplain did not fail to attribute to the right cause. For it was soon known throughout the household that there had been a quarrel. Could he quite have made up his mind to do so — could he have resolved that it would be altogether bet- ter to quarrel with his wife — the bishop would have appealed to the chajilain, and have asked at any rate for sympathy. But even yet he could not bring himself to confess his misery, and to own himself to another to be the wretch that he was. Then during the long hours of the day he sat thinking of it all. How happy could he be if it were only possible for him to go away, and become even a curate in a parish, without his wife ! Would there ever come to him a time of freedom? Would she ever die? He was older than she, and of course he would die first. Would it not be a fine tiling if he could die at once, and thus escape from his mis- ery? What could he do, even supposing himself strong enough to fight the battle? He could not lock her up. He could not even very well lock her out of his room. She was his wife, and must have the run of his house. He could not altogether debar her from the society of the diocesan clergymen. He had, on this very morning, taken strong measures with her. More than once or twice he had desired her to leave the room. What was there to be done with a woman who would not obey her husband — who ivould not even leave him to the performance of his own work ? What a blessed thing it would be if a bishop could go away from his home to his work every day like a clerk in a public oiFice — as a stone-mason does! But there was no such escape for him. He could not go away. And how was he to meet her again on this very day ? And then for hours he thought of Dr. Tem- pest and Mr. Crawlej% considering what he had better do to rejiair the shipwreck of the morn- ing. At last ho resolved that he would write to the doctor ; and before he had again seen his wife he did write his letter, and he sent it off. In this letter he made no direct allusion to the occurrence of the morning, but wrote as though there had not been any fixed intention of a per- sonal discussion between them. "I think it will be better that thei'e should be a commis- sion," he said, "and I would suggest that you should have four other clergymen Mith j-ou. Perhaps you wuU select two yourself out of your rural deanery; and, if you do not object, I will name as the other two Mr. Thumble and Mr. Quiverful, who are both resident in the city." As he wrote these two names he felt ashamed of himself, knowing that he had chosen the two men as being special friends of his wife, and feeling- that he should have been brave enough to throw aside all considerations of his wife's fa- vor — especially at this moment, in which he was putting on his armor to do battle against her. "It is not probable," he continued to say in his letter, " that you will be able to make your report until after the trial of this unfor- tunate gentleman sliall have taken place, and a verdict sliall have been given. Sliould he bo acquitted, that, I imagine, should end the mat- ter. There can be no reason why we should attempt to go beyond the verdict of a jury. 210 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. But slionld he ho found Ruilty, I think we ought to be rea.ly witli such steps as it will be becom- ing for us to take at the expiration of any sen- tence whieii may be pronounced. It will be, at anv rate, expedient that in such case the niaftL'r sliould be brought before an ecclesias- tieal court."' lie knew well as he wrote this tliat he. was proposing sometliiug nincli milder than tlic co\irse intended by his wife when slie had instigated him to take proceedings in the matter ; luit he did not much regard that now, Tliongh ho liad been weak cnougli to name cer- Uxin clergymen as assessors with the rural dean, because lie thought that by doing so he would to a certain degree conciliate his wife — though he had been so far a coward, yet he was re- solved that he would not sacrifice to her his own judgment and his own conscience in his manner of proceeding. He kept no copy of his letter, so that he might be unable to show lier his very words when she should ask to see them. Of course he would tell her what he liad done; but in telling her he would keep to himself what he had said as to the result of an acquittal in a civil court. She need not yet be told that he had promised to take such a ver- dict as sufficing also for an ecclesiastical ac- quittal. In this spirit his letter was written and sent off before he again saw his wife. He did not meet her till they came together in the drawing-room before dinner. In ex- plaining the whole truth as to circumstances as they existed at the palace at that moment, it must be acknowledged that Mrs. Proudie her- self, great as was her courage, and wide as were the resources which she possessed within her- self, was somewhat appalled by the position of affairs. I fear that it may now be too late for me to excite much sympathy in the mind of any reader on behalf of Mrs. Proudie. I shall never be able to make her virtues popular. But she had virtues, and their existence now made lier unliai)py. She did regard the dignity of her husband, and she felt at the present mo- ment that she had almost compromised it. She did also regard the welfare of the clergymen around her, thinking of course in a general way that certain of them who agreed with her were the clorgymen whose welfare should be studied, and that certain of them who disagreed with her were the clergymen whose welfare should be postponed. But now an idea made its way into her bosom that she was not perhaps doing the best for the welfare of the diocese generally. What if it should come to pass that all the clergymen of the diocese should refuse to open their moutiis in her presence on ecclesiastical subjects, as Dr. Tempest had done ? This spe- cial day was not one on which she was well contented with hei'self, though by no means on that account was her anger mitigated against the offending rural dean. During dinner she struggled to say a word or two to her husband, as though there had been no quarrel between them. With him the matter had gone so deep that he could not an- swer her in the same spirit. There were sun- dry members of the family jjresent — daughters, and a son-in-law, and a daughter's friend who was staying with them ; but even in the hope of appearing to be serene before them he could not struggle through his deep despondence. He was very silent, and to his wife's words he answered hardly any thing. He was courteous and gentle with them all, but he spoke as little as was possible, and during the evening he sat alone, with his head leaning on liis hand, not l^rctending even to read. He was aware that it was too late to make even an attem])t to con- ceal his misery and his disgrace from his own family. His wife came to him that night in his dress- ing-room in a s])irit of feminine softness that was very unusual with her. "My dear," said she, "let us forget what occurred this morning. If there has been any anger we are bound as Christians to forget it." She stood over him as she spoke, and put her hand upon his shoulder almost caressingly. "When a man's heart is broken he can not forget it," was his reply. She still stood by him, and still kept her hand upon him ; but she could think of no other words of comfort to say. "I will go to bed," he said. "It is the best place for me." Then she left him, and he went to bed. CHAPTER XLVIIL THE SOFTNESS OF SIR KAFFLE BUFFLE. We have seen that John Eames was prepared to start on his journey in search of the Arabins, and have seen him after he had taken farewell of his office and of his master there, previous to his departure ; but that matter of his departure had not been arranged altogether with comfort as far as his offi^^ial interests were concerned. He had been perhaps a little abrupt in his mode of informing Sir Raffle Buffle that there was a pressing cause for his official absence, and Sir Raffle had replied to him that no private press- ure could be allowed to interfere Avith his public duties. "I must go, Sir Raffle, at any rate," Johnny had said ; "it is a matter affecting my family, and must not be neglected." "If you intend to go without leave," said Sir Raffle, " I presume you will first put your resignation into the hands of Mr. Kissing." Now Mr. Kissing was the secretary to the Board. This had been serious, undoubtedly. John Eames was not specially anxious to keep his present position as private secretary to Sir Raffle, but he certainly had no desire to give up his profession alto- gether. He said nothing more to the great man on that occasion, but before he left the of- fice he wrote a private note to the chairman ex- pressing the extreme importance of his busi- ness, and begging that he might liave leave of absence. On the next morning he received it Iback with a very few words written across it. "It can't be dofte," were the very few words THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 211 ■wliieli Sir Raffle Buffle had written across the note from his private secretary. Here was a dillicuhy which Johnny had not anticipated, and wliich seemed to be insujicrable. Sir Raf- lio would not liavc answered him in that strain if he liad not been very much in earnest. *'I should send him a medical certificate," said Cradell, his friend of old. "Nonsense!" said Eames. "I don't sec that it's nonsense at all. They can't get over a medical certificate from a re- spectable man ; and every body has got some- thing tlic matter with him of some kind." " I should go, and let him do his worst," said Fisher, wlio was another clerk. " It wouldn't be more than putting you down a place or two. As to losing your present berth you don't mind that, and they would never think of dismissing you." "But I do mind being put down a place or two," said Johnny, who could not forget that were he so put down his friend Fisher would gain the step which he would lose. "J should give him a barrel of oysters, and talk to him about the Chancellor of the Ex- chequer," said FitzHoward, who had been pri- vate secretary to Sir Raffle before Eames, and might therefore be supposed to know the man. "That might have done very well if I had not asked him and been refused first," said John Eames. " FU tell you what I'll do : I'll write a long letter on a sheet of foolscap paper, with a regular margin, so that it must come before the Board, and perhaps that will frighten him." When he mentioned his difficulty on that evening to !^[r. Toogood, the lawyer bogged him to give up the journey. "It will only be send- ing a clerk, and it won't cost so very much after all," said Toogood. But Johnny's pride could not allow him to give way. "I'm not going to be done about it," said he. "I'm not going to resign, but I will go, even though they may dismiss me. I don't think it will come to 'that, but if it does it must." His uncle begged of him not to think of such an alternative ; but this discussion took place after dinner, and away from the office, and Eames would not submit to bow his neck to authority. "If it comes to that," said he, "a fellow migiit as well be a Islave at once. And what is the use of a fellow having a little money if it does not make him independent ? You may be sure of one thing, I shall go ; and that on the day fixed." On the next morning John Eames was very isilent when he went into Sir Raffle's room at Ithe office. There was now only this day and.' another before that fixed for his departure, and lit was of course very necessary that matters should be arranged. But he said nothing to Sir Raffle during the morning. The gi-eat man himself was condescending, and endeavored to be kind. He knew that his stern refusal had greatly irritated his private secretary, and was anxious to show that, though in the cause of public duty he was obliged to be stern, he was quite willing to forget his sternness when the necessity for it had passed away. On this morning, therefore, he was very cheery. But to all his cheery good-humoi' John Eames would make no response. Late in the afternoon, when most of the men had left the oflice, Johnny ap- peared before the chairman for the last time that day with a very long face. He was dressed in black, and had changed his ordinary morning- coat for a frock, which gave him an appearanco altogether unlike that which was customary to him. And he spoke almost in a whisper, very slowly ; and when Sir Raffle joked — and Sir Raffle often would joke — he not only did not laugh, but he absolutely sighed. "Is there any thing the matter with you, Eames ?" asked Sir Raffle. "I am in great trouble," said John Eames. "And what is your trouble?" " It is essential for the honor of one of my family that I should be at Florence by this day week. I can not make up my mind wiiat I ought to do. I do not wish to lose my position in the public service, to which, as you know, I am warmly attached ; but I can not submit to see the honor of my family sacrificed !" "Eames," said Sir Raffle, "that must be nonsense — that must be nonsense. There can be no reason why you should always expect to have your own way in every thing." "Of course if I go without leave I shall be dismissed." "Of course you will. It is out of t!ie ques- tion that a young man should take the bit be- tween his teeth in that way." "As for taking the bit between his teeth. Sir Raffle, I do not think that any man was ever more obedient, perhaps I should say more sub- missive, than I have been. But tliere must be a limit to every thing." ""What do you mean by that, Mr. Eames?" said Sir Raffle, turning in anger upon his pri- vate secretary. But Johnny disregarded his anger. Johnny, indeed, had made up his mind that Sir Raffle should be very angry. "What do you mean, Mr. Eames, by saying that there must be a limit ? I know nothing about limits. One would suppose that you intended to make an accusation against me." " So I do. I think, Sir Raflle, that you are treating me with great cruelty. I have ex- plained to you that fiimily circumstances — " "You have explained nothing, Mr. Eames." "Yes, I have. Sir Raffle. I have explained to you tliat matters relating to my family, which materially aflect the honor of a certain one of its members, demand that I should go at once to Florence. You tell me that if I go I shall be dismissed." "Of course you must not go without leave. I never heard of such a thing in all my life." And Sir Raffle lifted up his hands toward heaven, almost in dismay. " So I have drawn up a short statement of the circumstances, which I hope may be read at the Board when the question of my dismissal comes before it." 212 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. " You nicnn to go, tlicn ?" I " No ; you do not," said Johnnv. "Yes, SirRalHc; I must po. The lionor of | " Can't you explain it to me, then? so that a certain branch oP my family demands that I I may have some reason — if there is any reason." should do so. As I have for some time been so | Then John told the story of Mr. Crawley — a especially under you, I thoup;ht it would be considerable portion of the story ; and in his tell- proper to sliow you what I have said before l/ingofitlthinkitprobablcthatheputmoreweight send my letter in, and therefore I have brought'' ujion the necessity of his mission to Italy than it with mo. Here it is." And Johnny handed i it could have fairly been made to bear. In the to Sir RatHe an official document of large dimcn- course of the narration Sir Raffle did once con- Sir Raffle began to be uncomfortable. • lie had acquired a character for tyranny in the pub- lic service of which he was aware, though lie tliought that he knew well that he had never deserved it. Some official big-wig — perhaps that Cliancellor of the Excheiiuer of whom he was so fond — had on one occasion hinted to him that a little softness of usage would be compat- ible witli the i)rejudices of the age. Softness was impossible to Sir Raffle ; but his temper was sufflciemly under his control to enable him to encounter the rebuke, and to pull liimself up from time to time when he found himself tempt- ed to speak loud and to take things with a high hand. He knew that a clerk should not be dis- missed for leaving his office who could show tliat his absence had been caused by some mat- ter really affecting the interest of his family ; and that were he to drive Eames to go on this occasion without leave, Eames would be simply called in to state what was this matter of mo. ment wiiich had taken him awaj'. Probably he had stated that matter of moment in this very document which Sir Raffle was holding in his hand. But Sir Raffle was not willing to be con- quered by the document. If it was necessary that he should give way, he would much prefer to give way — out of his own good-nature, let us say — without looking at the document at all. "I must, under the circumstances, decline to read tliis," said ho, "unless it should come be- fore me officially ;" and he handed back the paper. "I thought it best to let you sec it if you pleased," said John Eames. Then he turned round as though he were going to leave the room ; but suddenly he turned back again. "I don't like to leave you, Sir Raffle, without saying good- by. I do not suppose we shall meet again. Of course you must do your duty, and I do not wish you to think that I have any personal ill-will against you." So saying he put out his hand to Sir Raffle as thougli to take a final farewell. Sir Rafflo looked at him in amazement. He was dressed, as has been said, in black, and did not look like the John Eames of every day to whom Sir Raffle was accustomed. "I don't understand this at all," said Sir Raffle. " I was afraid that it was only too plain," said John Eames. " And you must go ?" "Oh yes; that's certain. I have pledged myself to go." "Of course I don't know any thing of this matter that is so important to your family." trive to suggest that a lawyer by going to Flor- ence might do the business at any rate as well as John Eames. But Johnny denied this. "No, Sir Raffle, it is impossible — quite impossi- ble," he said. "If you saw the lawyer who is acting in the matter, Mr. Toogood, who is also my uncle, he would tell you the same." Sir Raffle had already heard something of the story of Mr. Crawley, and was now willing to accept the sad tragedy of that case as an excuse for his private secretary's somewhat insubordinate con- duct. "Under the circumstances, Eames, I suppose you must go; but I think you should have told me all about it before." / "I did not like to trouble you, Sir Raffle, with private business." ' ' It is always best to tell the whole of a story," said Sir Raffle. Johnny, being quite content with the upshot of the negotiations, accepted this gentle rebuke in silence, and withdrew. On the next day he appeared again at the office in his ordinary costume, and an idea crossed Sir Raffle's brain that he had been partly "done" by the aflt'ectation of a costume. " I'll be even with him some day yet," said Sir Raffle to him- self. " I've got my leave, boys," said Eames, when he went out into the room in which his three friends sat. "No!" said Cradell. " But I have," said Johnny. " You don't mean that old Huffie Scuffle has given it out of his own head," said Fisher. "Indeed he has," said Johnny; "and bade. God bless mc into the bargain." "And you didn't give him the oysters ?" said FitzHoward. " Not a shell," said Johnny. " I'm blessed if you don't beat cock-fighting," said Cradell, lost in admiration at his friend's adroitness. We know how Johnny passed his evening aft- er that. He went first to see Lily Dale at her /uncle's lodgings in Sackville Street, from thence he was taken to the presence of the charming Madalina in Porchester Terrace, and then wound up the night with his friend Conway Dal- rymple. When he got to his bed he felt himself to have been triumphant, but in spite of his tri- umph he was ashamed of himself. Why had he left Lily to go to Madalina ? As he thought of this he quoted to himself against himself Hamlet's often-quoted appeal to the two por- traits. How could he not despise himself in that he could find any pleasure with Madalina, having a Lily Dale to fill his thoughts ? " But she is not fair for me," ho said to himself— THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 213 "as kigut as a TravET, uncle." thinking thus to comfort himself. But he did not comfort himself. On the next morning early his uncle, Mr. Poogood, met him at the Dover Railway Sta- tion. " Upon my word, Johnny, you're a clev- r fellow," said he. " I never thought that you'd make it all right with Sir Raffle." "As right as a trivet, uncle. There are 5ome people, if you can only get to learn the "length of their feet, you can always fit them !with shoes afterward." "You'll go on direct to Florence, John- ny ?" " Yes ; I think so. From what we have heard, Mrs. Arabin must be cither there or at Venice, and I don't suppose I could learn from any one at Paris at which town she is staying at tliis mo- ment." " Her address is Florence — postc restantc, Florence. You will be sure to find out at any of the hotels where she is staying, or where sho has been staying." 214 THE LAST CIIROXICLE OF BARSET. " But when I have found her, I don't suppose she can tell me any thing," said Johnny. " Wlio can tell ? She may or she may not. My belief is that the money was her ])resent al- together, and not his. It seems that they don't mix their moneys. lie has always had some scruple about it because of her son by a former marriage, and they always have ditferent ac- counts at their bankers. I found that out when I was at Barchester." "But Crawley was his friend." "Yes, Crawley was his friend; but I don't know that fifty-jiound notes have always been so very jilentiful with him. Deans' incomes ain't what they were, you know." " I don't know any thing about that," said Johnny. " Well ; tliey are not. And he has nothing of his own, as far as I can learn. It would be just the tiling for her to do — to give the money to his friend. At any rate she will tell you whether it was so or not." " And then I will go on to Jerusalem after him." "Should you find it necessary. lie will probably be on his way back, and she will know where you can hit him on the road. You must make luin understand that it is essential that he should be here some little time before the tri- al. You can understand, Johnny" — and as he spoke jMr. Toogood lowered his voice to a whis- per, tliough they were walking together on the platform of the railway station, and could not possibly have been overheard by any one. " You can understand that it may be necessary to prove that he is not exactly compos mentis, and if so it will be essential that he should have some influential friend near him. Otherwise that bishop will trample him into dust." If Mr. Toogood could have seen the bishop at this time, and have read the troubles of the poor man's heart, he would hardly have spoken of him as being so terrible a tyrant. " I understand all that," said Johnny. " So that, in fact, I shall expect to see yon both together," said Toogood. " I hope the dean is a good fellow." "They tell me he is a very good fellow." " I never did see much of bishops or deans as yet," said Johnny, "and I sliould feel rather awe-struck traveling with one." "I should fancy that a dean is very much like any body else." "But the man's hat would cow me." "I dare say you'll find him walking about Jerusalem with a wide-awake on, and a big stick in his hand, probably smoking a cigar. Deans contrive to get out of their armor some- times, as the knights of old used to do. Bish- ops, I fancy, find it more difficult. Well — good- by, old fellow. I'm very much obliged to you for going — I am indeed. I don't doubt but what we shall pull through somehow." Then Mr. Toogood went home to breakfast, and from his own house he proceeded to his of- fice. When he had been there au hour or two there came to him a messenger from the In- come-tax Office, with an official note addressed to himself by Sir liafflc Buffle — a note which looked to be very official. Sir Raffle Baffle pre- sented his com])liments to Mr. Toogood, ami could Mr. Toogood favor Sir R. B. with the ])resent address of ^Ir. John Eamcs. " Old fox," said Mr. Toogood — "but then such a stu- pid old fox ! As if it was likely that I shoidd have peached on Johnny if any thing was wrong." So Mr. Toogood sent his comidiments to Sir Ruffle Raffle, and begged to inform Sir R. B. that jNlr. John Eames was away on vciy particular family business, which would take him in the first instance to Florence — but tiiat from Florence he would probably have to go on to Jerusalem without the loss of an hour. "Stupid old fool!" said jNIr. Toogood, as he sent oft" his reply by the messenger. CHAPTER XLIX. NEAR TIIK CLOSE. I WONDER whether any one will read these Images who has never known any thing of the bit- terness of a family quarrel ? If so, I shall have a reader very fortunate, or else very cold-blood- ed. It would be wrong to say that love pro- duces quarrels ; but love does produce those in- timate relations of which quarreling is too often one of the consequences — one of the conse- quences which frequently seem to be so natural, and sometimes seem to be unavoidable. One brother rebukes the other — and Avhat brothers ever lived together between whom there was no such rebuking ? — then some warm word is mis- understood and hotter words follow and there is a quarrel. The husband tyrannizes, knowing that it is his duty to direct, and the wife dis- THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 215 obeys, or only partially obcypet the fact that his anger had first been roused by the feel- ing that his son was about to do himself an in- jury — to cut his own throat. Various other considerations had now added themselves to that, and filled not only his mind but his daily conversation with his wife. How terrible would be tjie disgrace to Lord Hartletop, how incurable the injury to Griselda, the marchioness, should the brother-in-law of the one, and the brother of the other, marry the daughter of a convicted thief! "Of himself he would say nothing-." So he declaued constantly, though of himself he did say a great deal. " Of himself he would say nothing, though of course such a marriage would ruin him in the county." "My dear," ■ said his wife, "that is nonsense. That really is nonsense. I feel sure there is not a single per- ■ son in the county who would think of the mar- riage in sucli a light." Then flie archdeacon , would have quarreled with his wife too, had she not been too wise to admit such a quarrel. Mrs. Grantly was very wise, and knew that it took two persons to make a quarrel. He told her over 1 and over again that she was in league with her son — that she was encouraging her son to marry Grace Crawley. "I believe that in your heart you wish it," he once said to her. "No, my dear, I do not wish it. I do not think it a be- coming marriage. But if he does marry her I should wish to receive his wife in my house, and certainly should not quaiTcl with him. " " I will never receive her," the archdeacon had replied; " and as for him, I can only say that in such case I will make no provision for his family." It will be remembered that the archdeacon had on a former occasion instructed his wife to write to their son and tell him of his father's de- termination. Mrs. Grantly had so manceuvred that a little time had been gained, and that those instructions had not been insisted ujion in all their bitterness. Since that time Major Grantly had renewed his assurance that he would marry Grace CrAwley if Grace Crawley would accept him — writing on this occasion direct to his fa- ther — and had asked his father whether, in such case, he was to look forward to be disinherited. "It is essential that I should know," the major had said, " because in such case I must take immediate measures for leaving this place." His father had sent him back his letter, writing a few words at the bottom of it. "If you do as you propose above, you must expect nothing from me." The words were written in large, I round handwriting, very hurriedly, and the son when he received them perfectly understood the mood of his father's mind when lie wrote them. Then there came tidings, addressed on this occasion to IMrs. Grantly, that Cosby Lodge was to be given up. Lady-day had come, and the notice, necessarily to bo given at that period, was so given. "I know this will grieve you," Major Grantly liad said, "but my father has driven me to it." This, in itself, was a cause of great sorrow, both to the archdeacon and to Mrs. Grantly, as there were circumstances con- nected with Cosby Lodge which made them think that it was a very desirable residence for their son. "I shall sell every thing about the place and go abroad at once," he said in a sub- sequent letter. " My present idea is that I shall settle myself at Pan, as my income will suffice for me to live there, and education for Edith will be cheap. At any rate I will not continue in England. I could never be happy here in circumstances so altered. Of course I should not have left my profession unless I had understood from my father that the income aris- ing from it would not be necessary to me. I do not, however, mean to comjilain, but simply tell you that I shall go." There were many letters between the mother and son in those days. " I shall stay till after the trial, "he said. "If she will then go with me, well and good j, but whether she, will or not, I shall not remain here." All this seemed to Mrs. Grantly to be peculiarly unfortunate, for had he not resolved to go things might even yet have riglitcd them- selves. From what she could now understand of the character of INIiss Crawley, whom she did not know personally, she thought it probable that Grace, in the event of her fathcv being found guilty by the jury, would absolutely and persistently refuse the oft'cr made to her. She would be too good, as Mrs. Grantly put it to herself, to bring misery and disgrace into an- other family. But should JMr. Crawley be ac- 21G THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. quitted, mill should the inan-iaj;e then take l)lace, the archdeacon liimsclf might ])robably lie got to forgive it. In either case there would ha no necessity for breaking up the liouse at Cosby Lodge. But lier dear son Henry, her l)cst beloved, was oI)stinatc and stiif-neckcd, and would take no advice. " He is even worse than his father," slic said, in her short-lived an- ger, to her own father, to wliom alone at this time slio could unburden her griefs, seeking consolation and encouragement. It was iicr habit to go over to the deanery at any rate twice a week at tliis time, and on the occasion of one of tlic visits so made she e.\- presscd very strongly lier distress at the family quarrel wliieli haj come among tiicm. The old man took his grandson's part through and through. "I do not at all sec why he sliould not marry the young lady if he likes lier. As for money, there ouglit to be enough without his liaving to look for a wife with a fortune." "It is not a question of money, papa." "And as to rank," continued Mr. Harding, "Henry will not at any rate be going lower than his father did when he married you— not so low indeed, for at that time I was only a minor canon, and Mr. Crawley is in possession of a benefice." " rai)a, all that is nonsense. It is indeed." " Very likely, my dear." "It is not because Mr. Crawley is only per- petual curate of Ilogglestock that the archdea- con objects to the marriage. It has nothing to do with that at all. At the present moment he is in disgi'ace." "Under a cloud, my dear. Let us pray that it may be only a passing cloud." "All the world thinks that h3 was guilty. And then he is such a man — so singular, so un- like any body else ! You know, papa, that I don't tliink very much of money, merely as money." "I hope not, my dear. Money is worth thinking of, but it is not worth very much thought." "But it does give advantages, and the ab-' senec of such advantages must be very muck felt in tlie education of a girl. You would hardly wish Henry to marry a young woman who, from want of money, had not been brought up among ladies. It is not Miss Crawley's fault, but such has been her lot. We can not ignore these deficiencies, papa." " Certainly not, my dear." "You .would not, for instance, wish that Henry should marry a kitchen-maid." " But is Miss Crawley a kitchen-maid, Su- san ?" " I don't quite say that." " I am told that she has been educated in- finitely better than most of tiie young ladies in the neiglihorhood," said Mr. Harding. "I believe that her father has taught her Greek ; and I suppose she has learned some- thing of French at that school at Silverbridge." " Tlien the kitchen-maid theory is sufficiently disposed of," said Mr. Harding, with mild tri- umj)!). " You know what I mean, papa. But the fact is, that it is impossible to deal with men. They will never be reasonable. A marriage such as this would be injurious to Henry ; but it will not be ruinous ; and as to disinheriting liim for it, that would be downright wicked." " I think so," said Mr. Harding. "But tiie archdeacon will look at it as tliough it would destroy Henry and Edith altogether, while you speak of it as though it were the best thing in the world." "If the young people love each other, I think it would be the best thing in the world," said Mr. Harding. "But, papa, you can not but think that his father's wish should go for sometliing," said INIrs. Grantly, who, desirous as she was on the one side to sujjport her son, could not bear tliat lier husband should, on the otlier side, be declared' to be altogether in the wrong. "I do not know, my dear," said Mr. Hard- ing; "but I do think that if the two young people are fond of each other, and if there is any thing for them to live upon, it can not bo right to keep them apart. You know, my dear, she is the daughter of a gentleman." Mrs. Grantly upon this left her father almost brusque- ly, witliout speaking another word on the sub- ject ; for, though she was opposed to tiic ve- hement anger of her husband, she could not endure the proposition now made by her fatlier. Mr. Harding was at this time living all alone in the deanery. For some few years the dean- cry had been his home, and as his youngest daugiiter was the dean's wife, there could be no more comfortable resting-place for the evening of his life. During the last month or two the days had gone tediously with him ; for he hftd had the large house all to himself, and he was a man who did not love solitude. It is hard to conceive that the old, wliosc thoughts have, been all thought out, should ever love to live alone. 'Solitude is surely for the young, who have time 1 before them for tlie execution of schemes, and I who can, therefore, take delight in tliinkiug. In/, these days the poor old man would wander about the rooms, shambling from one chamber to an- other, and would feel ashamed when the servants met him ever on the move. He would make little apologies for his uneasiness, which they would accept graciously, understanding after a fasliion why it was that he was uneasy. "He ain't got nothing to do," said the house-maid to the cook, "and as for reading, they say that some of the young ones can read all day some- times, and all night too ; but, bless you ! wlien you're nigh eighty, reading don't go for much." The house-maid was rigiit as to Mr. Hard- ing's reading. He was not one who had read so much in his earlier days as to enable him to make reading go far with him now that he was near eighty. So he wandered about the room, and sat here for a few minutes, and tiiere for a few minutes, and though he did not sleep much, THE LAST CHKONICLE OF BARSET. 217 lie made the hours of the night as many as was jKissiblc. Every morning he shambled across iVoin the deanery to tlie catliedral, and attended the morning service, sitting in the -stall which he luul occupied for fifty years. Tlie distance was vcrv short, not exceeding, indeed, a hundred ^ ards from a side-door in the deanery to another side-door into the cathedral ; but sliort as it \vas there had come to be a question whether lie should be allowed to go alone. It had been tVarcd that he might fall on his passage and juut himself; for there was a step here, and a step there, and the liglit was not very good in the purlieus of the old cathedi-al. A word or t^\o had been said once, and the offer of an arm to help him had been made ; but he had reject- ed the proffered assistance — softly, indeed, but still firmly — and every day he tottered oflF by himself, hardly lifting his feet as he went, and aiding himself on his journey by a hand upon the wall when he tliought that nobody was look- ing at him. But many did see him, and they who knew him — ladies generally of the city — would offer him a hand. Nobody was milder, in his dislikings than Mr. Harding; but there were ladies in Barchester upon whose arm he would always decline to lean, bowing coui-tcous- ly as he did so, and saying a word or two of con- strained civility. There were others whom he would allow to accompany him home to the door of the deaner}% with whom he delighted to lin- ger and chat if the morning was warm, and to whom he would tell little stories of his own do- ings in the cathedral services in the old days when Bisliop Grantly had ruled in the diocese. Never a word did he say against Bishop Proudie or against Bishop Broudie's wife ; but the many words which he did say in praise of Bishop Grantly — who, by his showing, was surely one of the best of churchmen who ever walked : through this vale of sorrow — were as eloquent in dispraise of the existing prelate as could have been any more clearly-jiointed phrases. This daily visit to the cathedral, where he would say I his prayers as he had said tliem for so many ' years, and listen to the organ, of which he knew all the power and every blemish as though he himself had made the stops and fixed the pipes, was the chief occupation of his life. It was a pity that it could not have been made to cover a larger portion of the day. It was sometimes sad enough to watch him as he sat alone. He would have a book near him, and for a while would keep it in his hands. I It would generally be some volume of good old standard theology with which he had been, or supposed himself to have been, conversant from his youtli. But the book would soon be laid aside, and gradually he would move himself away from it, and he would stand about in the room, looking now out of a window from which he would fancy that he could not be seen, or gazing up at some print wliich he had known for years : and then he would sit down for a while in one chair, and for a while in another, while his mind was wandering back into old davs, O thinking of old troubles and remembering his old joys. And he had a habit, when he was sure that he was not watched, of crcciiing up to a great black wooden case, which always stood in one corner of the sitting-room which he occu- pied in the deanery. Mr. Harding, when ho was younger, had been a ]ierformer on the vio- loncello, and in this case there was still the in- strument from which he had been wont to ex- tract the sounds which he had so dearly loved. Now in these latter days ho never made any at- tempt to play. Soon after he had come to the deanery there had fallen upon him an illness, and after that he had never again asked for his bow. They who were around him- — his daugh- ter chiefly and her husband — had given the matter much thought, arguing with themselves whether or no it would be better to invite him to resume the task he had so loved ; for of all the works of his life this playing on the violon- cello had been the sweetest to him ; but even before that illness his hand had greatly failed him, and the dean and Mrs. Arabin had agreed that it would be better to let the matter pass without a word. He had never asked to be al- lowed to play. He had expressed no regrets. When he himself would propose that his daugh- ter should "give them a little music" — and he would make such a proposition on every even- ing that was suitable — he would never say a word of those former performances at which he himself had taken a part. But it had become known to Mrs. Arabin, through the servants, that he had once dragged tlie instrument forth from its case when he had thought the house to be nearly deserted ; and a wail of sounds had been heard, very low, very short-lived, recur- ring now and again at fitful intervals. He had at those times attempted to play as though with a muffled bow — so that none should know of his vanity and folly. Then there had been fur- ther consultations at the deanery, and it had been again agreed that it would be best to say nothing to him of his music. In these latter days of which I am now speah- ing he would never draw the instrument out of its case. Indeed he Avas aware that it was too heavy for liim to handle without assistance. But he would open the prison door, and gaze upon the thing that he loved, and he would pass his fingers among the broad strings, and ever and anon he v.ould produce from one of them a low, melancholy, almost uncartlily sound. And then he would pause, never daring to ])roduce two such notes in succession — one close upon the other. And these last sad moans of the old fiddle were now known through the household. They were the ghosts of the melody of days long past. He imagined that his visits to the box were unsuspected — that none knew of the folly of his old fingers which could not keep them- selves from touching the wires ; but the voice of the violoncello had been recognized by the servants and by his dauglitcr, and when that low wail was heard tlirougli the house— like the last dying note of a dirge — they would all 218 THE LAST CHliONICLE OF BARSET. know that ^^^. Ilniilin,:^ was visiting his ancient fricnil. When t!ic dean and Mrs. Arabin liad first talked of ^oing abroad for a long visit it had bjen unth'rstood that Mr. Harding shonld pass the ])criod of their absence witii his otlier daiigh- t 'r at rinnistead ; but when tiic time came lie b^^rgod of >[rs. Arabin to be allowed to remain in his t)l 1 rooms. " Of course I shall go back- war. I and forward," he had said. "There is nothing I like so much as a change now and then." Tlic result had been that he had gone once to Phunstead during tiie dean's absence. When he had thus remonstrated, bogging to be rdldwed to remain in ]>.irchestor, JMrs. Arabin hid declared her intention of giving up her tour. In telling her father of t!iis she had not said that her altered purpose had arisen from her disinclination to leave him alone — but he had perceived that it was so, and had then consented to bo taken over to I'lumstcad. There was nothing, he said, which ho would like so much as going over to I'lumstead for four or five mont'.is. It had ended in his having his own way altogether. The Arabins had gone upon tlieir tour, an 1 he was left in ])ossession of the deanery. " I should not like to die out of Bar- chester," he said to himself in excuse to himself for his disinclination to sojourn long under the arclideacon's roof. But, in truth, the archdea- con, who loved iiim well, and wlio, after a fash- ion, had always been good to him — v/ho had al- wa\-s spoken of the connection which had bound the two families together as tlic great blessing of his life — was too rough in his greetings for the old man. Mr. Harding had ever mixed SDmjthing of fear with his warm aifection for his elder son-in-law, and now in these closing hours of his life he could not avoid a certain amount of shrinking from that loud voice— a certain inaptitude to be quite at ease in that commanding j)rescnc3. The dean, his second son-in-law, had been a modern friend in com- ])arison with the archdeacon ; but the dean was more gentle with him ; and then the dean's wife had ever been the dearest to him of human beings. It may be a doubt whether one of the dean's' children was not now almost more dear, and whether in these days he did not have more free communication with that little girl than with any other human being. Her name was Susan, but he had always called her Posy, hav- ing himself invented for her that sobriquet. When it had been i)roposed to him to pass the i winter and spring at Plumstcad the suggestion had been m^de alluring by a promise that Posy also should be taken to Mrs. Grantly's house. But he, as we have seen, had remained at the deanery, and Posy had remained with him. Posy was now five years old, and could talk well, and had her own ideas of things. Posy's eyes — hers, and no others l)esides her own — were allowed to see tlie inhabitant of tlie big black case; and now that the deanery was so nearly deserted Posy's fingers had touched the strings, and had produced an infantine moan. " Grand- pa, let me do it again." Twang! It was not, however, in truth, a twang, but a sound as of a ])rolonged, dull, almost deadly, hnm-m-m-m-m I On this occasion the moan was not entirely in-' faiitine — Posy's fingers having been something too strong — and the case was closed and locked, and grand]mi)a shook his head. "But I\Irs. Baxter won't be angry, " said Posy. Mrs. Baxter was the housekeeper in the dean- ery, and had JMr. Harding under her csjiecial charge. "No, my darling; Mrs. Baxter will not be angry, but we mustn't disturb the house." "No," said Posy, with much of important awe in her tone; " wc mustn't disturb the house; must we, grandpapa?" And so slie gave in her adhesion to the closing of the case. But Posy could ]jlay cats'-cradle, and as cats'-cra- dle did not disturb tlie house at all, there was a good deal of cals'-cradle played in these days. Posy's fingers were so soft and jiretty, so small and deft, that the dear old man delighted in taking the strings from them, and in having Vliem taken from his own by those tender little digits. On the afternoon after tlie conversation re- specting Grace Crawley which is recorded in the early ]>art of this cliaptcr, a messenger from Barchestcr v.ent over to Plumstcad, and a part of his mission consisted of a note from Mrs. Baxter to ISIrs. Grantly, beginning, "Honored Madam," and informing Mrs. Grantly, among other tilings, that her "respected papa," as Mrs. Baxter called him, was not quite so well as usu- al ; not that Sirs. Baxter thought there was much the matter. Mr. Harding had been to the ca- Jflicdral service, as was usual witii him, but had 'come home leaning on a lady's arm, who had thought it well to stay with him at the door till it had been opened for him. After that " Miss Posy" had found him asleep, and had been un- able — or if not unable, unwilling, to wake him. "Miss Posy" had come down to Mrs. Baxter somewhat in a fright, and hence this letter had been written. JMrs. Baxter thought that there was nothiug "to fright" IMrs. Grantly, and she wasn't sure that she should have written at all only that Dick was bound to go over to Plum- stead with the wool ; but as Uick was going, Mrs. Baxter thought it ]iroper to send her duty, and to say that to her bumble way of thinking ]ierhap3 it might be best that Mr. Harding shouldn't go alone to the cathedral every morn- ing. "If the dear reverend gentleman was to get a tumble, ma'am," said the letter, "it would be awkward." Tlien Mrs. Grantly remembered that she had left her father almost without a greeting on the previous day, and she resolved that she would go over very early on the follow- ing morning — so early that she would be at the deanery before her fatiier should have gone to the cathedral. "He ought to have come over here, and not staid there by himself," said tlie archdeacon, when his wife told him of her intention. " It is too late to think of that now, my dear ; THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 219 POSY AND UEU GUANDl'Al'A. find one can understand, I tliink, that he should not like leaving the catliedral as long as he can attend it. The truth is he does not like being out of Barchcster." " lie would be much better here," said the archdeacon. " Of course you can have the car- riage and go over. We can breakfast at eight ; and if you can bring him back with you, do. I should tell him that lie ought to come." Mrs. Grantly made no answer to this, knowing very well that she could not bring herself to go be- yond the gentlest persuasion with her father, and on the next morning she was at the deanery by ten o'clock. Half past ten was the liour at wliich the service began. JVIrs. Baxter contrived to meet her before she saw her father, and begged her not to let it be known that any special ti- dings of Mr. Harding's failing strength had been sent from the deanery to riumstcad. "And how is my father?" asked Mrs. Grantly. "Well, then, ma'am," said Baxter, "in one sense lie's finely. He took a morsel of early lamb to his 220 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. dinner ycstcnlny, and relished it ever so well — only he gave Miss I'osy the best part of it. And tlien he sat with Miss Posy quite haj)py for an hour or so. And then he slept in his chair ; and you kno-, ma'am, we never wakes him. And after that old Skulpit toddled up from tlie liospital" — this was Hiram's hospital, of whieh establishment, in the city of IJarchestcr, Mr. Harding had once been the warden and kind master, as has been told in former chronicles of the city — "and your ])apa has said, ma'am, you know, that he is always to sec any of the old men when tliey come up. And Skulpit is sly, and no better than lie sliould be, and got money from your father, ma'am, I knt)w. And then he had just a drop of tea, and after that I took him his glass of jiort-winc with my own hands. And it touched me, ma'am, so it did, when he said, ' Oh, Mrs. Baxter, how good you are ! you know well what it is I like.' And then he went to bed. I listened hard — not from idle cur'osi- ty, ma'am, as you, who know mo, will believe, but just because it's becoming to know what he's about, as there might be an accident, you know, ma'am." "You are very good, ]Mrs. Baxter, very good." "Thank, ye, ma'am, for saying so. And so I listened Iiard ; but he didn't go to his music, poor gentleman ; and I think he had a quiet night. He doesn't sleep much at nights, poor gentleman, but he's very quiet ; leastwise he was last night." Tliis was the bulletin which Mrs. Baxter gave to ]\Irs. Grant- ly on that morning before Mrs. Grantly saw her father. She found him preparing himself for his visit to the cathedral. Some year or two — but no more — before the date of which wc are speaking, ha had still taken some small part in the service ; and wliile lie had done so he had of course worn his surplice. Living so close to the cathedral — so close tiiat he could almost walk out of the house into tlic transept — he had kept his surplice in his own I'oom, and had gone down in his vestment. It had been a bitter day to him when he had first found himself constrained to aban- don tlie white garment which lie loved. He had encountered some failure in the performance of the slight clerical task allotted to him, and the dean had tenJerl}' advised him to desist. He did not utter one word of remonstrance. "It will perhaps be better, "the dean had said. "Yes — it will be better," Mr. Harding had replied. "Few have had accorded to them the higli priv- ilege of serving their Master in His house for so many years— though few more humbly, or with lower gifts." But on tlie following morning, and for nearly a week afterward, lie had been unable to face the minor canon and the vergers, and the old women who knew him so well, in his ordinary black garments. At last he went down with the dean, and occupied a stall close to tlie dean's seat — far away from that in which he had sat for so many years — and in this scat he had said his prayers ever since that day. And now his surplices were washed and Ironed and folded and put away ; but there were mo- ments in which he would stealthily visit them, as he also stealthily visited his friend in the black wooden case. This was very melancholy, and the sadness of it was felt by all those who lived with him ; but he never alluded himself to any of those bereavements which age brought upon him. Whatever might be his regrets, he kept them ever within his own breast. Posy was with him when Mrs. Grantly went up into his room, holding for him his hat and stick while he was engaged in brushing a sus- ])icion of dust from his black gaiters. " Grand- jiapa, here is aunt Susan," said Posy. The old man looked up with something — with some slightest sign of that habitual fear which was al- ways aroused witliin his bosom by visitations from Plnmstead. Had I^Irs. Arabin thoroughly understood tlie difference in her father's feeling toward herself and toward her sister, I think she would hardly have gone forth upon any tour while he remained with her in the deanery. It is very hard sometimes to know how intensely we are loved, and of what value our presence ia to those who love us ! Mrs. Grantly saw the look — did not analyze it, did not quite understand it — but fell, as she had so often felt before, that it was not altogether laden with welcome. But all this had nothing to do with the duty on which she had come ; nor did it in the slight- est degree militate against her own affection. "Papa," she said, kissing him, "you are sur- prised to see me so early ?" "Well, my dear, yes; but very glad all the same. I hope every body is well at Plum- stead ?" " Every body, thank you, pajva." " That is well. Posy and I are getting ready for church. . Are we not. Posy?" "Grandpapa is getting ready. Mrs. Baxter won't let me go." "No, my dear, no; not yet, Posy. When Posy is a great girl she can go to cathedral every day. Only then, perhaps. Posy won't want to go." "I thought that, perhaps, papa, you would sit with me a little while this morning, instead of going to morning pra3-ers." "Certainly, my dear, certainly. Only I do not like not going ; for who can say how often I may be able to go again? Tlicre is so little left, Susan — so very little left." After that she had not the heart to ask him to stay, and therefore she went with him. As they passed down the stairs and out of the doors she was astonished to find how weak were his footsteps — how powerless he was against the slightest misadventure. On this very day he would have tripped at the upward stej> at the cathedral door had she not been with him. "Oh, papa," she said, "indeed, indeed, you should not come here alone." Then he apolo- gized for his little stumble with many words and much shame, assuring her that any body might trip on an occasion. It was purely an accident ; and though it was a comfort to him to have had her arm, he was sure that he should have rccov- THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 221 ered himself even liad he been alone. He al- ways, he said, kept quite close to the wall, so that there might be no mistake — no possibility of an accident. All this he said volubly, but with confused words, in the covered stone passage leading into the transept. And as he thus spoke Mrs. Grantly made up her mind that her ^father should never again go to tlie cathedral /alone. He never did go again to tlic cathedral — alone. When they returned to tlie deanery Mr. Hard- ing was fluttered, weary, and unwell. "When his daughter left him for a few minutes he told Mrs. Baxter, in confidence, tlie story of his ac- cident, and his great grief that his daughter should have seen it. "Laws amercy, Sir, it was a blessing she was with you," said Mrs. Baxter; "it was, indeed, Mr. Harding." Then Mr. Harding had been angry, and spoke almost crossly to Mrs. Baxter ; but before she left the room he found an opportunity of begging her pardon — not in a set speech to tliat eiicct, but by a little word of gentle kindness which she had understood perfectly. "Pa])a," said Mrs. Grantly to him as soon as she had succeeded in getting botli Posy and Mrs. Baxter out of the room — against the doing of which ]\Ir. Hard- ing had manojuvred with all his little impotent skill — "jiapa, you must promise me that you will not go to the cathedral again alone, till Eleanor comes home." When he heard the sentence he looked at her with blank misery in liis eyes. He made no attempt at remonstrance. He begged for no respite. The word had gone forth, and he knew that it must be- obeyed. Though he would have hidden the signs of his weakness had he been able, he would not con- descend to plead that he was strong. "If you think it wrong, my dear, I will not go alone," he said. " Papa, I do ; indeed I do. Dear papa, I would not hurt you by saying it if I did not know that I am right." He was sitting with his hand upon the table, and, as she spoke to him, she put her hand upon his, caressing it. " My dear," he said, " you are always right." She then left him again for a while, having some business out in the city, and he was alone in his room for an hour. What was there left to him now in the world ? Old as he was, and in some things almost childish, nevertheless he thought of this keenly, and some half-realized remembrance of "the lean and slippered panta- loon" flitted across his mind, causing him a jiang. What was there left to him now in the world ? Posy and cat's-cradle ! Then in the midst of his regrets, as he sat with his back bent in. his old easy-chair, with one arm over the shoulder of the chair and the other hanging loose by his side, on a sudden there came across his face a smile as sweet as ever brightened tlie face of man or woman. He had been able to tell him- self that he had no ground for complaint — great ground rather for rejoicing and gratitude. Had not the world and all in it been good to him ? liad he not children who loved him, who had done him honor, who had been to him alwavs a crown of glory, never a mark for reproach ? had not his lines fallen to him in very pleasant places ? was it not his happy fate to go and leave it all amidst the good words and kind lov- ing cares of devoted friends ? Whose latter days had ever been more blessed than his ? And for the future—? It was as he thought of this that that smile came across his face — as though it were already the foce of an angel. And then he muttered to himself a word or two. "Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace. Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace." When Mrs. Grantly returned she found him in jocund spirits. And yet she perceived that he was so weak that when he left his chair he could barely get across the room without assist- ance. Mrs. Baxter, indeed, had not sent to her too soon, and it was well that the prohibition had come in time to prevent some terrible accident. "Papa," she said, "I think you had better go with me to Plumstead. The carriage is here, and I can take you home so comfortably." But he would not allow himself to be taken on this occasion to Plumstead. He smiled and thanked her, and put his hand into hers, and repeated his promise that he would not leave the house on any occasion without assistance, and declared himself specially thankful to her for coming to him on that special morning ; but he would not be taken to Plumstead. "When the summer comes," he said, "then, if you Mill have me for a few days !" He meant no deceit, and yet he had told himself within the last hour that he should nev- er see another summer. lie could not tell even his daughter that after such a life as this, after more than fifty years spent in the ministrations of his darling cathedral, it specially behooved him to die — as he had lived — at Barchester. He could not say this to his eldest daughter; but had his Eleanor been at home he could have said it to her. He thought he might yet live to see his Eleanor once again. If this could be given to him he would ask for nothing more. On the afternoon of the next day Mrs. Bax- ter wrote another letter, in which she told Mrs. Grantly that her father had declared, at his usual huur of rising that morning, that as he was not going to the cathedral he would, he thought, lie in bed a little longer. And then he had lain in bed the whole day. "And, perhaps, honored madam, looking at all things, it's best as he should," said Mrs. Baxter. CHAPTER L. LADY LUFTOX'S PROrOSITIOX. It was now known throughout Barchester that a commission was to be held by the bish- op's orders, at Avhicli inquiry would be made — that is, ecclesiastical inquiry — as to the guilt imputed to Mr. Crawley in the matter of Mr. Soames's check. Sundry rumors had gone THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. abroad ns to quarrels which had taken phicc on the suhjcct among certain clergymen high in office ; but tlicsc were simply rumors, and nothing was in truth known. There was no more discreet clergyman in all the diocese than Dr. Tempest, and not a word had cscajicd from him as to the stormy nature of that meeting in the bishop's palace, at which he had attended with the bisliop — and at whicli Mrs. Proudic had attended also. "When it is said that the fact of tliis coming commission was known to nil Barsctshire, allusion is of course made to that portion of the inhabitants of Barsctshire to which clerical matters were dear — and as such matters were specially dear to the inhab- itants of the parish of Framley, the commission was discussed very eagerly in that parish, and was specially discussed by the Dowager Lady Lufton. And there was a double interest attached to the commission in the parish of Framley by the fact that Mr. Kobarts, the A'icar, had been in- vited by Dr. Tempest to bs one of the clergy- men who were to assist in making the inquiry. "I also propose to ask Mr. Oriel of Greshamsbury to join us," said Dr. Tempest. "The bisliop ■wishes to appoint the otiier two, and has already named Mr. Thumble and Mv. Quiverful, who are both residents in the city. Pcrliaps his lordship may be right in tliinking it better that the mat- ter should not be left altogether in the hands of clergymen who hold livings in the diocese. You are no doubt aware that neither ^Ir. Thum- ble nor ISIr. Quiverful do hold any benellce." Mr. Kobarts felt — as every body else did feci who knew any thing of the matter — that Bishop Proudic was singularly ignorant in his knowl- edge of men, and that he showed his ignorance on this special occasion. " If he intended to name two such men he should at any rate have named three," said Dr. Thome. " Mr. Thum- ble and Mr. Quiverful will simjily be outvoted on the first day, and after that will give in their adhesion to the majority." " Mr. Thumble, in- deed I" Lady Lufton had said, with much scorn in her voice. To her thinking, it was absurd in the highest degree that such men as Dr. Tempest and her Mr. Robarts should be asked to meet Mr. Thumble and i\Ir. Quiverful on a matter of ecclesiastical business. Outvoted! Of course they would be outvoted. Of course they Avould be so paralyzed by fear at finding themselves in the presence of real gentlemen that they would hardly be able to vote at all. Old Lady Lufton did not in fact utter words so harsh as these ; but thoughts as harsh passed through her mind. The reader therefore will understand that much interest was felt on the subject at Framley Court, where Lady Lufton lived with her son and her daughter-in-law. "They tell me," said Lady Lufton, "that both the archdeacon and Dr. Tempest think it right that a commission should be held. If so, I have no doubt that it is right." " Mark says that the bishop could hardly do any thing else," rejoined Mrs. Kobarts. " I dare say not, my dear. I suppose the bishop has somebody near him to tell him what he may do and what he m.ay not do. It would be terrriblc to think of if it were not so. But yet, when I hear that he has named such men as Mr. Thumble and ]\lr. Quiverful, I can not but feci that the whole diocese is disgraced." " Oh, Lady Lufton, that is such a strong word, " said INIrs. Kobarts. "It may be strong, but it is not the less true," said Lady Lufton. And from talking on the subject of the Craw- leys Lady Lufton soon advanced, first to a de- sire for some action, and then to acting. "I think, my dear, I will go over and sec Mrs. Crawley," said hady Lufton the elder to Lady Lufton the younger. Lady Lufton the younger had nothing to urge against this ; but she did not offer to accomi)any the elder lady. I at- tempted to cx]ilain in the early part of this stoiy that there still existed a certain understanding between Mrs. Crawlcj' and Lord Lufton's wife, and that kindnesses occasionall}' passed fi-oni Framley Court to Hogglcstock Parsonage ; but on this occasion young Lady Lufton — the Lucy Kobarts who had once passed certain daj's of her life with the Crawleys at Hogglcstock— did not choose to accompany her mother-in-law ; and therefore Mrs. Robarts was invited to do so. "I think it may comfort her to know that she has our sympathy," the elder woman said to the younger as they made their journey together. When the carriage stopped before the little wicket-gate, from whence a ]iath led through a ragged garden from the road to Mr. Crawley's house, Lady Lufton hardly knew how to pro- ceed. The servant came to the door of the car- riage, and asked for her orders. "II — m — m, ha, yes ; I think I'll send in my card — and say that I hope Mrs. Crawley will be able to see me. Won't that be best; eh, F\anny?" Fanny, otherwise IMrs. Robarts, said that she thought that would be best ; and the card and message were carried in. f It was happily the case that Mr. Crawley was not at home. Mr. Crawley was away at Hoggle End, reading to the brickmakers, or turning tlie mangles of their wives, or teaching tliem the- ology, or politics, or history, after his fashion. In these days he spent, perhaps, the happiest hours of his life down at Hoggle End. I say that his absence was a happy chance, because, had he been at home, he would certainly have said something, or done something, to offend Lady Lufton. He would either have refused to 'see her, or when seeing her he would have bade her hold her peace and not interfere with matters which did not concern her, or — more probable still — he would have sat still and sul- len, and have spoken not at all. But he was away, and Mrs. Crawley sent out word by the servant that she would be most proud to see her ladyship, if her ladyship would be pleased to alight. Her ladyship did alight, and walked into the parsonage, followed by Mrs. Robarts. Grace was with licr mother. Indeed Jano ^- ^'*i"- THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 223 li.ad been there also when the message was lirt)ught in, but slic fled into back regions, over- conic by siianie as to lier frock. Grace, I tiiink, would iiavc fled too, had she not l)een bound in Iionor to support her mother. Lady Lufton, as slie entered, was very gracious, struggling with all the power of her womanhood so to carry her- self that there should be no outwardly visible sign of her rank or her wealth — but not alto- gether succeeding. !RIrs. Robarts, on her first entrance, said only a word or two of greeting to I\Irs. Crawley, and kissed Grace, whom she had known intimately in early years. '• Lady Luf- ton," said ]\Irs. Crawley, " I am afraid this is a very poor place for you to come to ; but j'ou liavc known that of old, and therefore I need hardly ajiologize." " Sometimes I like poor places best," said Lady Lufton. Then there was a pause, after which Lady Lufton addressed herself to Grace, seeking some subject for immediate conversa- tion. "You have been down at Allington, my dear, have you not?" Grace, in a whis]ier, said that she had. "Staying with the Dales, I believe ? I know the Dales well by name, and I have always heard that the}- are charming people." " I like them very much," said Grace. And then there was another pause. "I hope your husband is pretty well, Mrs. Crawley?" said Lady Lufton. " He is pretty well — not quite strong. I dare say you know, Lady Lufton, that he has things to vex him ?" Mrs. Crawley felt that it was the need of the moment that the only possible subject of conversation in that house should be introduced ; and therefore she brought it in at once, not loving the subject, but being strong- ly conscious of the necessity. Lady Lufton meant to be good-natured, and therefore JMrs. Crawley would do all in her power to make Lady Lufton's mission easy to her. "Indeed yes," said her ladyship, "we do know that." " We feel so much for you and Mr. Craw- ley," said Mrs. Robarts ; "and are so sure that your suttcrings are unmerited." This wns not discreet on the part of Mrs. Robarts, as she was the wife of one of the clergymen who had been selected to form the commission of inqui- ry ; and so Lady Lufton told her on their way home. "You are very kind," said Mrs. Crawley. "We must only bear it with such fortitude as God will give us. We are told that He tempers the wind to the shorn lamb." "And so He does, my dear," said the old lady, very solemnly. " So He does. Surely you have felt that it is so ?" "I struggle not to complain," said Mrs. Crawley. "I know that you struggle bravely. I hear of you, and I admire you for it, and 1 love you." It was still the old lady who was speaking, and row slie had at last been roused out of her dif- ficulty as to words, and had risen from her chair, and was standing before Mrs. Crawley. "It is because you do not complain, because you are so great and so good, because your char- acter is so high, and your sjiirit so firm that I could not resist the temjitation of coming to you. Mrs. Crawley, if you will let me be your friend, I shall be proud of your friendship." " Your ladyship is too good," said IMrs. Craw- ley. "Do not talk to me after that fashion," said Lady Lufton. "If you do I shall be disap- pointed and feel myself thrown back. You know what I mean." She paused for an an- swer ; but Mrs. Crawley had no answer to make. She simjily shook her head, not knowing why she did so. But we may know. We can un- derstand that she had felt that the friendship of- fered to her liy Lady Lufton was an impossibility. She had decided within her own breast that it was so, though she did not know that she had come to such decision. " I wish you to take me at my word, Mrs. Crawley," continued Lady Lufton. "What can we do for you? We know that you are distressed." "Yes — we are distressed." "And wc know how cruel circumstances have been to you. Will you not forgive me for being plain?" "I have nothing to forgive," said Mrs. Crawley. "Lady Lufton means," said Mrs. Robarts, "that in asking you to talk openly to her of your aftairs, she wishes j-ou to I'emember that — I think you know what wc mean," said Mrs. Robarts, knowing very well herself what she did mean, but not knowing at all how to express herself. "Lady Lufton is very kind," said Mrs. Craw- ley, "and so are you, Mrs. Robarts. I know how good you both are, and for how much it behooves me to be grateful." These words were vcrj' cold, and the voice in which they were spoken was very cold. They made Lady Luf- ton feel that it was beyond her power to proceed with the work of her mission in its intended spirit. It is ever so much easier to profiler kind- ness graciously than to receive it with grace. Lady Lufton had intended to say, "Let us be women together; women bound by humanity, and not separated by rank, and let us open our hearts freely. Let us see how we may be of comfort to each other." And could she have succeeded in this, she would have spread out her little plans of succor with so loving a haml that she would have conquered the woman be- fore her. But the sufl^ering spirit can not de- scend from its dignity of reticence. It has a nobility of its own, made sacred by many tears, by the flowing of streams of blood from unseen wounds, which can not descend from its dais to receive pity and kindness. A consciousness of undeserved woe produces a grandeur of its own, with which the high-souled sufferer will not easily part. Baskets full of eggs, pounds of eleemos- ynary butter, quarters of given ]iork, even sec- ond-hand clothing from the wardrobe of some 224 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. richer sister — even money, unsophisticated nion- ev, she could accept. Siie h;ul learned to know that it was a portion of lier aUotted misery to tal;e sucli tiiinuld not consent to this. In answer to these offers she was wont to de- clare, in somewhat mysterious language, that any misery coming upon herself was matter of moment to nobody— hardly even to herself, as s!ie was tpiite ]>repared to encounter moral and social death without delay, if not an absolute physical demise; as to which latter alternative slie seemed to think tliat even that might not be so far distant as some people chose to be- lieve. What was the cause of the gloom over the house neither Conway Dalrymple nor Jliss Van Siever understood, and to speak the truth Mrs. Broughton did not quite understand the cause herself. She knew well enough, no doubt, that her husband came home always sullen, and sometimes tipsy, and that things were not goin THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. very little toward providing the necessary el3's-! ium by any qualities of his own. For a few i wfcks this interference from her husband had i enhanced the amusement, giving an additional i excitement to the game. She felt herself to be a woman misunderstood and ill-used; and to some women there is nothing so charming as a little mild ill-usage, which docs not intcrferc with their creature comforts, with their clothes, or their carriage, or their sham jewels ; but suf- fices to aftbrd them the indulgence of a griev- ance. Of late, however, Mr. Dobbs Broughton had become a little too rough in his language, and things had gone uncomfortably. She sus- pected tiiat Conway Dalrymjjlc was not the only cause of all this. She had an idea that Mr. Musselboro and Mrs. Van Siever had it in their jiower to make themselves unjjleasant, and that they were exercising this power. Of his ■ business in the City her husband never spoke , to her, nor she to him. Iler own fortune had. been very small, some coujde of thousand pounds or so, and she conceived that she had no pretext ; on which she could, unasked, interrogate hira i about his money. She had no knowledge that marriage of itself had given her the right to such interference ; and had such knowledge been hers she would have had no desire to in- terfere. She hoped that the carriage and sham jewels would be continued to her ; but she did not know how to frame any question on the well in the City. She had never understood ; subject. Touching the other difficulty — the much about the City, being satisfied with an as- surance that had come to her in early days from her friends, that there was a mine of wealth in Hook Court, from whence would always come for her use house and furniture, a carriage and horses, dresses and jewels, whicit latter, if not quite real, should be manufactured of the best /Conway Dalrymple, and would induce him, in sham substitute known. Soon after her brill iant marriage with Mr. Dobbs Broughton she had discovered that the carriage and horses and the shana jewels did not lift her so completely into a terrestrial paradise as she had taught her- self to expect that they would do. Iler brill- iant drawing-room, with Dobbs Broughton for a companion, was not an clysium. But though she had found out early in her married life that something was still wanting to her, she had by no means confessed to herself that the carriage and horses and sham jewels were bad, and it can hardly be said that she had repented. She had endeavored to patch up matters with a little romance, and then had fallen upon Conway Dal- rymple — meaning no harm. Indeed, love with her, as it never could have meant much good, was not likely to mean much harm. That somebody' should pretend to love her, to which pretense she might rejdy by a pretense of friend- ship — this was the little excitement which she craved, and by which she had once flattered her- self that something of an elysium might yet be created for her. Mr. Dobbs Broughton had un- reasonably expressed a dislike to this innocent amusement — very unreasonably, knowing, as he Conway D.ilrymple difficulty — she had her ideas. The tenderness of her friendship had been trod- den upon and outraged by the rough foot of an overbearing husband, and she was ill-used. She would obc}'. It was becoming to her as a wife that she should submit. She would give up sj)ite of his violent attachment to herself, to take a wife. ^She herself would choose a wife for him. She herself would, with suicidal hands, destroy the romance of her own life, since an overbearing, brutal hu.^band demanded that it should be destroyed. She would sacrifice her own feelings, and do all in her power to bring Conway Dahymple and Clara Van Siever to- gether. If, after that, some poet did not im- mortalize her friendship in Byronic verse, she certainly would not get her due. Perhaps Con- way Dalrymple would himself become a poet in order that this might be done properly. For it must be understood that, though she expected Conway Dalrymple to marry, she expected also that he should be Byronically wi'etchcd after his marriage on account of his love for herself. But there was certainly something wrong over and beyond the Dalrymple difficulty. The servants were not as civil as they used to be, and her husband, when she suggested to him a little dinner-party, snubbed her most unmerci- fully. The giving of dinner-parties had been his glory, and she had made the suggestion sim- 1 ply with the view of jdeasing him. " If the world were going round the wrong way, a wo- ought to have known, that he himself did so ' man would still want a party," he had said, THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 227 sneering at her. "It was of you I was think- ' ing, Dobbs," she replied; "not of myself. I I care little for such gatherings." After that she retired to her own room with a romantic tear in ; each eye, and told herself that, had chance ' thrown Conway Dalrymple into her way before ' she had seen Dobbs Broughton, she would have ' hccn the happiest woman in the world. She sat for a while looking into vacancy, and think- ing that it would be very nice to break her heart. How should she set about it ? Should slie take to lier bed and grow thin? She would hegin bv eating no dinner for ever so many days to- gether. At lunch her husband was never pres- eiir, and tiicrefore tlie broken heart could be dis- jilayed at dinner without much positive snftering. In the mean time she would imj>lore Conway l~)aliymplc to get himself married with as little delay as ]>ossible, and she would lay upon him her ]iositivc order to restrain liimsclf from any v.Lird of affection addressed to herself. Slie, at any rate, would he pure, high-minded, and self- sacvificing — although romantic and poetic also, jias was her nature. The picture was progressing, and so also, as it had come about, was the love-affair between the artist and his model. Conway Dalrymple ha begun to think that he might, after all, do wor: than make Clara Van Siever his wife. Clara Van Siever was handsome, and undoubtedly clever, and Clara Van Siever's mother was cer- tainly rich. And, in addition to this, the young lady herself began to like the man into whose society she was thrown. The affair seemed to flourisli, and Mrs. Dobbs Broughton should have been delighted. She told Clara, with a very serious air, that she was delighted, bidding Clara, at the same time, to be very cautious, as men were so fickle, and as Conway, though the "best fellow in the world, was not, perhaps, al- together free from that common vice of men. Indeed, it might have been surmised, from a "word or two which IMrs. Broughton allowed to escape, that slie considered poor Conway to be more than ordinarily afflicted in that way. Miss Van Siever at first only pouted, and said that there was nothing in it. "There is something in it, m)' dear, certainly," said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton ; "and there can be no earthly rea- son why there should not be a great deal in it." There is nothing in it," said Miss Van Siever, impetuously ; " and if you will continue to speak cf Mr. Dalrymple in that way I must give up the picture." "As for that," said Mrs. Brough- ton, "I conceive that we are both of us bound to the young man now, seeing that he has given so much tiine to the work." " I am not bound to him at all," said Miss Van Siever. Mrs. Broughton also told Conway Dalrymple that she was delighted — oh, so much delighted ! (He had oI)tained permissiou to come in one morning before the time of sitting, so that he j might work at his canvas independently of his model. As was his custom, he made his own ' way up stairs and commenced his work alone — I having been expressly told by Mrs. Broughton that she would not come to him till she brought Clara witli her. But she did go up to the room in which the artist was painting without wait- ing for Miss Van Siever. Indeed, slie was at this time so anxious as to the future welfare of her two young friends that she could not restrain herself from speaking cither to the one or to the other whenever any opportunity for such speech came round. To have left Conway Dalrymple at work up stairs without going to him was im- possible to her. So she went, and then took the opportunity of expressing to her fiiend her ideas as to his past and future conduct. "Yes, it is very good; very good indeed," she said, standing before the easel and looking at the half-completed work. "I do not know that you ever did any thing better." "I never can tell myself till a picture is finish- ed whether it is going to be good or not," said Dalrymple, thinking really of his picture and of nothing else. " I am sure this will be good," she said, " and I suppose it is because you have thrown so much heart into it. It is not mere industry that will produce good work, nor yet skill, nor even gen- ius : more than this is required. The heart of the artist must be thrust with all its gushing tides into the performance.'' By this time he knew all the tones of her voice and their vari- ous meanings, and immediately became aware that at the present moment she was intent upon something beyond the picture. She was pre- paring for a little scene, and was going to give him some advice. He understood it all, but as he was really desirous of working at his canvas, and was ratlier averse to having a scene at that moment, he made a little attempt to disconcert her. " It is the heart that gives success," she said, while he was considering how he might best put an extinguisher upon licr romance for the occasion. "Not at all, Mrs. Broughton: success de- pends on elbow-grease." "On what, Conway?" "On elbow-greese — hard work, that is — and I must work hard now if I mean to take ad- vantage of to-day"s sitting. The truth is, I don't give enough hours of work to it." And he leaned upon his stick, and daubed away brisk- ly at the back-ground, and then stood for a mo- ment looking at his canvas with his head a lit- tle on one side, as though he could not with- draw his attention for a moment from the thmg he was doing. " You mean to say, Conway, that you would rather that I should not speak to you." " Oh no, Mrs. Broughton, I did not mean that at all." " I won't interrupt yo'u at your woik. What I have to sa}- is perhaps of no great moment. Indeed, words between you and me never can have much importance now. Can they, Con- way?" " I don't see that at all," said he, still work- ing away with his brush. "Do you not? I do. They should never 228 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. amount to more — tlicy can never amount to more than tlic common, ordinary courtesies of life ; what I call the greetinn;s and good-hyings of conversation." She said this in a low, melan- cholv tone of voice, not intcndin<:; to be in any degree jocose. " How sckkim is it that convci"- sation between ordinary friends goes beyond tliat." "Don't you think it does?" said Conway, stepping back and taking anotlicr look at his picture. " I find myself talking to all manner of people about all manner of things." " Yo\i are dilVercnt from me. I can not talk to all manner of peojjlc." " rolitics, you know, and art, nnd a little scandal, and the wars, with a dozen other things, make talking easy enough, I think. I grant you this, that it is very often a great I)ore. Hardly a day passes that I don't wish to cut out somebody's tongue." " Do you wish to cut out my tongue, Conway ?" He began to perceive that she was determ- ined to talk about herself, and that there was no remedy. He dreaded it, not because he did not like the woman, but from a conviction that she was going to make some comparison be- tween herself and Clara Van Siever. In his or- dinary humor he liked a little pretense at ro- mance, and was rather good at that sort of love- making, which in truth means any thing but love. But just now he was really thinking of matri- mony, and had on this very morning acknowl- edged to himself that he had become sufficiently attached to Clara Van Siever to justify him in asking her to be his wife. In his present mood he was not anxious for one of those tilts with blunted swords and half-severed lances in the lists of Cupid of which Mrs. Dobbs Broughton Avas so fond. Nevertheless, if she insisted that he should now descend into the arena and go through tlie paraphernalia of a mock tourna- ment, he must obey her. It is the hardship of men that when called upon by women for ro- mance they are bound to be romantic, whether the op[)ortunity serves them or does not. A man must produce romance, or at least submit to it, when duly summoned, even though he should have a sore-throat or a headache. He is a brute if he decline such an encounter ; and feels that, should he so decline persistently, he will ever after be treated as a brute. There are many Potiphar's wives who never dream of any mischief, and Josephs who are very anxious to escape, though they are asked to return only whisper for whisper. Mrs. Dobbs Broughton had asked him whether he wished that her tongue should be cut out, and he had of course replied that her words had always been a joy to him — never a trouble. It occurred to him as he made his little speech that it would only have served her right if he had answered her quite in another strain ; but she was a woman, and was young and pretty, and was entitled to flat- tery. "They have always been a joy to me," he said, re])eating his last words as he strove to continue his work. "A deadly joy," she replied, not quite know, ing what she herself meant. "A deadly joy. Conway. I wish with all my heart that we hat never known each other." " I do not. I will never wish away the happl ness of my life, even should it be followed bj misery." " You are a man, and if trouble comes upot you you can bear it on your own shoulders A woman suffers more, just because another*! shoulders may have to bear the burden." "When she has got a husband, you mean?' "Yes — when she has a husband." "It's the same with a man when he has ti wife." Hitherto the conversation had had sc; much of milk-and-water in itscom])osition thai Dalrymjde found himself able to keep it np and go on with his back-ground at the same time* If she could only be kept in the same dim clouci of sentiment, if the hot rays of the sun of ro mance could be kept from breaking througl the mist till Miss Van Siever should come, ii might still bo well. He had known her to wan. der about withiu the clouds for an hour togeth- er, without being able to find her way into tin light. "It's all the same with a man whei he has got a wife," he said. "Of course oik has to suffer for two, when one, so to say, i two." I "And what happens when one has to suffer for three ?" she asked. " Y'ou mean when a woman has children ?" " I mean nothing of the kind, Conway; anc yon must know that I do not, unless your feel- ings are indeed blunted. But worldly success has, I suppose, blunted them." "I rather fancy not," he said. "I thinl> they are pretty nearly as sharp as ever." " I know mine are. Oh, how I wish I coulJ rid myself of them ! But it can not be done. Age will not blunt them — I am sure of that,' said Mrs. Broughton. " I wish it would." " He had determined not to talk about her- self if the subject could be in any way avoided;] but now he felt that he was driven up into a, corner ; now he Avas forced to speak to her of her own personality. "You have no experi- ence yet as to that. How can you say whatj age will do?" i "Age does not go by years," said IMrs Dobb^ Broughton. "We all know that. 'His haiii was gray, but not with years.' Look here, Conway ;" and she moved back her tresses from, off her temples to show him that there werej gray hairs behind. He did not see them ; and^ had they been very visible she might not per haps have been so ready to exhibit them. "No^ one can say that length of years has blanched them. I have no secrets from you about my age. One should not be gray before one has, reached thirty." " I did not see a changed hair." " 'Twas the fault of your eyes, then, for there, are plenty of them. And what is it has made them gray?" " They say that hot rooms will do it." THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 229 Hot rooms ! No, Conway, it docs not come from heated atniosplicre. It comes from a cold heart, a chilled heart, a frozen heart, a heart that is all ice." 8iic was getting out of the cloud into the heat now, and he could only hope (that Miss Van Sicvcr would come soon. " Tlie world is beginning with you, Conway, and yet fj'OU arc as old as I am. It is ending with me, and yet I am as young as you are. But I do not know why I talk of all tliis. It is simply folly — utter folly. I had not meant to speak of myself; but I did wish to say a few words to you of your own future. I suppose I may still speak to you as a friend ?" "I hope you will always do that." " Nay — I will make no sucli jironii.se. That I will always have a friend's feeling for you, a friend's interest in your welfare, a friend's tri- Inmpli in your success — that I will promise. But friendly words, Conway, are sometimes iinisunderstood. " *' Never by me," said ho. "No, not by you — certainly not by you. I 3id not mean that. I did not e.xpcct tliat you should misinterpret them." Tlien she laughed hystericall}-— a little, low, gurgling, hysterical laugh ; and after that she wiped her eyes, and then she smiled, and then she put her hand very gently upon his shoulder. " Thank God, Con- way, we are quite safe there — are we not?" He had made a blunder, and it was necessar}' that he should correct it. His watch was lying in the trough of his easel, and he looked at it .find wondered why Miss Van Siever was not there. He had tripped, and he must make a little struggle and recover his step. "As I said Licfore, it shall never be misunderstood by me. [ have never been vain enough to suppose for a moment that there was any other feeling — not for a moment. You women can be so careful, ivhile we men are always off our guard ! A iinan loves because he can not help it ; but a \voman has been careful, and answers him — with friendship. Perhaps I am wrong to say that I never thought of winning any thing more ; but [ never think of winning more now." Why the mischief didn't Miss Van Siever come! Jin another five minutes, despite himself, he irt'ould be on his knees, making a mock declara-^ Ition, and she would be pouring forth the via^ bf her mock wrath, or giving him mock coun- jsc'l as to the restraint of his passion. He had fione through it all before, and was tired of it ; hut for his life he did not know how to help rtiimself. ; "Conway," said slie, gravely, "how dare Itou address me in such language ?" Of course it is verj' wrong ; I know that." dress mc in such language. Do you not know that it is an injury to another?" " To wliat other ?" asked Conway Dalryniple, whose mind was becoming rather confused, and who was not quite sure whether the other one was Mr. Dobbs Brougliton or somebody else. " To that poor girl who is coming here now, who is devoted to you, and to whom, I do not doubt, you have uttered words which ought to liave made it impossible for you to speak to me as you spoke not a moment since." Things were becoming very grave and diffi- cult. They would have been very grave, in- deed, had not ^ome god saved him by sending Jliss Van Siever to his rescue at this moment. He was beginning to think what he would say in answer to the accusation now made, when his eager car caught the sound of her stc]) upon the stairs ; and before the pause in the ccnver- sation which the circumstances admitted had given place to the necessity for further speech Miss Van Siever had knocked at the door and had entered the room. He was rejoiced, and I think that Mrs. Broughton did not regret the interference. It is always well that these little dangerous scenes should be brought to sudden ends. The last details of such romances, if drawn out to their natural conclusions, are apt to be uncomfortable, if not dull. She did not want him to go down on his knees, knowing that the getting up again is always awkward. " Clara, I began to think you were never coming," said Mrs. Broughton, with her sweet- est smile. " I began to think so myself also," said Clara. "And I believe this must be the last sitting, or, at any rate, the last but one." "Is any thing the matter at home?" said Mrs. Broughton, clasping her hands together. "Nothing very much; mamma asked me a question or two this morning, and I said I was coming here. Had she asked me why, I should have told her." "But what did she ask ? What did she say ?" " She docs not always make herself very in- telligible. She complains without telling you what she complains of. But she muttered some- thing about artists which was not compliment- ary, and I suppose, therefore, that she has a sus- picion. She staid ever so late this morning, and we left the house together. Siie will ask some direct question to-night, or before long, and then there will be an end of it." "Let us make the best of our time, then," said Dalrymple ; and the sitting was arranged ; Miss Van Siever w-ent down on her knees with her hammer in her hand, and the work began. I\Irs. Broughton had twisted a turban round " I'm not speaking of myself now. I have Clara's head, as she always did on these' occa- learned to tiiink so little of myself as even to I sions, and assisted to arrange the drapery. She |be indifferent to the feeling of the injury you j used to tell herself, as she did so, that she was re doing me. ]My life is a blank, and I almost like Isaac, piling the fagots for her own sacrifice. :hink that nothing can hurt mc further. I have Only' Isaac had piled them in ignorance, and jSfiot heart left enough to break ; no, not enougli , she piled them conscious of the sacrificial flames, to be broken. It is not of myself that I am I And Isaac had been saved; whereas it was im- thinking when I ask you how you dare to ad- possible that the catching of any ram in any 230 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET, thicket could save Iicr. But nevertheless she arranged the drapery with all lier skill, l»iling the f.igots ever so high for her own jiyre. In the mean time Conway Dah-ymple painted away, thinking more of his picture than he did of one woman or of the other. After a while, when INIrs. Bronghton had piled the fagots as high as she could i)ile tlicm, she got up from her seat and jircpared to leave the room, ^luch of the ])iling consisted, of course, in her own absence during a portion of these sittings. " Conway," she said, as she went, "if this is to be the last sitting, or the last but one, you should make the most of it." Then she threw upon him a very peculiar glance over the head of the kneel- ing Jael, and withdrew. Jael, who in those mo- ments would be thinking more of the fatigue of her position than of any thing else, did not at all take home to herself the peculiar meaning of her friend's words. Conway Dalrymple un- derstood them thorough!}', and thought that he might as well take the advice given to him. He had made up his mind to propose to Miss Van Siever. and wliy should lie not do so now? He went on with his brush for a couple of min- utes without saying a Avord, working as well as THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAllSET. 231 he could work, and then resolved that he would at once begin tlie otiicr task. "Miss Van Sie- ver," he said, " I'm afraid you are tired." "Not more than usually tired. It is fatigu- ing to be slaying Sisera by the hour together. I do get to hate this block." The block was the dummy by which tlie form of Siscra was supi'osed to be ty])ified. "Another sitting will about finish it," said ]ii\ "so tliat.you need not positively distress yourself now. Will you rest yourself for a min- ute or two?" He had already perceived that t'.ie attitude in which Chira was posed before him was not one in wliich an oiler of marriage coilil be received and replied to with advantage. '• Thank you, I am not tired yet," said Clara, not clianging the tixed glance of national wrath with wliich she regarded her wooden Siscra as i~Ii_' held lier hammer on high. '• But I am. There •, we will rest for a mo- rii'iit." Dalrymple was aware that Mrs. Dobbs Ur^iighton, though she was very assiduous in jiiling her fagots, never piled them for long to- gi'ilier. If he did not make haste slie would be b;K'!; u])on them before he could get his word sp ik'Mi. When he put down his brush, and got lu;! t'lom his chair, and stretched out liis arm as a nuui does when he ceases for a moment from Iii^ work, Clara of course got up also, and seat- f.l herself. She was used to her turban and hor drapery, and therefurc tliought not of it at all : and he also was used to it, seeing her in it t,\ ) or three times a week ; but now that he in- fLinled to accomplish a special purpose the tur- ban and the drapery seemed to be in the M-ay. " 1 do so hope you will like the picture," he said, as he was thinking of this. " I don't think I shall. But you will under- stand that it is natural that a girl should hot lik'' herself in such a portraituie as that." '■ I don't know why. I can understand that ,you specially should not like the jucture ; but I 'think that most women in London in your place wor.ld at any rate say that they did." '• ^\.rc you angry with me ?" '• What ; fur telling the truth ? No indeed." II ' was standing opposite to his easel, looking at the canvas, shifting his head about so as to ( lunige the liglits, and observing critically this 11 Miiish and that ; and yet he was all the while thin'.ung liow he had best carry out his purpose. '■ It will have been a prosperous i)icture to me," ho said at last, "if it leads to the success of which I am ambitious." " I am told that all yon do is successful now — merely because you du it. That is the worst of success." " What is tlie worst of success?" "That when won by merit it leads to further succes-, for the gaining of which no merit is necessary." " I hope it may be so in my case. If it is not I shall have a very ]ioor chance. Clara, I think you must know that I am not talking about my pictures." "I thought you were." "Indeed I am not. As for success in my profession, far as I am from thinking I nunit it, I feel tolerably certain that I shall obtain it." "You have obtained it." " I am in the way to do so. I'crhajis oik; out of ten struggling artists is successful, and fur him the jjrofession is very charming. It is cer- tainly a sad feeling that there is so much of chance in the distribution of the prizes. It is a lottery. But one can not com])lain of that wlien one has drawn the prize." Dalrymple was not a man Avithout self-possession, nor was ho readily abashed, but he found it easier to talk of his i>ossession than to make his olfer. The turban was his difficulty. He had told himself over and over again within tlic last five minutes that he would have long since said what he liad to say had it not been for the turban. lie had been painting all his life from living models — from women dressed up in this or that costume, to suit the necessities of his picture — but he had never made love to any of them. They had been simply models to him, and now he found that there was a difficulty. "Of that prize," he said, "I have made myself tolerably sure; but as to the other prize I do not know. I won- der wiiether I am to have that." Of course Miss Van Siever understood well what was the prize of which he was speaking; and as she was a young woman with a M'ill and purpose of her own, no doubt she was already prepared with an answer. But it was necessary that the ques- tion should be put to her in proi)2rly distinct terms. Conway Dalrymple certainly had not put his question in properly distinct terms at present. She did not choose to make any an- swer to his last words ; and therefore sim])ly sug- gested that as time was ])ressing he had better go on with his work. " I am quite ready now," said she. ' ' Stop half a moment. How much more yon are thinking of the jncture than I am! I do not care twojience for the jiicture. I will slit the canvas from top to bottom without a groan- without a single inner groan — if you will let me." "For heaven's sake do nothing of the kind ! Why should you?" "Just to show you that it is not for the sake of the picture that I come here. Clara — " Then the door was opened, and Isaac a]'peared, very weary, having been piling fagots with as- siduity till human nature could pile no more. Conway Dalrymple, who had made his way al- most up to Clara's seat, turned round sharply toward his easel, in anger at having been dis- turbed. He should have been more grateful for all that his Isaac had done for liim, and have recognized the fact that the fault had been with himself. ISIrs. Broughton had been twelve min- utes out of the room. She had counted them to be fifteen — having no doubt made a mistake as to three — and had told herself that with such a one as Conway Dalrymple, with so much of the work ready done to his hand for him, fifteen minutes should have been amply sufficient. When we reflect what her own thoughts must 233 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. have been during the interval — what it is to have to jiilc up such fagots as tliosc — liow she was, as it were, j^iviug away a fresh morsel of her own heart during each minute that slic al- lowed Clara and Conway l')ahwmj)le to remain together, it can not surprise us that her eyes should have become dizzy, and that she should not have counted tlic minutes with accurate correctness. l)alryni])lo turned to ids jjicture angrily, but Miss Van Siever ke])t her seat and did not show tlie slightest emotion. " ^ly friends," said Mrs. Broughton, "this will not do. This is not working; this is not sitting." "Mr. Dalrymplc has been explaining to me the jirecarious nature of an artist's profession," said Clara. " It is not precarious with him," said Jlrs. Dobbs Broughton, scntentiously. "Not in a general way, jjcrliaps ; but to prove tlie trutli of his words he was going to treat Jael worse tlian Jael treats Sisera." "I was going to slit the picture from the toj) to the bottom." "And wliy?"said Mrs. Broughton, putting up her hands to heaven in tragic horror. "Just to show Miss Van Siever liow little I care about it." "And how little you care about her, too," said Mrs. Broughton. "She might take that as she liked." After this there was another genuine sitting, and the real work went on as tliough there had been no episode. Jael fixed her face and held her ham- mer as though her mind and heart were solely bent on seeming to be slaying Sisera. Dalrym- ])le turned his eyes from the canvas to the mod- el, and from the model to the canvas, working witli his hand all the while, as though that last pathetic " Clara" had never been uttered ; and INIrs. Dobbs Broughton reclined on a sofa, look- ing at tliem and tliinking of her own singularly romantic position till her mind was filled with a poetic frenzy. In one moment she resolved tliat she would hate Clara as woman was never hated by woman ; and then there were daggers and poison-cups and strangling cords in iier eye. In the next she was as firmly determined that slie would love Mrs. Conway Dalrymple as woman never was loved by woman ; and then she saw lierself kneeling by a cradle, and ten- derly nursing a baby, of which Conway was to be the father and Clara the motlier. And so she went to sleep. For some time Dalrymple did not observe this ; but at last there was a little sound — even the ill-nature of Miss Demolincs could hardly liave called it a snore — and he became aware tliat for jiractical purposes ho and Miss Van Siever were again alone together. "Clara," lie said, in a whisper. Mrs. Broughton instantly aroused herself from her slumbers, and rubbed her eyes. "Dear, dear, dear !" she said ; "I de- clare it's past one. I'm afraid I must turn you both out. One more sitting, I suppose, will finish it, Conway?" "Yes, one more," said he. It was always understood that lie and Clara should not leave the house togetlicr, and therefore he remained jjaintingwhen slie left the room. "And now, Conway," said Mrs. Broughton, " I sujiposc that all is over?" "I don't know what you mean by all being over." "No — of course not. You look at it in another light, no doubt. Every thing is beginning for you. But you must pardon me, for my heart is distracted — distracted — distracted!" Then she sat down upon the floor and burst into tears. Wiiat was he to do? lie thought that the wo- man should either give him up altogether or not give him up. All tiiis fuss about it was ir- rational ! He would not Iiave made love to Clara Van Siever in her room if she had not told him to do so ! " Maria," he said, in a very grave voice, "any sacrifice that is required on my part on your belialf I am ready to make." "No, Sir; tiic sacrifices sliall all be made by me. It is the j)art of a woman to be ever sac- rificial!" Poor Mrs. Dobbs Brougliton ! "You sliall give up notliing. The world is at your feet, and you sliall have every thing — youth, beauty, wealth, station, love — love ; and friend- sliip also, if you will accept it from one so poor, so broken, so secluded as I sliall be." At each of the last words there had been a desperate sob ; and as she was still crouching in the mid- dle of the room, looking up into Dalrymple's face while he stood over her, the scene was one which had much in it that transcended the do- ings of everyday life, much that would be ever' memorable, and much, I have no doubt, that was thoroughly enjoyed by the jirincipal actor. As for Conway Dalrymple, he was so second- rate a personage in the whole thing that it mattered little whether he enjoyed it or not. I don't think he did enjoy it. "And now, Con- way," she said, "I will give you some advice. And when in after-days you shall remember this interview, and reflect how that advice was given you- — with what solemnity" — here she clasped both her liands together — "I think that you will follow it. Clara Van Siever will now become your wife." , " I do not know that at all," said Dalrymple. ;' " Clara Van Siever will now become your wife," repeated Mrs. Broughton, in a louder voice, impatient of opposition. " Love her. Cleave to her. Make her flesh of your flesh and bone of your bone. But rule her ! Yes, rule her ! Let her be your second self, but not your first self. Rule her. Love her. Cleave to her. Do not leave her alone to feed on her own thoughts as I have done — as I have been forced to do. Now go. No, Conway, not a word ; I will not hear a word. You must go, or I must." Then she rose quickly from her lowly attitude, and prejiared herself for a dart at the door. It was better by far that he should go, and so he went. An American when he has spent a pleasant THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 233 day will tell you that ho has had " a <;ood time." I think that Mrs. Dobbs Brouj^htoii, if she had cvers])oken the truth of tliat day's eniployiiieiit, wouhl have ackiiowledf^ed that she liad had " a good time." I think that she enjoyed her morn- ing's work. But as for Conway Dalrymj)le, I doubt whether he did enjoy his morning's work. "A man may have too much of this sort of thing, and then he becomes very sick of his cake." Such was the nature of liis thoughts as he returned to his own abode. CHAPTER LII. AVIIY don't you have AN " IT " FOR YOURSELF? Of course it came to pass that Lily Dale and) Emily Dunstable were soon very intimate, and that tliey saw each other every day. Lideed, b3fore long they would have been living togeth- er in the same house had it not been that the squire had felt reluctant to abandon the inde- pendence of his own lodgings. Wheu JNIrs. Thome had pressed her invitation for the second, and then for the third time, asking them both to come to her large house, he had begged his niece to go and leave him alone. "You need not regard me," he had said, speaking not with the winning voice of complaint, but with that thin tinge of melancholy which was usual, to him. " I am so much alone down at Allington that you need not mind leaving me. " But Lily Avouldnot go on those terms, and therefore they still lived together in the lodgings. Neverthe- less Lily was every day at Mrs. Thome's house, and thus a great intimacy grew up between the girls. Emily Dunstable had neither brother nor sister, and Lily's nearest male relative in her own degree was now Miss Dunstable's betrothed husband. It was natural therefore that they should at any rate try to like each other. It afterward came to pass that Lily did go to Mrs. Thome's liousc, and she staid there for a while ; but when that occurred the squire had gone back to Allington. Among otiier generous kindnesses Mrs. Thorne insisted that Bernard should hire a horse for his cousin Lily. Emily Dunstable rode daily, and of course Captain Dale rode with her; and now Lily joined the party. Almost before she knew what was being done she found her- self provided with hat and haljit and horse and whip. It was a way with Mrs. Tiiorne that they who came within the influence of her im- mediate sjjhere should be made to feel that the comforts and luxuries arising from her wealth belonged to a common stock, and were the joint jjrojierty of them all. Things were not oftered and taken and talked about, but they made their appearance, and were used as a matter of course. If you go to stay at a gentleman's house you understand that, as a matter of course, you will be provided with meat and drink. Some hosts furnish you also with cigars. A small number give you stabling and forage for your horse ; and a very select few mount 30U on hunting days, and send you out with a groom and a second horse. Mrs. Thorne went beyond all others in this open-handed hospitality. She had enormous wealth at her command, and had but few of those all-absorbing drains upon wealth which in this country make so many rich men poor. She had no fiimily pi-operty — no place to keep up in which she did not live. She had no retainers to be maintained because they were retainers. She had neither sons nor daughters. Consequently she was able to be lavish in her generosity ; and as her heart was very lavish, she would have given her friends gold to eat had gold been good for eating. Indeed there was no measure in her giving — unless when the idea came upon her that the recipient of her fa- vors was trading on them. Then she could hold her hand very stoutly. Lily Dale had not liked the idea of being fit- ted out thus expensively. A box at the o]iera was all very well, as it was not procured especial- ly for her. And tickets for other theatres did not seem to come unnaturally for a night or two. But her spirit had militated against the hat and the habit and the horse. The whip was a little present from Emily Dunstable, and that of course was accepted with a good grace. Then there came the horse — as though from the heavens ; there seemed to be ten horses, twenty horses, if any body needed them. All these things seemed to flow naturally into Mrs. Thome's establishment, like air through the windows. It was very pleasant, but Lily hesi- tated when she was told that a habit was to be given to her. "My dear old aunt insists," said Emily Dunstable. "Nobody ever thinks of refusing any thing from her. If you only knew what some people will take, and some peo- ple will even ask, who have nothing to do with her at all !" " But I have nothing to do with 234 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAllSET. her — in that way I mean," said Lilj'. "Oh yes, you luive," said Emily. "You and Ber- nard are as good as brother and sister, and Ber- nard and I are as good as man and wife, and my aunt and I are as good as mother and diuigh- ter. So you see, in a sort of a way you are a child of the house." So Lily accepted the hab- it ; but made a stand at the hat, and jjaid fur that out of her own ])ocket. "When the squire had seen Lily on horseback he asked her ques- tions about it. "It was a hired horse, I suji- pose?" he said. "I think it came direct from heaven," said Lily. "What do you mean, Lily?" said the squire, angrilj'. "I mean that when i)eople are so rich and good-natured as Mrs. Thorne it is no good inquiring wiiere things come from. All that I know is that the horses come out of Potts's livery-stable. They talk of Potts as if he were a good-natured man who provides horses for the world without troubling any body." Then the squire spoke to Bernard about it, saying that he should insist on defraying his niece's expenses. But Bernard swore that he could give his uncle no assistance. " I would not sjjeak to her about such a thing for all the world," said Bernard. "Then I shall," said the squire. In those days Lily thought much of John- ny Eames — gave to him perhaps more of that thought which leads to love than she had ever given him before. Shu still heard the Crawley question discussed every day. Mrs. Thorne, as we all know, was at this time a Barsctshire per- sonage, and was of course interested in Barsct- shire subjects ; and she was specially anxious in the matter, having strong hopes with refer- ence to the marriage of Major Grantley and Grace, and strong hopes also that Grace's father might escape the fangs of justice. The Craw- ley case was constantly in Lily's ears, and as constantly she heard high praise awarded to Johnny for his kindness in going after the Ara- bins. " He must be a fine young fellow," said Mrs. Thorne, " and we'll have him down at Chaldicotes some day. Old Lord De Guest found him out and made a friend of him, and old Lord De Guest was no fool." Lily was not altogether free from a suspicion that Mrs. Thorne knew the story of Johnny's love and was trying to serve Johnny — as other people had tried to do, veiy ineffectually. When this suspicion came upon her she would shut her heart against her lover's praises, and swear that she would stand by those two letters which she had written in her book at home. But the sus- picion would not be always there, and there did come upon her a conviction that her lover was more esteemed among men and women than she had been accustomed to believe. Her cous- in, Bernard Dale, who certainly was regarded in the world as somebody, spoke of him as his equal ; whereas in former days Bernard had al- ways regarded Johnny Eames as standing low in the world's regard. Then Lih', when alone, would remember a certain comparison which she once made between Adolphus Crosbie and John Eames, M'lien neither of the men had as yet i)leadcd his cause to her, and which had been very much in favor of the former. She had then declared that Johnny was a "mere clerk." She had a higher opinion of him now — a much higher opinion, even tliough he could never be more to her than a friend. In these days Lily's new ally, Emily Dunsta- ble, seemed to Lily to be so happy ! There was in Emily a complete realization of that idea of ante-nuptial blessedness of which Lily had often thought so much. Whatever Emily did she did for Bernard ; and, to give Ca'j^tain Dale his due, he received all the sweets which were showered uj)on him with becoming signs of gratitude. I suppose it is always the case at such times that the girl lias the best of it, and on this occasion Emily Dunstable certainly made the most of licr happiness. "I do envy you," Lily said one day. The acknowledgment seemed to have been extorted from her involuntarily. She did not laugh as she spoke, or follow up what she had said with other words intended to take away the joke of what she had uttered — had it been a joke ; but she sat silent, looking at tlic girl who was rearranging flowers which Bernard Imd brought to her. "I can't give him up to you, you know," said Emily. " I don't envy you him, but * it,' " said Lily. "Then go and get an 'it' for yourself. Why don't you have an 'it' for yourself? You can have an ' it' to-morrow, if you like — or two or three, if all that I hear is true." ' ' No, I can't, " said Lily. " Things have gone wrong with me. Don't ask me any thing more about it. Pray don't. I sha'n't speak of it if you do." " Of course I will not if you tell me I must not." " I do tell you so. I have been a fool to say any thing about it. However, I have got over my envy now, and am ready to go out with your aunt. Here she is." "Things have gone wrong with me." She repeated the same words to herself over and over again. With all the efforts which she had made she could not quite reconcile herself to the two letters which she had written in the book. This coming up to London, and riding in the Park, and going to the theatres, seemed to unsettle her. At home she had schooled her- self down into quiescence, and made herself think that she believed that she was satisfied with the prosjiects of her life. But now she was allastraj' again, doubting about herself, hanker- ing after something over and beyond that which seemed to be allotted to her — but nevertheless as- suring herself that she never would accept of any thing else. I must not, if I can help it, let the readei suppose that she was softening her heart to John Eames because John Eames was spoken well of in the world. But with all of us, in the opinion which we form of tliose around us, we take un- consciously the opinion of others. A woman is THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAllSET. 235 handsome because the world says so. Music is charming to us because it charms others. We drink our wines with other men's palates, and look at our pictures with other men's eyes. When Lily heard John Eamcs praised by all around her, it could not be but that she should praise him too — not out loud, as others did, but in the silence of her heart. And then his constancy to her had been so perfect ! If that other one had never come ! If it could be that she might begin again, and that she miglit be spared that episode in her life which had brought him and her together ! " When is Mr. Eamcs going to be back ?" Mrs. Thorne said at dinner one day. On tliis occasion the squire was dining at IMrs. Thome's house ; and there were three or four others there — among them a Mr. Harold Smith, who was in Parliament, and his wife, and John Eames's especial friend. Sir Raffle Buffle. The question was addressed to the squire, but the squire was slow to answer, and it was taken up by Sir Raf- fle Buffle. " He'll be back on the 15th," said the knight, ''unless he means to play truant. I hope he won't do that, as his absence has been a terrible inconvenie!ice to me." Then Sir Raffle explain- ed that John Eames was his private secretary, and that Johnny's journey to the Continent had been made with, and could not have been made without, his sanction. "When I came to hear the story, of course I told Iiira that he must go. * Eames,' I said, ' take the advice of a man who knows the world. Circumstanced as you are, you are bound to go.' And he went." " Upon my word that Avas very good-natured of you," said Mrs. Thorne. " I never keep a fellow to his desk who has really got important business elsewhere," said Sir Raffle. " The country, I say, can afford to do as much as that for her servants. But then I like to know that the business is business. One doesn't choose to be humbugged." "I dare say you are humbugged, as you call it, very often," said Harold Smith. "Perhaps so ; perhaps I am ; perhaps that is the opinion which they haveof me attheTreasurv. But you were hardly long enough there, Smith, to have learned much about it, I should say." "I don't suppose I should have known much about it, as you call it, if I had staid till Doomsday." " I dare say not ; I dare say not. Men who begin as late as you did never know what official life really means. Now I've been at it all my life, and I think I do understand it." "It's not a profession I should like, unless where it's joined with politics," said Harold Smith. "But then it's apt to be so short," said Sir Raffle Buffle. Now it liad happened once in the life of Mr. Harold Smith that he had been in a Ministry, but, unfortunately, that Ministry had gone out almost within a week of the time of Mr. Smith's adhesion. Sir Raffle and Mr. Smith had known each other for many years, and were accustomed to make civil little speeches to each other in society. "I'd sooner be a horse in a mill than have to go to an office every day," said Mrs. Smith, coming to her husband's assistance. " You, Sir Raffle, have kept yourself fresh and pleasant through it all; but who besides you ever did?" " I hope I am fresh," said Sir Raffle ; " and as for pleasantness, I will leave that for you to determine." "There can be but one opinion," said Mrs. Thorne. The conversation had strayed away from John Eames, and Lily was disappointed. It was a pleasure to her when people talked of him in her hearing, and as a question or two had been asked about him, making him the hero of the moment, it seemed to her that he was being robbed of his due when the little amenities be- tween I\Ir. and Mrs. Harold Smith and Sir Raffle banished his name from the circle. No- thing more, however, was said of him at dinner, and I fear that he would have been altogetlier forgotten throughout the evening had not Lily herself referred — not to him, which she could not possibly have been induced to do — but to the subject of his journey. " I wonder whether poor Mr. Crawley will be found guilty?" she said to Sir Raffle up in the drawing-room. "I am afraid he will; I am afraid he will," said Sir Raffle ; " and I fear, my dear Miss Dale, that I must go further than that. I fear I must express an opinion that he is guilty." " Nothing will ever make mc think so," said Lily. " Ladies are always tender-hearted," said Sir Raffle, "and especially young ladies — and es- pecially pretty young ladies. I do not wonder that such should be your opinion. But you see. Miss Dale, a man of business has to look at these things in a business light. What I want to know is, where did he get the check ? He is bound to be explicit in answering tliat before any body can acquit him." "That is just what Mr. Eames has gone abroad to learn." " It is very well for Eames to go abroad — though, upon my word, I don't know whether I should not have given him different advice if I had known how much I was to be tormented by his absence. The thing couldn't have hap- pened at a more unfortunate time — the IMinistry going out, and every thing. But, as I was say- ing, it is all very well for him to do what he can. He is related to them, and is bound to save the honor of his relations if it be possible. I like him for going. I always liked him. As I said to my friend De Guest, ' That young man will make his way.' And I rather fancy that the chance word which I spoke then to my valued old friend was not thrown away in Eames's fa- vor. But, my dear Miss Dale, where did Mr. Crawley get that check ? That's wliat I want to know. If you can tell me that, then I can tell you whether or no he will be acquitted." Lily did not feel a strong prepossession in fa- 236 THE LAST CIIKONICLE OF BARSET. vor of Sir Raffle, in spite of Iiis praise of John Eanicd. The harsh voice of the man annoyed licr, and his egotism oiloiuled her. Wlien, much later in tlie evening, his character came on for iliscnssion between lierself and IMrs. Thome and Emily Dunstable, she liad not a word to say in his favor. But still she had been pleased to meet him, because he was the man with whom Johnny's life was most specially concerned. I think that a portion of her dislike to him arose from the fact that in continuing the conversa- tion he did not revert to his i)rivatc secretary, but preferred to regale her with stories of his own doings in wonderful cases which had j)ar- taken of interest similar to that which now at- tached itself to JMr. Crawley's case. He had known a man who had stolen a hundred ])ounds, and had never been found out ; and another man who had been arrested for stealing two- nnd-si\])enfe, which was found afterward stick- ing to a bit of butter at the bottom of a plate. Mrs. Thorne had heard all this, and had an- swered him, "Dear me, Sir Raillc," she had said, "what a great many thieves you have had among your acipiaintance !" Tliis had rather disconcerted him, and then there had been no more talking about Mr. Crawley. It had been arranged on this morning that ]\Ir. Dale should return to Allington and leave Lily with Mrs. Thorne. Some special need of his presence at home, real or assumed, had arisen, and he had declared that he must shorten his stay in London by about half the intended period. The need would not have been so jiress- ing, probably, had he not felt that Lily would be more comfortable with Mrs. Thorne than in his lodgings in Sackville Street. Lily liad at first declared that she would return with him, but every body had protested against this. Em- ily Dunstable had protested against it very stoutly; Mrs. Dale herself had protested against it by letter ; and Mrs. Thome's protest had been quite imperious in its nature. "Indeed, my dear, you'll do nothing of the kind. I'm sure your mother wouldn't wish it. I look upon it as quite essential that you and Emily should learn to know each other." " But we do know each other ; don't we, Emily ?" said Lily. " Not quke well yet," said Emily. Then Lily had laughed, and so tlie matter was settled. And now, on this present occasion, Mr. Dale was at Mrs. Thome's house for the last time. His con- science had been perplexed about Lily's horse, and if any thing was to be said it must be said now. The subject was very disagreeable to him, and he was angry with Bernard because Ber- nard had declined to manage it for him after his own fashion. But he had told himself so often that any thing was better than a pecimiary obligation that he was determined to speak his mind to Mrs. Thorne, and to beg her to allow him to have his way. So he waited till the Harold Smiths were gone, and Sir Raffle Baf- fle, and then, when Lily was apart with Emily — for Bernard Dale had left them — he found himself at last alone with Mrs. Thorne. "I can't be too much obliged to you," he said, "for your kindness to my girl." " Oh laws, that's nothing," said Mrs. Thorne. "We look on her as one of us now." "I'm sure she is grateful — very grateful; and so am I. She and Bernard h.avc been brought up so much together that it is very de- sirable that she should be not unknown to Ber- nard's wife." " E.xactly— that's just Avhat I mean. Blood's thicker than water; isn't it? Emily's child, if she has one, will be Lily's cousin." "Her first-cousin once removed," said the squire, who was accurate in these matters. Then he drew himself up in his scat and compressed his lips together, and jirepared himself for his task. It was very disagreeable. Nothing, he thought, could be more disagreeable. " I have a little thing to sjicak about," he said at last, " which I !ioi)e will not offend you." "About Lily?" " Yes ; about Lily." " I'm not very easily offended, and I don't know how Icould possibly beoffeiidcdabonther." "I'm an old-fashioned man, Mrs. Thorne, and don't know much about tlie ways of the world. I have always been down in the coun- try, and maybe I have prejudices. You won't refuse to humor one of them, I hope?" " You're beginning to frighten me, Mr. Dale ; what is it ?" "About Lily's horse." "Lily's horse! "What about her horse ? I hope he's not vicious?" " She is liding eveiy day with your niece," said the squire, thinking it best to stick to his own point. "It will do her all the good in the world," said Mrs. Thorne. "Very likely. I don't doubt it. I do not in the least disapprove her riding. But — " "But what, Mr. Dale?" " I should be so much obliged if I might bo allowed to pay the livery-stable keeper's bill." " Oh, laws a' niercy !" "I dare say it may sound odd, but as I have a fancy about it I'm sure you'll gratify me." "Of coarse I will. I'll remember it. I'll make it all right with Bernard. Bernard and I have no end of accounts — or shall have before long — and we'll make an item of it. Then you can arrange with Bernard afterward." Mr. Dale as he got up to go away felt that he was beaten, but he did not know how to cany the battle any further on that occasion. He could not take out his purse and put down the cost of the horse on the table. "I will then speak to my nephew about it," he said, very gravely, as he went away. And he did speak to his nephew about it, and even wrote to him more than once. But it was all to no purpose. Mr. Potts eould not be induced to give a sepa- rate bill, and — so said Bernard — swore at last that he would furnish no account to any body for horses that went to Mrs. Thome's door ex- cept to Mrs. Thorne herself. THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 237 That night Lily took leave of lier uncle and rcmaincil at Mrs. Tliornc's house. As tilings were now arranged siie would, no doubt, he in London when John Eamcs returned. If he should find her in town — and she told herself that if she was in town he certainly' would find her — he would, doubtless, repeat to her tlie offer he iiad so often made before. She never ven- tured to tell herself that she doubted as to the answer to be made to him. The two letters were written in the book, and must remain there. But she felt that she would have had more coui'- age for persistency down at Allington than she would be able to summon to her assistance up in London. She knew she would be weak should she be found by him alone in Mrs. Thome's drawing-room. It would be better for her to make some excuse and go home. She was resolved that she would not become his wife. She could not extricate herself from the dominion of a feeling which she believed to be love for another man. She had given a solemn promise both to her mother and to John Eames that she would not marry that otiicr man ; but in doing so she had made a solemn promise to herself that she would not marry John Eames. She had sworn it, and would keep her oath. And yet she regretted it I In writing home to her mother the next day she told Mrs. Dale^ that all the world was speaking well of JohnI Eames — that John had won for himself a repu-' tation of his own, and was known far and wide to be a noble fellow. She could not keep her- self from praising John Eames, though she knew that such praise might, and would, be used against her at some future time. "Though I can not love him I will give him his due," she said to herself. "I wish you would make up your mind to have an ' it' for yourself," Emily Dunstable said to her again that night; "a nice 'it,' so that I could make a friend, perhaps a brother, of Iiim." "I shall never have an ' it,' if I live to be a hundred," said Lily Dale. CHAPTER LIIL ROTTEN ROW. Lily had heard nothing as to the difficulty about her horse, and could therefore enjoy her exercise without the drawback of feeling that her uncle was subjected to an annoyance. She was in the habit of going out every day with Bernard and Emily Dunstable, and their party was generally joined by others who would meet tliem at Mrs. Thome's house. For Mrs. Thorne was a very hospitable woman, and there were many who liked well enough to go to her house. Late in the afternoon there would be a great congregation of horses before the door — some- times as many as a dozen; and then tlie caval- cade would go off into the Park, and there it would become scattered. As neither Bernard nor Miss Dunstable were unconscionable lovers, Lily in these scatterings did not often find her- self neglected or lost. Her cousin would gen- erally remain with her, and as in those days she had no "it" of her own she was well pleased that he should do so. But it so happened that on a certain after- noon she found herself riding in Rotten Row alone with a certain stout gentleman whom she constantly met at Mrs. Thome's house. His name was Onesiphorus Dunn, and he was usu- ally called Siph by his intimate friends. It had seemed to Lily that every body was an intimate friend of Mr. Dunn's, and she was in daily fear lest she should make a mistake and call him Siph herself. Had she done so it would not have mattered in the least. Mr. Dunn, had he ob- served it at all, would neither have been flattered nor angry. A great many young ladies about London did call him Sijih, and to him it was quite natural that they should do so. He was an Irishman, living on the best of every thing in the world, with apparently no fortune of his own, and certainly never earning any thing. Every body liked him, and it was admitted on all sides that there was no safer friend in the world, either for young ladies or young men, than Mr. Onesiphorus Dunn. He did not bor- row money, and he did not encroach. He did like being asked out to dinner, and he did think that they to whom he gave the light of his coun- tenance in town owed him the return of a week's run in the country. He neither shot, nor hunt- ed, nor fished, nor read, and yet he was never in the way in any house. He did play billiards, and whist, and croquet — very badly. He was a good judge of wine, and would occasionally condescend to look after the bottling of it on be- half of some very intimate friend. He was a great friend of Mrs. Thome's, with whom he always spent ten days in the autumn at Clialdi- cotes. 238 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAKSET. Bernard and Emily were not insatiable lovers, j but nevertheless Mrs. Thorne had thought it ))roper to provide a fourth in the riding-])artic's, and had put ]Mr. Dunn upon this duty. " Don't bother yourself about it, Siph," she had said; "onlv if those lovers sliould go ofFjiliilandcring ^ out of sight our little country lassie might find j herself to be nowhere in the I'ark." Siph had , promised to make himself useful, and had done i so. There had generally been so large a num- ber in their jiarty that the work imposed on Mr. | Dunn had been very light. Lily had never, found out that he had been espeeially consigned ^ to her as her own cavalier, but had seen quite enough of him to be aware that he was a pleas- ant companion. To her, thinking, as she ever was thinking, about Johnny Eames, Siph was much more agreeable than might have been a younger man who would have endeavored to make her think about himself. Thus when she found herself riding alone in Rotten Row with Siph Dunn she was neither disconcerted nor displeased. He had been talk- ing to her about Lord Do Guest whom he had known — for Siph knew every body — and Lily had begun to wonder whether he knew John Eames. She would have liked to hear the opinion of such a man about John Eames. She was making up her mind that she would say something about the Crawley matter — not intending of course to mention John Eames's name — when suddenly hei" tongue was paralyzed and she could not speak. At that moment they were standing near a corner, where a turn- ing path made an angle in the iron rails, ISIr. Dunn having proposed that they should wait there for a few minutes before they returned home, as it was probable that Bernard and Miss Dunstable might come up. They had been there for some five or ten minutes, and Lily had asked her first question about the Crawleys — inquiring of Mr. Dunn whether he had heard of a terrible accusation which had been made against a cler- gyman in Barsetshire — when on a sudden her tongue was paralyzed. As they were standing, Lily's horse was turned toward the diverging path, whereas Mr. Dunn was looking the other way, toward Achilles and Apsley House. Mr. Dunn was nearer to the railings, but though tliey were thus looking different ways they were so placed that each could see the face of the other. Then, on a sudden, coming slowly toward her along the diverging path and leaning on the arm of another man, she saw — Adolphus Cros- bie. She had never seen him since a day on which she had parted from him with many kisses — with warm, pressing, eager kisses — of which she had been nowhat ashamed. He had then been to her almost as her husband. She had trusted him entirely, and had thrown herself into his arms with a full reliance. There is often much of reticence on the part of a woman toward a man to whom she is engaged, something also of shamefacedness occasionally. There ex- ists a shadow of doubt, at least of that hesitation which shows that in s])ite of vows the womaa knows that a change may come, and that pro- vision for sucli possible steps backward should always be witliin her reach. But Lily had cast all such caution to the winds. She had given herself to the man entirely, and had determined that she would sink or swim, stand or fall, live or die, by him and by his truth. He had been as false as hell. She had been in his arms, clinging to him, kissing him, swearing that her only pleasure in the world was to be with him — with him her treasure, her promised husband ; and within a month, a week, he had been false to hcv. There had come upon her crushing tidings, and she had for days wondered at her- self that they had not killed her. But she had lived, and had forgiven him. She had still loved him, and had received new offers from him, which had been answered as the reader knows. But she had never seen him since the day on which she had parted from him at Al- lington without a doubt as to his faith. Now he was before her, walking on the foot-path, al- most within reach of her whip. He did not recognize her, but as he passed on he did recognize Mr. Oncsiphorus Dunn, and stopped to speak to him. Or it might have been that Crosbie's friend Fowler Pratt stopped with this special object — for Siph Dunn was an intimate friend of Fowler Pratt's. Crosbie and Siph were also acquainted, but in those days Ciosbie did not care much for stopping his friends in the Park or elsewhere. lie had be- come moody and discontented, and was generally seen going about the world alone. On this special occasion he was having a little s])ecial conversation about money with his very old friend Fowler Pratt. "What, Siph, is this you? You're always on horseback now,"' said Fowler Pratt. "Well, yes; I have gone in a good deal for cavalry work this last month. I've been lucky enough to have a young lady to ride with me." This he said in a whisper, which the distance of Lily justified. "How d'ye do, Crosbie? One doesn't often see you on horseback, or on foot either." "I've something to do besides going to look or to be looked at," said Crosbie. Then he raised his eyes and saw Lily's side-face, and jfecognized her. Had he seen her before he had been stopped on his way I think he would have passed on, endeavoring to escape observation. But as it was, his feet had been arrested before he knew of her close vicinity, and now it would seem that he was afraid of her, and was flying from her, were he at once to walk off, leaving his friend behind him. And he knew that she had seen him, and had recognized him, and was now suffering from his presence. He could not but ])erceive that it was so from the fixedness of her face, and from the constrained manner in wliich she gazed before her. His friend Fowler Pratt had never seen Miss Dale, though he knew very much of her history. Siph Dunn knew no- thing of the history of Crosbie and his love, and THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET, 239 was unaware that he and Lily Iiad ever seen each other. Tliere was thus no help near her to extricate her from her Uifticulty. "When a man has any work to do in the world," said Siph, "he always boasts of it to his acquaintance, and curses his luck to himself. I have nothing to do, and can go about to sec and to be seen ; and I must own that I like it." " Especially the being seen — eh, Sij)!!?" said Fowler Pratt. "I also have nothing on earth to do, and I come here eveiy day because it is as easy to do tliat as to go any where else." Crosbic was still looking at Lily. He could not help himself. He could not take his eyes from off her. He could see that she was as pretty as ever, tliat she was but very little altered. She was, in truth, somewliat stouter than in the old days, but of that he took no special notice. Should he speak to her? Should he try to catch her eye, and then raise his hat? Should he go up to her horse's head boldly, and ask her to let bj^-gones be by-gones ? He had an idea that of all courses which he could pursue that was the one which she would approve the best — which would be most efficacious for liira, if with her any thing from him might have any efficacy. But he could not do it. He did not know what words lie might best use. Would it become liim humbly to sue to her for pardon ? Or should he strive to express his unaltered love by some tone of his voice ? Or should he simply ask her after her health ? He made one step to- ward her, and he saw that the face became more rigid and more fi.xed than before, and then he desisted. He told himself that he was simply hateful to her. He thought that he could per- ceive that there was no tenderness mixed with her unabated anger. At this moment Bernard Dale and Emily came close upon him, and Bernard saw him at once. It was through Bernard that Lily and Crosbie had come to know each other. He and Bernard Dale had been fast friends in old times/ and had, of course, been bitter enemies sinqe the day of Crosbie's treachery. They had nev- er spoken since, though they had often seen each other, and Dale was not at all disposed to speak to him now. The moment that he rec- ognized Crosbie he looked across to his cousin. For an instant an idea had flashed across him that he was there by her permission — with her assent ; but it required no second glance to show him that this was not the case. "Dunn," he said, "I think we will ride on ;" and he put his horse into a trot. Siph, whose ear was very accurate, and wlio knew at once that something was wrong, trotted on with him, and Lily, of course, was not left behind. " Is there any thing the matter?" said Emily to her lover. " Notliing specially the matter," he replied; "but you were standing in company with the greatest blackguard that ever lived, and I thought we had better change our ground." "Bernard I'' said Lily, flashing on him with all the fire which her eyes could command. Then she remembered that she could not rep- rimand liim fur the offense of such abuse in such a conqjany ; so she reined in her horse and fell a weeping. Siph Dunn, with liis wicked cleverness, knew the . whole story at once, remembering that he had once heard something of Crosbie having be- haved very ill to some one before he married Lady Alexandrina De Courcy. He stopped his horse also, falling a little behind Lily, so that he might not be supposed to have seen her tears, and began to hum a tune. Emily also, though not wickedly clever, understood something of it. " If Bernard says any thing to make you angry I will scold him," she said. Then the two girls rode on together in front, while Bernard fell back with Siph Dunn. "Pratt," said Crosbie, putting his hand on his friend's shoulder as soon as the party had ridden out of hearing, "do you see that girl there in the dark blue habit?" " What, the one nearest to the path?" ' ' Yes ; the one nearest to the path. That is Lily Dale." "Lily Dale!" said Fowler Pratt. " Yes ; that is Lily Dale." "Did you speak to her?" Pratt asked. "No; she gave me no chance. She was there but a moment. But it was herself. It seems so odd to me that I should have been thus so near her again." If there was any man to whom Crosbie could have spoken freely about Lily Dale it was this man. Fowler Pratt. Pratt was the oldest friend he had in the world, and it had happened that when he first woke to the misery that he had prepared for himself in throw- ing over Lily and betrothing himself to his late wife, Pratt had been the first person to whom ho had communicated his sorrow. Not that he had ever been really open in his communica- tions. It is not given to such men as Crosbie to speak openly of themselves to their friends. Nor, indeed, was Fowler Pratt one who was fond of listening to such tales. He had no such tales to tell of himself, and he thought that men and women should go through the world quiet- ly, not subjecting themselves or their acquaint- ances to anxieties and emotions from peculiar conduct. But he was conscientious, and cour- ageous also as well as prudent, and he had dared to tell Crosbie that he was behaving very badly. He had spoken his mind plainly, and had then given all the assistance in his power. He paused a moment before he replied, weigh- ing, like a prudent man, the force of the words he was about to utter. "It is much better as it is," he said. "It is much better that you should be as strangers for the future." " I do not see that at all," said Crosbie. They were both leaning on the rails, and so they re- mained for the next twenty minutes. "I do not see that at all." " I feel sure of it. "What could come of any renewed intercourse — even if she woidd allow it?" " I might make her my wife." " And do you think that you would be hap- 240 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. py with her, or she with you, after what has passed ?" " I do think so." "I do not. It might be possible that she shouhl bring herself to marry you. Women de- light to forgive injuries. They like the excite- ment of generosity. But she could never for- get that you had had a former wife, or the cir- cumstances under wliich you were maiTied. And as for yourself, you would regret it after the first month. How could you ever s])cak to her of your love without sjieakiug also of your shame? If a man docs marry he should at least be able to hold up his head before his ■wife." This was very severe, but Crosbie showed no anger. "I think I should do so," he said — "after a while." "And then, about money? Of course you would have to tell her every thing." "Every thing — of course." "It is like enough that slie might not regard that — except that she would feel that if you could not afford to marry her when you were unembarrassed, you can hardly alford to do so when you are over head and cars in debt." " She has money now." "After all that lias come and gone you would hardly seek Lily Dale because you want to mar- ry a fortune." " You arc too hard on me, Pratt. You know that my only reason for seeking her is that I love her." " I do not mean to be hard. But I have a, Tcry strong opinion tliat tlie quarrels of lovers, when they are of so very serious a nature, are a bad basis for the renewal of love. Come, let us go and dress for dinner. I am going to dine with Mrs. Thorne, the millionaire, wlio married a country doctor, and who used to be called Miss Dunstable." "I never dine out any where now," said Crosbie. And then tlicy walked out of the Park together. Neither of them, of course, knew that Lily Dale was staying at the house at which Fowler Pratt was going to dine. Lily, as she rode home, did not speak a word. She would have given worlds to be able to talk, but she could not even make a beginning. She heard Bernard and Siph Dunn cliatting behind her, and hoped that they would continue to do so till she was safe within the house. They all used her well, for no one tried to draw her into conversation. Once Emily said to her, "Shall we trot a little, Lily?" And tlien they had moved on quickly, and the misery was soon over. As soon as siie was up stairs in the house slie got Emily by herself, and explained all the mystery in a word or two. "I fear I have made a fool of myself. That was the man to whom I was once engaged." "What, Mr. Crosbie ?" said Emily, who had heard the whole story from Bernard. " Yes, Mr. Crosbie ; pray, do not say a word of it to any body — not even to your aunt. I am better now, but I was such a fool. No, dear; I won't go into the drawing- room. I'll go up stairs, and come down ready for dinner." Wjien slie was alone she sat down in her hab- it, and declared to herself that she certainly would never become the wife of Mr. Crosbie. I do not know why she should make such a dec- laration. She had promised her mother and John Eamcs that she would not do so, and that jiromise would certainly have bouiul her witii- out any further resolutions on her own part. But to tell tlie truth, the vision of the man had disenchanted her. When last she had seen him Ifc had been as it were a god to her ; and though, since that day, his conduct to her had neon as ungodlike as it well might be, still the memory of tlie outward signs of his divinity had remained with her. It is difficult to exj)lain how it had come to pass that the glimpse which she had had of him should have altered so much within her mind ; why she should so suddenly have come to regard him in an altered li.i;ht. It was not simply that he looked to be older, and because his face was care-worn. It was not only tliat he had lost that look of an Apollo which Lily had once in her mirth attributed to him. I tliink it was cliiefly that she herself was older, and could no longer see a god in such a man. Slie had never regarded Jolin Eames .'\s being gifted with divinity, and had therefore always been making comjjarisons to his discredit. Any such comparison now would tend quite the oth- er way. Nevertheless she would adhere to the two letters in her book. Since she had seen Mr. Crosbie she was altogether out of love with the prospect of matrimony. She was in the room when Mr. Pratt was an- nounced, and she at once recognized him as the man who had been with Crosbie. And when, /some minutes afterward, Siph Dunn came into the room, she could see that in their greeting allusion was made to tlie scene in the Park. But still it was probable that this man would not recognize her, and, if he did so, what would it matter ? There were twenty people to sit down to dinner, and the chances were that she would not be called upon to exchange a word with Mr. Pratt. Slie had now recovered herself, and could speak freely to her friend Si))li, and when Siph came and stood near her she thanked him graciously for his escort in the Park. '■ If it wasn't for you, Mr. Dunn, I really think I should not get any riding at all. Bernard and ^liss Dunstable have only one thing to tiiink al)out, and certainly I am not that one thing." She thought it probable that if she could keep Siph close to her, Mrs. Thorne, who always managed those things herself, might apportion her out to be led to dinner by her good-natured friend. But the fates were averse. The time l)ad now come, and Lily was waiting her turn. ^' Mr. Fowler Pratt, let me introduce you to Miss Lily Dale," said Mrs. Thorne. Lily could perceive that Mr. Pratt was startled. The si^n he gave was the least possible sign in the world, but still it sufficed for Lily to perceive it. She put her hand upon his arm, and walked down THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 241 with him to the dining-room without giving him tlie slightest cause to suppose that slie knew who he was. "I think I saw you in the Park riding?" he said. "Yes, I was there ; we go nearly every day." "I never ride; I was walking." "It seems to me that the people don't go there to walk, but to stand still," said Lilj*. "I can not understand how so many people can bear to loiter about in that way — leaning on the rails and doing nothing." " It is about as good as the riding, and costs less money. That is all that can be said for it. Do you live chiefly in town ?" " Oh dear, no ; I live altogether in the coun- try. I'm only up here because a cousin is going to be married." "Captain Dale, you mean — to Miss Dun- stable ?" said Fowler Pratt. "When they have been joined together in holy matrimony I shall go down to the country, and never, I suppose, come up to London again." " You do not like London ?" "Not as a residence, I think," said Lil}'. "But of course one's likings and dislikings on such a matter depend on circumstances. I live with my mother, and all my relatives live near us. Of course I like the country best, because they are there." " Young ladies so often have a different way of looking at this subject. I shouldn't w^onder if Miss Dunstable's views about it were altogeth- er of another sort. Young ladies generally ex- pect to be taken away from their fathers and mothers, and uncles and aunts." " But you see I expect to be left with mine," said Lily. After that she turned as much away from Mr. Fowler Pratt as she could, having tak- en an aversion to him. What business had he to talk to her about being taken away from her luncles and aunts ? She had seen him with Mr. Crosbie, and it might be possible that they were intimate friends. It might be that Mr. Pratt was asking questions in Mr. Crosbie's interest. Let that be as it might, she would answer no more questions from him further than ordinary good-breeding should require of her. " She is a nice girl, certainly," said Fowler Pratt to himself, as he walked home, "and I have no doubt would make a good, ordinary, everyday wife. But she is not such a paragon that a man should condescend to grovel in the dirt for her." That night Lily told Emily Dunstable the whole of Mr. Crosbie's history as far as she knew it, and also explained her new aversion to Mr. Fowler Pratt. "They are very great friends," said Emily. "Bernard has told me so; and you may be sure that Mr. Pratt knew the whole history before he came here. I am *so sorry that my aunt asked him." "It does not signify in the least," said Li)}-. "Even if I were to meet Mr. Crosbie I don't think I should make such a fool of myself again. As it is, I can only hope he did not see it." "I am sure he did not." Tlien there was a pause, during which Lily sat with her face resting on both her Iiand.s. "It is wonderful how much he is altered," she said at last. "Think how much he has suffered." "I suppose I am altered as much, only I do not see it in myself." "I don't know what you were, but I don't tliink you can have changed much. You no doubt have suffered too, but not as he has done." "Oh, as for that, I have done very well. I think I'll go to bed now. The riding makes me so sleepy." CHAPTER LIV. THE CLERICAL COMMISSION. It was at last arranged that the five clergy- men selected should meet at Dr. Tcmjjcst's house in Silverbridge to make inquiry and re- port to the bishop whether the circumstances connected with the check for twenty pounds were of such a nature as to make it incumbent on him to institute proceedings against Mr. Crawley in the Court of Arches. Dr. Tempest had acted upon the letter which he had received from the bishop, exactly as though there had been no meeting at the palace, no quarrel to the death between him and Mrs. Proudie. He was a prudent man, gifted with the great power of holding his tongue, and had not spoken a word, even to his wife, of what had occurred. After such a victory our old friend the archdeacon would have blown his own trumpet loudly among his friends. Plumstead would have heard of it instantly, and the pnsan would have been sung out in the neighboring parishes of Eiderdown, Stogpingum, and St. Ewolds. The high-street of Barchester would have known of it, and the very bedesmen in Hiram's Hospital would have told among themselves the terrible discomfiture of the bishop and his lady. But Dr. Tempest spoke no w'ord of it to any body. He wrote letters to the two clergymen named by tlie bishop, and himself selected two others out of his own rural deanery, and suggested to them all a day at which a preliminary meeting should be held at his own house. The two who were invited by him were Mr. Oriel, the rector of Greshamsbury, and ^Ir. Robarts, the vicar of Framley. They all assented to tlie proposi- tion, and on the day named assembled them- selves at Silverbridge. It was now April, and the judges were to come into Barchester before the end of the month. What then could be the use of this ecclesiastical inquiry exactly at the same time? Men and women declared that it was a double prosecution, and that a double prosecution for the same offense was a course of action opposed to the feelings and traditions of the country. Miss Anne Prcttyman went so far as to say that it was unconstitutional, and Mary Walker de- 244 THE LAST CimONICLE OF BARSET. that Mr. Crawley lias declined to take the bishop's advice." "Tliiit is true," said Mr. Thumble. "He altogether disregarded tlie bisliop." " I can not say tliat I tliinii he was wi"ong," said Dr. Tempest. "I think he was quite right," said Mr. Ko- barts. "A bishop in almost all cases is entitled to the obedience of his clergy," said Mr. Oriel. " I must say that I agree witli you, Sir," said Mr. Thumble. " The income is not large, and I suppose that it would have gone with tlie duties," said Mr. Quiverful. "It is very hard for a man with a fomily to live when his income has been stopped." "Bo that as it may," continued the doctor, "the bishoi) feels that it may be his duty to op- pose the return of Mr. Crawley to his pulpit, and tliat he can oppose it in no otiier way than by proceeding against Mr. Crawley under the Clerical Offenses Act. I projjose, therefore, that we should invite Mr. Crawley to attend here — " "Mr. Crawley is not coming here to-day, then?" said Mr. Robarts. "I thought it useless to ask for his attend- ance until we had settled on our course of ac- tion," said Dr. Tempest. " If we are all agreed, I will beg him to come here on this day week, when we will meet again And we will then ■% ask him whether lie will submit himself to the bisliop's decision in the event of the jury find- t ing him guilt^^ If he should decline to do so, we can only then form our opinion as to what will be the bishop's duty by reference to the facts as they are elicited at tlie trial. If Mr. Crawley should choose to make to us any state- ment as to his own case, of course we shall be willing to receive it. That is my idea of what had better be done ; and now, if any gentleman has any other proposition to make, of course we shall be pleased to hear him." Dr. Tempest, as he said this, looked round upon his compan- ions as though his pleasure, under tiie circum- stances suggested by himself, would be A'cry doubtful. " I don't suppose we can do any thing better," said Mr. Kobarts. " I think it a jiity, however, that any steps should have been taken by the bishop before the trial." "The bishop lias been placed in a very deli- cate position," said Mr. Thumble, pleading for his patron. "I don't know the meaning of the word ' del- icate,'" said Robarts. "I think his duty was very clear, to avoid interference while the mat- ter is, so to say, before the judge." " Noliody has any thing else to propose?" said Dr. Tempest. "Then I will write to Mr. Crawley, and you, gentlemen, will perhaps do me the honor of meeting me here at one o'clock on this day week." Then the meeting was over, and the four clergymen having shaken hands with Dr. Tempest in the hall, all promised that they would return on that day week. So fai Dr. Tempest had carried his point exactly as h< might have done had the four gentlemen beer represented by tlie chairs on which they had sat "I slia'n't come again, all the same, unless 1 know where I'm to get my expenses," said Mr, Quiverful, as he got into the gig. ' ' I shall come, " said Mr. Tiiumble, "because I think it a duty. Of course it is a hardsliip Mr. Tiiumble liked the idea of being joined with such men as Dr. Tempest, and Mr. Oriel, and Mr. Robarts, and would any day have paid th.e cxjiense of a gig from Barchester to Silver- bridge out of iiis own pocket, for the sake of sitting Avith such bench-fellows on any clerical iufpiiry. " One's first duty is to one's wife and family,' said Mr. Quiverful. " Well, yes ; in a way, of course, that is quite true, Mr. Quiverful ; and when we know liow very inadequate are the incomes of the working clergy, we can not but feel ourselves to be, if I may so say, put upon, when we have tp defray the expenses incidental to special duties! out of our own pockets. I think, you know — I don't mind saying this to you — that the palace should have provided us with a chaise and pair." This was ungrateful on the part of Mr. Thum- ble, who had been permitted to ride miles upon miles to various outlying clerical duties upon the bishop's worn-out cob. " You see," contin- ued Mr. Thumble, "you and I go specially to' represent the palace, and tlie palace ought to remember that. I think tliere ought to have been a chaise and pair; I do indeed." ' "I don't care much what the conveyance is,"! said Mr. Quiverful ; "but I certainly shall pay nothing more out of my own pocket — certainly I sliall not." "The result will be that the palace will be thrown over if they don't take care," said Mr. Thumble. "Tempest, however, seems to be! pretty steady. Tempest, I think, is steady.; You see he is getting tired of parish work, andl would like to go into the close. That's whati he is looking out for. Did you ever see such ai fellow as that Robarts — ^just look at him — quite; indecent, wasn't he? He thinks he can have* his own way in every thing, just because his sis- ter married a lord. I do hate to see all tliat meanness." Mark Robarts and Caleb Oriel left Silverbridge in another gig by the same road, and soon pass- ed their brethren, as Mr. Robarts was in the habit of driving a large, quick-stepping horse. The last remarks were being made as the dust from the vicar of Framley's wheels saluted the faces of tlic two slower clergymen. !Mr. Oriel had promised to dine and sleep at Framley, and therefore returned in Mr. Robarts's gig. "Quite unnecessary, all this fuss; doti't you think so?" said Mr. Robarts. "I am not quite sure," said Mr. Oriel. "I can understand that the bishop may have found' a difficulty." ' ' The bishop, indeed I The bishop doesn't' THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 24: care two straws about it. It's Mrs. rroiulie ! Slie has put her finger on the poor man's neck because he has not put his neck beneath licr feet; and now she thinks she can crush him — as she would crush you or me, if it were in her power. That's about tlie long and short of the bishop's solicitude." "You are very hard on him," said Mr. Oriel. "I know him — and am not at all hard on him. She is hard upon him if you like. Tem- pest is fair. He is very fair, and as long as no one meddles with him he won't do amiss. I can't hold my tongue always, but I often know it is better that I should." Dr. Tempest said not a word to any one on the subject, not even in his own defense. And yet he was sorely tempted. On tlie very day of the meeting he dined at Mr. "Walker's in Sil- verbridge, and there submitted to be talked at by all the ladies and most of the gentlemen pres- ent, without saying a word in his own defense. And yet a word or two would have been so easy and so conclusive. "Oh, Dr. Tempest," said Mary Walker, "I am so sorry that you liave joined the bishop !" "Are you, my dear?" said he. "It is gen- erally thought well that a parisli clergyman should agree with his bishop." "But you know, Dr. Tempest, that you don't agree with your bishop generally." "Then it is the more fortunate that I shall be able to agree with him on this occasion." Major Grantly was present at the dinner, and ventured to ask the doftor in the coarse of the evening what he thought would be done. "I should not venture to ask sucli a question, Dr. Tempest," he said, "unless I had the strongest possible reason to justify my anxiety." "I don't know that I can tell you any thing. Major Grantly," said the doctor. " We did not even see Mr. Crawley to-day. But the real truth is that he must stand or fall as the jury shall find him guilty or not guilty. It would be the same in any profession. Could a cap- tain in the army hold up his head in his regi- ment after he had been tried and found guilty of stealing twenty pounds?" '■ I don't think he could," said the major. "Neither can a clergyman," said the doctor. "Tlie bishop can neither make him nor mar him. It is the jury that must do it." CHAPTER LV. TR-VMLET PARSONAGE, At this time Grace Crawley was at Framley/ Parsonage. Old Lady Lufton's strategy had' been quite intelligible, but some people said that in point of etiquette and judgment and moral conduct it was indefensible. Her vicar, Mr. Robarts, had been selected to be one of the clergymen who was to sit in ecclesiastical judg- ment upon Mr. Crawley, and while he was so sitting Mr. Crawley's daughter was staying in Mr. Robarts's house as a visitor witli his wife ! It might be that there was no harm in tliis. Lady Lufton, when the apparent iminojjriety was pointed out to her by no less a ])erson than Archdeacon Grantly, ridiculed the idea. "i\Iy dear Archdeacon," Lady Lufton had said, " we all know tlie bishop to be such a fool and the bishop's wife to be such a knave, that we can not allow ourselves to be governed in this mat- ter by ordinary rules. Do you not tiiink that it is expedient to show how utterly we disregard his judgment and her malice ?" The archdea- con had hesitated much before he spoke to Lady Lufton, whether he should address himself to her or to Mr. Robarts — or indeed to Mrs. Ro- barts. But he had become aware that the prop- osition as to the visit had originated with Lady Lufton, and he had therefore decided on speak- ing to her. He had not condescended to say a word as to his son, nor would he so condescend. Nor could he go from Lady Lufton to Mr. Ro- barts, having once failed with her ladyship. Indeed, in giving him his due, we must ac- knowledge that his disapprobation of Lady Luf- ton's strategy arose rather from his true convic- tion as to its impropriety than from any fear lest this attention paid to Miss Crawley should tend to bring about her marriage with his son. By tills time he hated the very name of Craw- ley. He hated it the more because in hating it he had to put himself for the time on the same side with Mrs. Proudie. But for all that he would not condescend to any unwortliy mode of fighting. He thought it wrong that the young lady should be invited to Framley Parsonage at this moment, and he said so to the person who had, as he thought, in truth, given the invita- tion ; but he would not allow his own personal motives to induce him to carry on the argument with Lady Lufton. "The bishop is a fool," he said, " and the bishop's wife is a knave. Nev- thcless I would not have had the young lady over to Framley at this moment. If, however, you think it right, and Robarts thinks it right, there is an end of it." "Upon my word wo do," said Lady Lufton. I am induced to think that Mr. Robarts was not quite confident of the expediency of what he was doing by the way in which he mentioned to Mr. Oriel the fact of Miss Crawley's presence at the parsonage as he drove that gentleman home in his gig. They had been talking about Mr. Crawley, when he suddenly turned himself rounil, so that he could look at his companion, and said, " Miss Crawley is staying with us at the parsonage at the present moment." " What ! Mr. Crawley's daughter?" said Mr. Oriel, showing plainly by his voice that the ti- dings liad much surprised him. "Yes; ]Mr. Crawley's daughter." " Oh indeed ! I did not know that you were on those terms with the family." "We have known them for the last seven or eight years," said Mark : " and though I should be giving you a false notion if I wore to say that I myself have known them intimately — for Craw- 244 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET lias declined to take the that Mr. Crawley bishop's advice." "That is true," said Mr. Thumble. "lie nltogether disregarded the bisliop." " I can not say that I think he was wrong," said Dr. Tenij)est. "I think he was quite right," said Mr. Ko- barts. "A bishop in almost all cases is entitled to the obedience of his clergy," said Mr. Oriel. " I must say that I agree with you, Sir," said Mr. Thumble. " The income is not large, and I suppose tliat it would have gone with tlie duties," said Mr. Quiverful. "It is very hard for a man with a fixmily to live when his income has been stopjied." "Be tliat as it may," continued tlie doctor, " the bishop feels tliat it may be his duty to op- pose the return of INIr. Crawley to his pulpit, and that he can oppose it in no other way than by jiroceeding against Mr. Crawley under the Clerical Offenses Act. I propose, therefore, that we should invite Mr. Crawley to attend here — " "Mr, Crawley is not coming here to-day, then?" said Mr. Robarts. "I thought it useless to ask for his attend- ance until we had settled on our course of ac- tion," said Dr. Tempest. " If we are all agreed, I will beg him to come here on this day week, when we will meet again And we will then ask him whether he will submit himself to the bishop's decision in the event of the jury find- ing him guilty. If he should decline to do so, we can only then form our opinion as to what will be the bishop's duty by reference to the facts as they are elicited at tlie trial. If Mr. Crawley should choose to make to us any state- ment as to his own case, of course we shall be willing to receive it. That is my idea of what had better be done ; and now, if any gentleman has any other proposition to make, of course we shall be pleased to hear him." Dr. Tempest, as he said this, looked round upon his compan- ions as though his pleasure, under the circum- stances suggested by himself, would be very doubtful. " I don't suppose we can do any thing better," said Mr. Robarts. " I think it a i)ity, however, they would return on that day week. So far ) Dr. Tempest had carried his point exactly as he might have done had the four gentlemen been ' represented by the chairs on which they had sat. "I sha'n't come again, all the same, unless I know where I'm to get my expenses," said Mr. Quiverful, as he got into the gig. "I shall come," said Mr. Thumble, "because I think it a duty. Of course it is a hardship." Mr. Thumble liked the idea of being joined with such men as Dr. Tempest, and Mr. Oriel, and Mr. Robarts, and would any day have paid the expense of a gig from Barchester to Silver- bridge out of his own pocket, for the sake of sitting with such bench-fellows on any clerical inquiry. " One's first duty is to one's wife and family," 1 said Mr. Quiverful. "Well, yes; in a way, of course, that is i quite true, Mr. Quiverful ; and when we know . how very inadequate are the incomes of the working clergy, we can not but feel ourselves to ' be, if I may so say, put upon, when we have to defray the expenses incidental to special duties out of our own pockets. I think, you know — I don't mind saying this to you — that the palace should have pi'ovided us with a chaise and paii." This was ungrateful on the part of Mr. Thum- ble, who had been permitted to ride miles upon miles to various outlying clerical duties ujion the bishop's worn-out cob. " You see," contin- ued Mr. Thumble, "you and I go specially to' represent the jialace, and the palace ought to remember that. I think tliere ought to have been a chaise and pair; I do indeed." "I don't care much what the conveyance is," said Mr. Quiverful ; "but I certainly shall pay nothing more out of my own pocket — certainly I shall not." "The result will be that the palace will be thrown over if they don't take care," said Mr. Thumble. "Tempest, however, seems to be' pretty steady. Tempest, I think, is steady. You sec he is getting tired of parish work, and would like to go into the close. That's what' he is looking oat for. Did you ever see such a' fellow as that Robarts — ^just look at him — quite' indecent, wasn't he? He thinks he can have, his own way in every thing, just because his sis- ter married a lord. I do hate to see all iliat that any steps should have been taken by the j meanness." bishop before the trial." I Mark Robarts and Caleb Oriel left Silverbridge "The bishop has been placed in a very deli- ' in another gig by the same road, and soon pass- cate position," said Mr. Thumble, pleading for his patron. "I don't know the meaning of the word ' del- icate,'" said Robarts. "I tliink his duty was very clear, to avoid interference while the mat- ter is, so to say, before the judge." "Nobody has any thing else to propose?" said Dr. Tempest. "Then I will write to Mr. Crawley, and you, gentlemen, will perhaps do me the honor of meeting me here at one o'clock ed their brethren, as Mr. Robarts was in the habit of driving a large, quick-stepping horse. The last remarks were being made as the dust from the vicar of Framley's wheels saluted the fiices of the two slower clergymen. Sir. Oriel had promised to dine and sleep at Framley, and therefore returned in Mr. Robarts's gig. "Quite unnecessary, all this fuss; doh't you think so?" said Mr. Robarts. "I am not quite sure," said Mr. Oriel. "I on til is day week." Then the meeting was over, ■ can understand that the bishop may have found and the four clergymen having shaken hands ] a difficulty." with Dr. Tempest in the hall, all promised that i "The bishop, indeed! The bishop doesn't \l THE LAST CIIKONICLE OF BARSET. 2-tS i care two straws about it. It's Mrs. Proiulie ! ! She has put her finger on the poor man's neck because he has not put his neck bencatli her 1 feet ; and now she thinks she can crush Iiim — as she would crush you or me, if it were in her I power. Tliat's about the long and short of the bishop's solicitude." "You are very hard on him," said Mr. Oriel. "I know him — and am not at all hard on him. She is hard upon him if you like. Tcm- ,pest is fair. lie is very fair, and as long as no ! one meddles with him he won't do amiss. I I can't hold my tongue always, but I often know i it is better that I should." Dr. Tempest said not a word to any one on the subject, not even in his own defense. And yet he was sorely tempted. On tlie very day i of the meeting lie dined at Mr. Walkers in Sil- jverliridge, and there submitted to be talked at I by all the ladies and most of the gentlemen pres- 'ent, without saying a word in his own dcfen.se. I And yet a word or two would have been so easy and so conclusive. ' "Oh, Dr. Tempest," said !\[ary Walker, "I am so sorry that you have joined the bisho]) !" ■• Are you, my dear?" said he. "It is gen- erally thought well that a parish clergyman sIkmiIJ agree with his bishop." ■■ But you know, Dr. Tempest, that you don't a_'i.e witli your bishop generally." ••Then it is the mt)re fortunate that I shall 1)0 able to agree with him on this occasion." ^lajor Grantly was present at the dinner, and ventured to ask the dor'tor in the course of the evening what he thought would be done. "I ishould not venture to ask such a question, Dr. Temiiest," he said, "unless I had the strongest [iLi-sil)le reason to justify my anxiety." ■ I don't know that I can tell you any thing, Majur Grantly," said the doctor. " We did not jven see Mr. Crawley to-day. But the real .trutli is that he must stand or fall as the jury jihall find him guilty or not guilt}'. It would le the same in any profession. Could a cap- liu in the army hold up his head in his regi- neiit after he had been tried and found guilty jf stealing twenty pounds ?" '• I don't tliink ho could," said tlie major. "Neither can a clergyman," said tlie doctor. 'The bishop can neither make him nor mar lini. It is the jury that must do it." CHAPTER LV. FRAMLET PARSONAGE. At this time Grace Crawley was at Framley/ 'arsonage. Old Lady Lufton's strategy had'' leeii quite intelligible, but some people said liat in point of etiquette and judgment and noral conduct it was indefensible. Her vicar, jVIr. Robarts, had been selected to be one of the rlergymcn who was to sit in ecclesiastical judg- nent upon Mr. Crawley, and wliile lie was so jitting Mr. Crawley's daughter was staying in Mr. Robarts's house as a visitor with his wife ! It might be that there was no harm in this. Lady Lufton, when tlie apparent impropriety was j)ointed out to her by no less a ])erson than Archdeacon Grantly, ridiculed the idea. " My dear Archdeacon," Lady Lufton had said, " we all know the bishop to be such a fool and tlie bishoi>'s wife to be sudi a knave, tliat we can not allow ourselves to be governed in this mat- ter by ordinary rules. Do you not think that it is exi)edient to show how utterly we disregard his judgment and her malice ?" The archdea- con had hesitated much before he spoke to Lady Lufton, whether he should address himself to lier or to Mr. Robarts — or indeed to Mrs. Ro- barts. But he had become aware that the prop- osition as to the visit had originated with Lady Lufton, and he had therefore decided on speak- ing to her. He had not condescended to say a word as to his son, nor would he so condescend. Nor could he go from Lady Lufton to Mr. Ro- barts, having once failed with her ladyship. Indeed, in giving him his due, we must ac- knowledge that his disapprobation of Lady Luf- ton's strategy arose rather from his true convic- tion as to its impropriety than from any fear lest this attention paid to JNIiss Crawley should tend to bring about her marriage with his son. By this time he hated the very name of Craw- ley. He hated it the more because in hating it he had to ])ut himself for the time on the same side with Mrs. Proudie. But for all that he would not condescend to any unwortliy mode of fighting. He tliought it wrong that the young lady should be invited to Framley Pa/sonage at this moment, and he said so to the person wlio had, as he thought, in truth, given the invita- tion ; but he would not allow his own personal motives to induce him to carry on the argument with Lady Lufton. ''Tlie bishop is a fool," he said, " and the bishop's wife is a knave. Nev- theless I would not have had the young lady over to Framley at this moment. If, however, you think it right, and Robarts thinks it riglit, there is an end of it." " Upon my word we do," said Lady Lufton. I am induced to think that Mr. Robarts was not quite confident of the expediency of what he was doing by the way in which he mentioned to Mr. Oriel the fact of Miss Crawley's presence at the parsonage as he drove that gentleman home in his gig. They had been talking about Mr. Crawley, when he suddenly turned himself round, so that he could look at his companion, and said, " Miss Crawley is staying with us at the parsonage at the present moment." " AVhat ! Mr. Crawley's daugliter?" said Mr. Oriel, showing plainly by his voice that the ti- dings had much surprised him. "Yes; INIr. Crawley's daughter." " Oh indeed ! I did not know that you were on those terms with the family." "We have known tliem for the last seven or eight years," said Mark : " and thougli I should be giving you a false notion if I were to s.ay that I myself have known them intimately — for Craw- 246 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. ley is a man whom it is quite impossible to know intimately — yet the wonumkind at Franiley have known them. My sister staid with them over at Ilopplestock for some time." "What! Lady Lufton?" " Yes ; my sister Lucy. It was just befoi'C her marringe. There was a lot of trouble, and the Crawleys were all ill, and she went to nurse tliem. And then the old lady took them up, anil altogether tlierc came to he a sort of feeling ' that tlicy were to he regarded as friends. They arc always in trouble, and now in this special trouble the women between them have thought it best to have the girl over at Framley. Of course I liad a kind of feeling about this com- mission ; but as I knew that it would make no difference with me I did not think it necessary to put my veto u])on the visit." Mr. t)riel said nothing further, but Mark Kobarts was aware that Mr. Oriel did not quite approve of tlie visit. That morning old Lady Ijufton herself had come across to the parsonage with the express view of bidding all the parsonage party to come across to the hall to dine. "You can tell Mr. Oriel, Fanny, with Lucy's compliments, how de- lighted she will be to see him." Old Lady Luf- ton always spoke of her daughter-in-law as the mistress of the house. " If you think he is par- ticular, you know, we will send a note across." Mrs. llobarts said that slie supposed JMr. Oriel would not be particular, but, looking at Grace, made some faint excuse. " You must come, my dear," said Lady Lufton. "Lucy wishes it particularly." Mrs. Robarts did not know how to say that she would not come ; and so the matter stood — when Mrs. Robarts was called ujion to leave tlie room for a moment, and Lady Lufton and Grace were left alone. "Dear Lady Lufton," said Grace, getting np suddenly from her chair; "will you do me a favor — a great favor?" She spoke Avith an energy which quite surprised the old lady, and caused her almost to start from her seat. "I don't like making promises, " said Lady Lufton ; " but any thing I can do with proprie- ty I will." " You can do this. Pray let me stay here to- day. You don't imderstand how I feel about going out while papa is in this way. I know how kind and how good you all are ; and when dear Mrs. Robarts asked me here, and mamma said that I had better come, I could not refuse. But indeed, indeed, I had rather not go out to a dinner-party." "It is not a party, my dear girl," said Lady Lufton, with the kindest voice which she knew how to assume. "And you must remember that my danghter-in-law regards you as so very old a friend ! You remember, of course, when she was staying over at Hogglestock ?" " Indeed I do. I remember it well." "And therefore you should not regard it as going out. There will be nobody there but ourselves and the people from tliis house." "But it will be going out, Lady Lufton ; and I do hope you will let me stay here. You can not think how I feel it. Of course I can not go ! without something like dressing, and — and and — In poor i)apa's state I feel that I ought not to do any thing that looks like gayety. I ought never to forget it — not for a moment." There was a tear in Lady Lufton's eye as she said : " My dear, you sha'n't come. You and Fanny shall stop and dine here by yourselves. The gentlemen s^hall come." "Do let Mrs. Robarts go, please," said Grace. "I won't do any thing of the kind," said Lady Lufton. Then, when Mrs. Robarts re- turned to the room, her ladyship explained it all in two words. "While you have been away, my dear, Grace has begged oil", and there- fore we have decided that INIr. Oriel and Mr. Robarts shall come without you." "I am so sorry, Mrs. Robarts," said Gr.ace. " Pooh, pooh !" said Lady Lufton. "Fanny and I have known each otlier quite long enough not to stand on any compliments — haven't we, my dear? I must get home now, as all the morning has gone by. Fanny, my dear, I want to speak to you." Then she expressed her opinion of Grace Crawley as she walked across the parsonage garden with Mrs. Robarts. ' ' She is a very nice girl, and a very good girl, I am sure, and she shows excellent feeling. What- ever happens we must take care of her. And, Fanny, haveyouobseived howhandsomesheis?" " We think her very pretty." " She is more than pretty when she has a lit- tle fire in her eyes. She is downright hand- some — or will be when she fills out a little. I tell you what, my dear ; she'll make havoc with somebody yet; you see if she doesn't. By- by. Tell the two gentlemen to be up by seven punctually." And then Lady Lufton went home. Grace so contrived that Mr. Oriel came and went without seeing her. There was a sepa- rate nursery breakfast at the parsonage, and by special permission Grace was allowed to have her tea and bread and butter on the next morn- ing with the children. "I thought you told me Miss Crawley was here," said Mr. Oriel, as ' the two clergymen stood waiting for the gig that was to take the visitor away to Barchcster. "So she is," said Robarts; "but she likes to hide herself, because of her father's trouble. You can't blame her." "No indeed," said Mr. Oriel. "Poor gill ! If you knew her you would not only pity her, but like her." " Is she — what you call — ?" " You mean, is she a lady ?" "Of course she is by birth, and all that," said Mr. Oriel, apologizing for his inquiry. " I don't think there is another girl in the county so well educated," said Mr. Robaits. "Indeed ! I had no idea of that." "And we think her a great beauty. As for manners, I never saw a girl with a pjrettier way of her own." "Dear me," said Mr. Oriel. "I wish she had come down to breakfast." THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 247 It will have been perceived that old Lady Lufton had heard nothing of Major Grantly's offense ; that she had no knowledge that Grace had already made havoc, as she had called it — had, in truth, made very sad havoc at rium- stead. She did not, therefore, think much about it when her son told her upon her re- turn home from the parsonage on that afternoon that Major Grantly had come over from Cosby Lodge, and that he was going to dine and sleep at Framley Court. Some slight idea of thankfulness came across her mind that she had not betrayed Grace Crawley into a meeting with a stranger. "I asked him to come some day before we went up to town," said his lordship ; "and I am glad he has come to-day, as two clergymen to one's self are, at any rate, one too many." So Major Grantly dined and slept at the Court. But Mrs. Robarts was in a great flurry when she was told of this by her husband on his re- turn from the dinner. Mrs. Crawley had found an opportunity of telling the story of Major Grantly's love to Mrs. Robarts before she had sent her daughter to Framley, knowing that tlie families were intimate, and thinking it right that there should be some precaution. "I wonder whether he will come up here," Mrs. Robarts had said. "Probably not," said the vicar. "lie said he was going home early." " I hope he will not come — for Grace's sake," said Mrs. Robarts. She hesitated whether she should tell her husband. She always did tell him every thing. But on this occasion she thought she had no right to do so, and she kept the secret. " Don't do any thing to bring him up, dear." " You needn't be afraid. He won't come," said the vicav. On the following morning, as soon as ]\Ir. Oriel was gone, Mr. Robarts went out — about his parish he would probably have called it; but in half an hour .he might have been seen strolling about the Court stable-yard with Lord Lufton. "Where is Grantly ?" asked the vicar. "I don't know where he is," said his lordship. " He has sloped off somewhere." The major had sloped off to the parsonage, well knowing in what nest his dove was lying hid ; and he and the vicar had passed each other. The major had gone out at the front gate, and tlie vicar had gone in at the stable entrance. Tlie two clergymen had hardly taken their departure when Major Grantly knocked at th^ imrsonage door. He had come so early that JIis. Robarts had taken no precautions — even had there been any precautions which she would have thought it right to take. Grace was in the act of coming down the stairs, not having heard tlie knock at the door, and thus she found her lover in the hall. He had asked, of course^ for Mrs. Robarts, and thus they two entered the drawing-room together. They had not had time to speak when the servant opened the drawing-room door to announce the visitor. There had been no word spoken between Mrs. Robarts and Grace about Major Grantly, but the mother had told the daughter of what she had said to ISIrs. Robarts. "Grace," said the major, "I am so glad to find you!" Then he turned to Mrs. Robarts with his open hand. "You won't take it un- civil of me if I say that my visit is not entirely to yourself? I think I may take upon myself to say that I and Miss Crawley are old friends. May I not?" Grace could not answer a word. " Mrs.- Crawley told me that you had known her at Silverbridge," said Mrs. Robarts, driven to say something, but feeling that she w;as blundering. "I came over to Framley yesterday because I heard that she was here. Am I wrong to come up here to see her?" "I think she must answer that for herself, Major Grantly." "Am I wrong, Grace ?" Grace thought that lie was the finest gentleman and the noblest lover that had ever shown his devotion to a woman, and was stirred by a mighty resolve that if it ever should be in her power to reward him after any fashion, she would pour out tlie reward with a very full hand indeed. But what was she to say on the present moment? "Am I wrong, Grace?" he said, repeating his question with so much emphasis that she was positively driven to answer it. "I do not think you are wrong at all. How can I say you are wrong when yon are so good ? If I could be your servant I would serve you. But I can be nothing to you, because of papa's disgrace. Dear Mrs. Robarts, I can not stay. You must answer him for me." And having thus made her speech she escaped from the room. It may suffice to say further now that the major did not see Grace again during that visit at Framley. CHAPTER LVL THE ARCHDEACON GOES TO FEAMLET. By some of those unseen telegraphic wires which carry news about the country and make no charge for the conveyance Archdeacon Grant- ly heard that his son the major was at Framley. Now in that itself there would have been no- thing singular. There had been for years much intimacy between the Lufton family and the Grantly family — so much that an alliance be- tween the two houses had once been planned, the elders having considered it expedient that the young lord should marry that Griselda who had since mounted higher in the world even than the elders had then projected for licr. There had come no such alliance ; but tlic in- timacy had not ceased, and there was nothing in itself surprising in the fact that Major Grant- ly should be staying at Framley Court. But the archdeacon, when he heard the news, be- thought iiim at oiwe of Grace Crawley. Could it be possible that his old friend Lady Lufton — 248 THE LAST CHKONICLE OF BARSET. Liuly Liifton wliom lie Iiad known and trusted all liis life, wlioni lie liad ever re;;arded as a jiillar of" the cliurch in Barsetsliire — should now be uii- trne to him in a matter so closely affecting his interests? Men when they are worried by fears and teased by adverse circumstances become suspicions of those on whom susjiicion should never rest. It was hardly possible, the arch- deacon thought, that Lady Lufcon should treat liim so unworthily — but the circumstances were strong against his friend. Lady Lufton had induced Miss Crawley to go to Framley, much against his advice, at a time when such a visit seemed to him to be very improjjer ; and it now appeared that his son was to be there at the same time — a fact of which Lady Lufton had made no mention to him wliatcver. Why had not Lady Lufton told him that Henry Grantly was coming to Framley Court? Tiie reader, whoso interest in the matter will be less keen than was the archdeacon's, will know very well why Lady Lufton had said nothing about the major's visit. The reader will remember that Lady Lufton, when she saw tlie archdeacon, was as ignorant as to the intended visit as was the archdeacon himself. But the archdeacon was uneasy, troubled, and sus])icious — and he suspected his old friend unworthily. He siioke to his wife about it within a very few hours of the arrival of tlie tidings by those invisible wires. He had already told her that Miss Crawley was to go to Framley parsonage, and that he thought that Mrs. Kobarts was wrong to receive her at such a time. " It is only intended for good-nature," Mrs. Grantly had said. "It is misplaced good-nature at the jiresent moment," the archdeacon had re- plied. Mrs. Grantly had not thought it worth her while to undertake at the moment any strong defense of the Framley people. She knew well how odious was the name of Crawley in her husband's ears, and she felt that the less that was said at present about the Crawleys the better for the peace of the rectory at Plumstead. She had therefore allowed the expression of his disa])proval to j)ass unchallenged. But now he . came ujion her with a more bitter grievance, and she was obliged to argue the matter with him. '•What do you think ?" said he; "Henry is at Frandey." " He can liardly be staying there," said Mrs. Grantly, "because I know that he is so very busy at home." The business at liome of which the major's mother was speaking was his pro- jected moving from Cosby Lodge, a subject which was also very odious to the archdeacon. He did not wish his son to move from Cosby Lodge. He could not endure the idea that his son should be known throughout the county to be giving up a residence because he could net afford to keep it. The archdeacon could have aft'orded to keep up two Cosby Lodges for his son, and would have been well pleased to do so, if only liis son would not misbehave against him so shamefully! He could not bear that his son should be punished, o])enly, before the I eyes of all Barsetshire. Indeed he did not : wish that his son should be punished at all. He simply desired that his son should recognize his fatlier's power to inflict punishment. It would be henbane to Archdeacon Grantly to have a i)oor son — a son living at Pan — among Frenchmen ! — because he could not afford to live in England. Why had the archdeacon been careful of his money, adding house to house and field to field? lie himself was con- tented — so he told himself — to die as he had lived in a country parsonage, working with the collar round his neck up to the day of his death, if God would allow him so to do. He was am- bitious of no grandeur for himself. So he would tell himself — being partly oblivious of certain episodes in his own life. All his wealth had been got together for his children. He desired that his sons should be fitting brothers for their august sister. And now the son who was near- est to him, whom he was bent upon making a, squire in his own county, wanted to marry the daughter of a man who had stolen twenty pounds, and when objection was made to so discreditable a connection, replied by packing up all his things and saying that he would go and live — at Pau ! The archdeacon therefore did not like to hear of his son tei"g ^"cry busy at home. " I don't know whether he's busy or not,'' said the archdeacon, "but I tell you he is staying at Framley." "From whom have you heard it?'' "What matter does that make if it is so ? I heard it from Flurry." " Flurry may have been mistaken," said Mrs. Grantly. " It is not at all likely. Those people always know about sueli things. He heard it from the Framley ket'iier. I don't doubt but it's true, and I think that it's a great shame." THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 249 "A great sliamc that Henry should be at Franiley ! lie lias been there two or three times every year since he has lived in the county." "It is a great shame that he should be had over there just at the time when that girl is there also. It is impossible to believe tluit such a thing is an accident." '*But, archdeacon, you do not mean to say that vou think that Lady Lufton has arranged it?"' " I don't know who has arranged it. Some- body has arranged it. If it is Robarts that is almost worse. One could forgive a woman in such a matter better than one could a man." *' Pshaw !" Mrs. Grantly's temper was never bitter, but at this moment it was not sweetened by her husband's very uncivil reference to her sex. " Tiie whole idea is nonsense, and you should get it out of your head." "Am I to get it out of my head that Henry wants to make this girl his wife, and that the two are at this moment at Framley together?" In this theiirchdeacon was wrong as to his facts. Major Grantly had left Framley on the previous day, having staid tliere only one night. "It is coming to that that one can trust no one — no one — literally no one." Mrs. Grantly per- fectly understood that the archdeacon, in the agony of the moment, intended to exclude even herself from his confidence by that " no one ;" but to this she was indifterent, understanding accurately when his words should be accepted as expressing his thoughts, and when they should be supposed to express only his anger. "The probability is that no one at Lofton knew any thing about Henry's partiality for Miss Crawley," said Mrs. Grantly. "I tell you I think they are both at Framley together." " And I tell you that if they arc, which I doubt, they are there simply by an accident. Besides, what does it m;itter ? If they choose to marry each other you and I can not prevent them. They don't want any assistance from Lady Lufton or any body else. They have simply got to make up their own minds, and then no one can hinder them." "And, therefore, you would like to see them brought together." " I say nothing about that, archdeacon ; but I do say that we must take these things as they come. What can we do ? Henry may go and stay with Lady Lufton if he pleases. You and I can not prevent him." After this the archdeacon walked away, and would not argue the matter any further with his wife at that moment. He knew very well that he could not get the better of her, and was apt at such moments to think that she took an un- fair advantage of him by keeping her temper. But he could not get out of his head the idea that perhaps on this very day things were being arranged between his son and Grace Crawley at Framley ; and he resolved that he himself would go over and see wliat might be done. He would, Q at any rate, tell all liis trouble to Lady Lufton, and beg his old friend to assist him. lie could not think that such a one as he had always known Lady Lufton to bo would approve of a marriage between Henry Grantly and Grace Crawley. At any rate, he would learn the truth. He had once been told that Grace Craw- ley had herself refused to marry his son, feeling that she would do wrong to inflict so great an injury upon any gentleman. He had not be- lieved in so great a virtue. He could not be- lieve in it now — now, when he heard that Miss Crawley and his son were staying together in the same parish. Somebody must be doing him an injury. It could hardly be chance. But his presence at Framley might even yet have a good eftect, and he would at least learn the truth. So he had himself driven to Barchester, and from Barchester he took post-horses to Framley. As he came near to the village he grew to be somewhat ashamed of himself, or, at least, nerv- ous as to the mode in which he would proceed. The driver, turning round to him, had suggested that he supposed he was to drive to "My lady's." This injustice to Lord Lufton, to whom the house belonged, and with wliom his brother lived as a guest, was very common in the county; for old Lady Lufton had lived at Framley Court through her son's long minority, and had kept the house there till Ids marriage ; and even since his marriage she had been recognized as its presiding genius. It certainly was not the fault of old Lady Lufton, as she always spoke of every thing as belonging either to her son or to her daughter-in-law. The archdeacon had been in doubt whether he would go to the Court or to the parsonage. Could he have done ex- actly as he wished, he would have left the chaise and walked to the parsonage, so as to reach it without the noise and fuss incidental to a postill- ion's arrival. But that was impossible. He could not drop into Framley as though he had come from the clouds, and, therefore, he told the man to do as he had suggested. " To my lady's," said the postillion. The archdeacon as- sented, and the man, with loud cracks of his whip, and with a spasmodic gallop along the short avenue, took the archdeacon up to the door of Lord Lufton's house. He asked for Lord Lufton first, putting on his pleasantest smile, so that the servant should not suspect the purpose, of which he was somewhat ashamed. Was Lord Lufton at home ? Lord Lufton was not at home. Lord Lufton had gone up to Lon- don that morning, intending to retui'n the day after to-morrow ; but both my ladies were at home. So the archdeacon was shown into the room where both my ladies were sitting — and with them he found Mrs. Robarts. Any one who had become acquainted with the habits of the Framley ladies would have known that this might very probably be the case. The archdea- con himself was as well aware as any one of the modes of life at Framley. The lord's wife was the parson's sister, and the parson's wife had 50 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. from her infancy been tlie petted friend of the old lady. Of course they all lived very much together. Of course Mrs. Robarts was as much at home in tlic drawing-room of Framlcy Court as she was in her own drawing-room at the par- sonage. Nevertheless the archdeacon thought liimself to be hardly used when he found that Mrs. Robarts was at the house. " ^ly dear archdeacon, who ever expected to see you ?" said old Lady Lufton. Then the two younger women greeted him. And they all smiled on him pleasantly, and seemed overjoyed to see him. He was, in truth, a great favorite at Framlcy, and each of the three was glad to welcome him. Tliey believed in the arcJidea- con at Framlcy, and felt for him that sort of love which ladies in the country do feel for their elderly male friends. Tlierc was not one of the three who would not have taken much trou- ble to get any thing for the archdeacon which they had thought tlie archdeacon would like. Even old Lady Lufton remembered what was his favorite soup, and always took care that he should have it when he dined at the Court. Young Lady Lufton would bring his tea to him as he sat in his chair. He was petted in the house, was allowed to poke the fire if he pleased, and called the servants by their names, as tliougli ho were at home. He was compelled, therefore, to smile, and to seem pleased ; and it was not till after he had eaten his lunch, and had declared that he must return home to din- ner, that tlie dowager gave him an opportunity of having the private conversation which he de- sired. "Can I iiave a few minutes' talk with you?" he said to her, whispering into her car as they left the drawing-room together. So she led the way into her own sitting-room, telling him, as she asked him to be seated, that she had sup- posed that somctliing special must have brought him over to Framley. "I should have asked you to come up here even if you had not spok- en," she said. "Tiien perhaps you know what has brought me over?" said the archdeacon. "Not in the least," said Lady Lufton. "I have not an idea. But I did not flatter myself that you would come so far on a morning call merely to see us three ladies. I hope you did not want to see Ludovic, because he will not be back till to-morrow ?" "I wanted to see you. Lady Lufton." " Tiiat is lucky, as here I am. You may be pretty sure to find me here any day in the year." After tills there was a little pause. Tlie arch- deacon hardly knew how to begin his story. In the first jilace he was in doubt whether Lady Lufton had ever heard of the preposterous matcli which his son had proposed to himself to make. In his anger at Plumstead he had felt sure that she knew all about it, and tliat she was assist- ing his son. But tliis belief had dwindled as his anger had dwindled ; and as the chaise had entered the parish of Framley he had told him- self that it was quite impossible that she should know any thing about it. Iler manner had cer- tainly been altogether in her favor since he had been in her house. There had been nothing of the consciousness of guilt in her demeanor. But, nevertheless, there was the coincidence! How had it come to pass that Grace Crawley and his son should be at Framley together? It might, indeed, be just jiossible that Flurry might have been wrong, and that his son had not been tliere at all. " I suppose Miss Crawley is at the i)arson- age ?" he said at last. " Oil yes ! she is still there, and will remain there I should tliink for the next ten days." " Oh ! I did not know," said the archdeacon, very coldly. It seemed to Lady Lufton, who was as inno- cent as an unborn babe in the matter of the pro- jected marriage, that her old friend the arch- deacon was in a mind to persecute the Crawleys. He had on a former occasion taken upon him- self to advise that Grace Crawley should not be entertained at Framlcy, and now it seemed that he had come all tlie way from Plumstead to say something further in the same strain. Lady Lufton, if he had any thing further to say of that kind, would listen to him as a matter of course. She would listen to him and reply to him without temper. But she did not ajijirove of it. She told herself silently that she could not approve of persecution or of interference. She therefore drew herself up, and pursed her mouth, and put on something of that look of se- verity which she could assume v^ry visibly if it so pleased her. " Yes ; she is still there, and I think that her visit will do her a great deal of good," said Lady Lufton. "When we talk of doing good to people," said the arclideacon, "we often make terrible mistakes. It so often happens that we don't know when we are doing good and when we are doing harm." "That is true, of course. Dr. Grantly, and must be so necessarily, as our wisdom here be- low is so very limited. But I should think — as far as I can see, that is — that the kindness which my friend Mrs. Robarts is showing to this young lady must bo beneficial. You know, archdea- con, I explained to you before that I could not quite agree with you in what you said as to leaving the.-e people alone till after the trial. I thought that help was necessary to them at once." Tlie archdeacon sighed deeply. He ought to have been somewhat renovated in spirit by the tone in which Lady Lufton spoke to him, as it conveyed to him almost an absolute conviction that his first suspicion was incorrect. But any comfort which might have come to him from this source was marred by the feeling that he must announce his own disgrace. At any rate he must do so, unless he were contented to go back to Plumstead without having learned any thing by his journey. He changed the tone of his voice, however, and asked a question — as it, i THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAKSET. 251 might be altogether on a different subject. "I heard yesterday," he said, "that Henry was over here." " He was here yesterday. He came the even- ing before, and dined and slept here, and went, home yesterday morning." / " Was Miss Crawley with you that evening ?" " Miss Crawley ? No; she would not come. She thinks it best not to go out while her father is in his present unfortunate position ; and she is right." "She is quite right in that," said tlie arcli- deacon ; and then he paused again. He thought that it would be best fur him to make a clean breast of it, and to trust to Lady Lufton's sym- pathy. "Did Henry go up to the parsonage?" he asked. But still Lady Lufton did not suspect the truth. "I think he did," slie replied, with an air of surprise. "I tliiuk' I heard that he went np there to call on Mrs. Eobarts after break- fast." "No, Lajdy Lufton, he did not go np there to call on Mrs. Eobarts. He went up there be- cause he is making a fool of himself about that Miss Crawley. That is the truth. Now you •understand it all. I hope tliat Mrs. Robarts does not know it. I do hope for iier own sake that ilrs. Robarts does not know it." The archdeacon certainly liad no longer any doubt as to Lady Lufton's innocence when he looked at her face as she heard these tidings. She had predicted that Grace Crawley would "make liavof," and could not, therefore, be al- together surprised at the idea that some gentle- man should have fallen in love with her ; but she had never supposed that the havoc might be made so early in her days, or on so great a quar- ry. "You don't meau to tell me that Henry Grantly is in love with Grace Craviley?" she replied. "I mean to say that he says he is." "Dear, dear, dear! I'm sure, archdeacon, that you will believe me when I say that I knew/ nothing about it." "I am quite sure of that," said the archdea- con, dolefully. " Or I certainly should not have been glad to see him here. But the house, you know, is not mine. Dr. Grantly. I could have done nothing if I had known it. But only to think — "Well, to be sure. She has not lost time, at any rate." Now this was not at all the light in which the archdeacon wished that the matter should be regarded. He had been desirous that Lady Lufton should be horror-stricken by the tidings, but it seemed to him that she regarded the in- iquity almost as a good joke. Wiiat did it matter how young or how old tlie girl might be ? She came of poor people — of people who had no friends — of disgraced people ; and Lady Lufton ought to feel that such a marriage would be a terrible misfortune and a terrible crime. "I need hardly tell you, Lady Lufton," said the archdeacon, "thatlsliall set my face against it as far as it is in my power to do so." " If they both be resolved I suppose you can hardly i)revcnt it." " Of course I can not prevent it. Of course I can not prevent it. If lie will break my heart and his mother's — ^and his sister's — of course I can not jjrevent it. If he will ruin himself, he must have his own way." "Ruin himself. Dr. Grantly?" "They will have enough to live upon — somewhere in Spain or France." Tlie scorn expressed in the archdeacon's voice as lie spoke of Pan as being "somewhere in Spain or France" should have been heard to be under- stood. "No doubt they will have enough to live upon." "Do you mean to say that it will make a diiFerence as to your own property. Dr. Grant- ly?" "Certainly it will, Lady Lufton. I told Henry when I first heard of the thing — before he had definitely made any offer to the girl — that I should withdraw from him altogether the allowance that I now make him if he married her. And I told him also that if he persisted in his folly I should think it my duty to alter my will." " I am sorry for that. Dr. Grantly." "Sorry! And am not I sorry? Sorrow is no sufficient word. I am broken-hearted. Lady Lufton, it is killing me. It is indeed. I love him ; I love him ; I love him as you have loved your son. But what is the use ? What can he be to me when he shall have married the daughter of such a man as that?" Lady Lufton sat for a while silent, thinking of a certain episode in her own life. There had been a time when her son was desirous of mak- ing a marriage which she had thought would break her heart. She had for a time moved heaven and earth — as far as she knew how to move them — to prevent the marriage. But at last she had yielded — not from lack of power, for the circumstances had been such that at the moment of yielding she had still the power in her hand of staying the marriage — but she had yielded because she had perceived that her son was in earnest. She had yielded, and had kissed the dust ; but from the moment in which her lips had so touched the ground she had tak- en great joy in the new daughter whom her son had brought into the house. Since that she had learned to think tliat young people miglit perhaps be riglit, and that old people might perhajis be wrong. This trouble of her friend the archdeacon's was very like her own old ta-ouble. "And he is engaged to her now?" she said, when those thoughts had passed through her mind. "Yes — that is, no. I am not sure. I do not know how to make myself sure." "I am sure ]\Iajor Grantly will tell you all the truth as it exists." " Y'es ; he'll tell me the truth — as far as he knows it, I do not see that there is much anx- iety to spare me in the matter. He is desirous rather of making me understand that I have no 252 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAESET. power of saving him from liis own folly. Of course I have no power of saving him." " But is he engaged to her?" " He says that she has refused him. But of course that means nothing." Again tlie archdeacon's position was very like Lady Lufton's position as it had existed hetbre her son's marriage. In that case also the young lady, who was now Lady Lufton's own daughter and dearest friend, had refused the lover who proposed to her, altliougli the mar- riage was so much to her advantage — loving him, too, the while, witii her whole heart, as it was natural to sui)pose that Grace Crawley might so love her lover. The more slic thouglit of the similarity of the stories, the stronger were her sympathies on the side of poor Grace. Never- theless slie would comfort her old friend if she knew how ; and of course she could not but ad- mit to herself that the match was one which must be a cause of real sorrow to him. "I don't know why her refusal sliould mean no- thing," said Lady Lufton. "Of course a girl refuses at first — a girl, I mean, in such circumstances as hers. She can't but feel that more is oft'ercd to her than she ouglit to take, and that she is bound to go tlirough the ceremony of declining. But my anger is not with her. Lady Lufton." "I do not see how it can be." " No ; it is not witli her. If she becomes his wife I trust that I may never see her." "Oh, Dr. Grantly!" " I do ; I do. How can it be otiierwise with me? But I shall have no quarrel with her. With him I must quarrel." "I do not see why," said Lady Lufton. "You do not? Docs he not set me at de- fiance ?" "At his age surely a son has a right to mar- ry as he pleases." "If he took her out of the streets, then it would be the same!" said the archdeacon, with bitter anger. "No ; for such a one would herself be bad." " Or if she were the daughter of a huckster out of the city ?" "No again ; for in that case her want of edu- cation would probably unfit her for your society." "Her father's disgrace, then, should be a matter of indiiference to me, Lady Lufton ?" "I did not say so. In tlie first place, her fiither is not disgraced — not as yet ; and we do not know whether he may ever be disgraced. You will hardly be disposed to say that persecu- tion from the palace disgraces a clergyman in Barsetshire." "All the same, I believe that the man was guilty," said the archdeacon. " Wait and see, my friend, before you con- demn him altogether. But, be that as it may, I acknowledge that the marriage is one which must naturally be distasteful to you." " Oil, Lady Lufton! if you only knew! If you only knew !" "I do know; and I feel for you. But I think that your son has a right to expect that you should not show the same repugnance t-o such a marriage as this as you would have had a right to show had he suggested to himself such a wife as those at which you just now hinted. Of course you can advise him, and make him un-- derstand yom- feelings ; but I can not think you will be justified in quarreling with him, or in changing your views toward him as regards money, seeing that j\Iiss Crawley is an educa- ted lady, who has done nothing to forfeit your respect." A heavy cloud came upon the arch- ilcacon's brow as he heard tliese words, but he did not make any immediate answer. "Of course, my friend," continued Lady Lufton, "I should not liave ventured to say so much to you had you not come to me, as it were, for my ojiinion." " I came here because I thought Henry w&? here," said the archdeacon. "If I have said too much I beg your pardon.'' "No; you have not said too much. It is not that. You and I are such old friends that either may say almost any thing to the other." "Yes — just so. And therefore I have ven- tured to speak my mind," said Lady Lufton. " Of course ; and I am obliged to you. But, Lady Lufton, you do not understand yet how tills hits me. Every thing in life that I have done I have done for my children. I am wealthy, but I have not used my wealth for my- self, because I have desired that they should be able to hold their heads high in the world. All my ambition has been for them, and all tlie pleasui-e which I have anticipated for myself in my old age is that which I have hoped to re- ceive from their credit. As for Henry, he might have had any thing he wanted from me in the way of money. He expressed a wish, a few months since, to go into Parliament, and I promised to help him as far as ever I could go. I have kept up the game altogether for him. He, the younger son of a working parish jjarson, has had every thing that could be given to the eldest son of a country gentleman — more than is given to the eldest son of many a peer. I have hoped that he would marry again, but I have never cared that he should marry for mon^ ey. I have been willing to do any thing for him myself. But, Lady Lufton, a father docs feel that he should have some return for all this. No one can imagine that Henry ever supposed that a bride from that wretched place at Ilogglestock could be welcomed among us. He knew that he would break our hearts, and he did not care for it. That is what I feel. Of course he has the power to do as he likes — and of course I have the power to do as I like also with what is my own." Lady Lufton was a very good woman, de- voted to her duties, affectionate and just to those about her, truly religious, and charitable from her nature ; but I doubt whether the thorough worldliness of the archdeacon's appeal struck her as it will strike the reader. People are so much more worldly in practice than they are in THE LAST CURONICLE OF BARSET. 253 theory, so much keener after their own gratifica- tion in detail than they are in the abstract, tliat the narrative of many an adventure would shock us, though the same adventure would not sliock us in the action. One girl tells another liow she has changed her mind in love; and the friend sympathizes with tlie friend, and i)erhai>s apiilauds. Had the story been told in print the friend who had listened with equanimity would have read of such vacillation with indig- ^nation. She who vacillated herself would have hated her own performance when brought before her judgment as a matter in which she had no personal interest. Very fine things are written every day about honesty and trutli, and men read them with a sort of external conviction that a man, if he be any thing of a man at all, is of course honest and true. But when the in- ternal convictions are brought out between two or three who are personally interested togetlier — between two or three who feel that their little gathering is, so to say, "tiled" — those internal convictions diiTer very much from the external convictions. This man, in his confidences, as- serts broadly that he does not mean to be thrown over, and that man has a project for throwing over somebodj'' else ; and the intention of each is that scruples are not to stand in the way of his success. The " Ruat ca?lum, fiat justitia" was said, no doubt, from an outside balcony to a crowd, and the speaker knew that he was talking buncombe. The "Rem, si possis recte, si non, quocunque modo" was whispered into the ear in a club smoking-room, and the Avhis- perer intended that his words should prevail. Lady Lafton had often heard her friend the archdeacon preach, and she knew well the high tone which he could take as to the necessity of trusting to our hopes for the future for all our true happiness ; and yet she sympathized with him when he told her that he was broken-heart- ed because his son would take a step which might possibly interfere with his worldly pros- perity. Had the archdeacon been preaching about matrimony, he would have recommended young men, in taking wives to themselves, es- pecially to look for young women who feared the Lord. But in talking about his own son's wife, no word as to her eligibility or non-eligi- bility in this respect escaped his lips. Had he talked on the subject till nightfall no such word would have been spoken. Had any friend of his own, man or woman, in discussing such a matter with him and asking his advice upon it, alluded to the fear of the Lord, the allusion would have been distasteful to him, and would have smacked to his palate of hypocrisy. Lady Lufton, who understood as well as any woman what it was to be "tiled" with a friend, took all this in good part. The archdeacon had spoken out of his heart what was in his heart. One of his children had married a marquis. Another might probably become a bishop — per- haps an archbishop. The third might be a county squire — high among county squires. But he could only so become by walking warily — and now he was bent on marrying the ]yCiini- Icss daughter of an impoverished, half-mad coun- try curate, wlio was about to be tried for steal- ing twenty pounds ! Lady Lufton, in spite of all her arguments, could not refuse her sym- pathy to her old friend. "After all, from what you say, I suppose they are not engaged." " I do not know," said the archdeacon. "I can not tell!" "And what do you wish me to do?" "Oh — nothing. I came over, as I said be- fore, because I thought he was here. I think it right, before he has absolutely committed himself, to take every means in my power to make him understand that I shall withdraw from him all pecuniary assistance — now and for the future." "j\[y friend, that threat seems to me to be so terrible." " It is the only power I have left to me." " But you, who are so affectionate by nature, would never adhere to it." "I will try. I will do my best to be firm. I will at once put every thing beyond my con- trol after my death." The archdeacon, as he uttered these terrible words — words which were awful to Lady Lufton's ears — resolved that he would endeavor to nurse his own wrath ; but, at the same time, almost hated himself for his own pusillanimity, because he feared that his wrath would die away before he should have availed himself of its heat. "I would do nothing rash of that kind," said Lady Lufton. "Your object is to prevent the marriage — not to punish him for it when once he has made it." "He is not to have his own way in every thing, Lady Lufton." "But you should first try to prevent it." "What can I do to prevent it?" Lady Lufton paused for a couple of minutes before she replied. She had a scheme in her head, but it seemed to her to savor of cruelty. And yet at present it was her chief duty to as- sist her old friend if any assistance could bo given. There could hardly be a doubt that such a marriage as this of which they were speak- ing was in itself an evil. In her case, the case of her son, there had been no question of a tri- al, of money stolen, of aught that was in trutli disgraceful. "I think if I were you, Dr. Grant- ly," she said, " that I would see the young lady while I was here." " See her myself?" said the archdeacon. The idea of seeing Grace Crawley himself had, up to this moment, never entered his head. "I think I would do so." "I think I will," said the archdeacon, after a pause. Tlien he got up from his chair. "If I am to do it I had better do it at once." " Be gentle with her, my friend." The arch- deacon paused again. He certainly had enter- tained the idea of encountering Bliss Crawley with severity rather than gentleness. Lady Lufton rose from her seat, and coming up to 2rA THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. him took one of his hands between her own two. "Be Rcntle to licr," she said. "You have owned that she has done nothing wrong." Tlie archdeacon bowed his head iu token of as- sent, and loft the room. Poor Grace Crawley ! CHAPTER LVII. A DOUBLE PLEDGE. The archdeacon, as he -walked across from the court to the parsonage, was very thought- ful and his stei)s were Aery slow. This idea of seeing Miss Crawley Iierself had been suggested to him suddenly, and he had to determine how he would bear himself toward her, and what he wouhl say to her. Lady Lufton liad bcseech- cd liim to bo gentle with lier. Was the mis- sion one in wliich gentleness would be possible ? Must it not be his object to make this young lady understand that she could not be right in desir- ing to come into his family and share in all his good tilings when she had got no good things of Iier own — nothing but evil things to bring with lier ? And how could this be properly explained to tlie young lady in gentle terms ? Must he not be round with her, and give her to understand iu plain words — the plainest which he could nse— that she would not get his good things, though slie would most certainly impose the burden of all her evil things on the man whom slie was proposing to herself as a husband ? lie remembered very well as he went that he had been told that Miss Crawley had herself re- fused the olfer, feeling herself to be nnfit for the honor tendered to her ; but he suspected the sincerity of such a refusal. Calculating in his own mind the unreasonably great advantages wliich would bo conferred on such a young lady as INliss Crawley by a marriage with his son, he declared to himself that any girl must be very wicked indeed who should expect, or even ac- cept, so much more than was her due; but nevertheless he could not bring himself to be- lieve tliat any girl, when so tempted, would, in sincerity, decline to commit this great wicked- ness. If he was to do any good by seeing Miss Crawley, must it not consist in a proper expla- nation to her of the selfishness, abomination, and altogetlicr damnable blackness of such wicked- ness as this on the part of a ycjiing woman in her circumstances? "Heaven and earth!" he must say, "here are you, without a penny in your pocket, with hardly decent raiment on your back, w^ith a thief for your father, and you think that you are to come and share in all the M-ealth that the Grantlys have amassed, that you are to have a husband with broad acres, a big house, and game preserves, and become one of a family whose name has never been touched by a single accusation — no, not by a suspicion ? Ko ; injustice such as that shall never be done betwixt you and me. You may wring my heart, and you may ruin my son ; but the broad acrcSj and the big house, and the game preserves, and the rest of it, shall never be your reward for doing so." How was all that to be told ef- fectively to a young woman iu gentle words? And then how was a man in the archdeacon's position to be desirous of gentle words — gentle words which would not be eflicient — when he knew well in his heart of hearts that he had no- thing but his threats on which to depend? He had no more power of disinheriting his own son for such an oflFense as that contemplated than he had of blowing out his own brains, and he knew that it was so. He Avas a man ineapa- * ble of sucli persistency of wrath against one whom he loved. He was neither cruel enough nor strong enough to do such a thing. lie could only threaten to do it, and make what best use he might of threats, while threats might be of avail. In spite of all that he had said to his wife, to Lady Lufton, and to him- self, he knew very well that if his son did sin in this way he, the father, would forgive the sin of the son. In going across from the front gate of the Court to the parsonage there was a jilacc wlicrc three roads met, and on this spot there stood a finger-post. Round this finger-post there was now pasted a placard, which at once arrested the archdeacon's eye : " Cosby Lodge — Sale of furniture — Growing crops to bo sold on the grounds — Three hunters. A brown gelding AvaiTantcd for saddle or harness!" — The arch- deacon himself had given the brown gelding to his son, as a great treasure. — "Three Alderney cows, two cow-calves, a low phaeton, a gig, two ricks of hay." In this fashion were proclaimed in odious details all those comfortable additions to a gentleman's house in the country with . which the archdeacon was so well acquainted. Only last November he had recommended his son to buy a certain new-invented clod-crusher, and the clod-crusher had of course been bought. The bright blue paint upon it had not as yet given way to the stains of the ordinary farm-yard muck and mire— and here Avas the clod-crusher advertised for sale ! The archdeacon did not Avant his son to leaA'e Cosby Lodge. He kncAv Avell enough that his son need not leave Cosby Lodge. Why had the foolish fellow been in such a hurry Avith his hideous ill-conditioned advertisements? Gentle! How Avas he in such circumstances to be gentle ? He raised his umbrella and poked angrily at the disgust- ing notice. The iron ferule caught the pajicr at a chink in the post, and tore it from the tcp to the bottom. But Avhat Avas the use? A horrid ugly bill lying torn in such a spot Avould attract only more attention than one fixed to a post. He could not condescend, hoAvoA'cr, to give to it further attention, but passed on up to the parsonage. Gentle, indeed! Nevertheless Archdeacon Grantly A\'as a gen- tleman, and never yet had dealt more harslily Ayith any Avoman than Ave have sometimes seen him do with his Avife — \A'hen he would say to her an angry Avord or tAvo Avith a good deal of mar- ital authority. His Avife, Avho kncAV Avell Avhat THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 255 liis angry words were wortli, never even suggest- ed to herself that she had cause for complaint on that head. Had she known that the arch- deacon was about to undertake such a mission as this which he had now in hand slic would not have warned him to be gentle. She, indeed, would have strongly advised him not to under- take the mission, cautioning him that the young lady would probably get the better of him. " Grace, my dear," said Mrs. Kobarts, com- ing up into the nursery in which Miss Crawley was sitting with the cliildren, " come out here a moment, will you ?" Then Grace left the children and went out into the passage. "My dear, there is a gentleman in the drawing-room who asks to see you." "A gentleman, Mrs. Robarts! "What gen- tleman ?" But Grace, though she asked the question, conceived that the gentleman must bc Henry Grantly. Her mind did not suggest to her the possibility of any other gentleman com- ing to see her. "You must not be surprised, or allow your- self to be frightened." " Oh, Mrs. Robarts, who is it ?'' " It is Major Grantly's father." * ' " The archdeacon?" "Yes, dear; Archdeacon Grantly. lie is in the drawing-room." "Must I see him, Mrs. Robarts?" "Well, Grace, I think you must. I hardly know how you can refuse. He is an intimate friend of every body here at Framley." "What will he say to me?" "Nay; that I can not tell. I suppose you know — " " He has come, no doubt, to bid me have no- thing to say to his son. He need not have trou- bled himself. But he may say what he likes. I am not a coward, and I will go to him." " Stop a moment, Grace. Come into my room for an instant. The children have pulled your hair about." But Grace, though she fol- lowed i\Irs. Robarts into the bedroom, would have nothing done to her hair. She was too proud for that — and we may say, also, too little confident in any good which such resources might effect on her behalf. ' ' Never mind about that," she said. " What am I to say to him ?" Mrs. Robarts paused before she replied, feeling that the matter was one which required some deliberation. " Tell me what I must say to •him?" said Grace, repeating her question. "I hardly know what your own feelings are, my dear." " Yes, you do. You do know. If I had all the world to give, I would give it all to Major Grantly." "Tell him that, then." "No, I will not tell him that. Never mind about my frock, INIrs. Robarts. I do not care for that. I will tell him that I love his son and his grand-daughter too well to injure them. I will tell him nothing else. I might as well go now." Mrs. Robarts, as she looked at Grace, was astonished at t!ie serenity of her face. And yet when her hand was on the drawing-room door Grace hesitated, looked back, and trembled. Mrs. Robarts blew a kiss to her from the stairs ; and then the door was ojjened, and the girl found herself in the presence of the archdeacon. He was standing on the rug, with his back to the fire, and his heavy ecclesiastical hat was placed on the middle of the round table. The hat caught Grace's eye at the moment of her entrance, and she felt that all the thunders of the Church were contained within it. And then the archdeacon himself was so big, and so clerical, and so imposing ! Her father's aspect was severe, but the severity of her fother's face was essentially different from that expressed by the archdeacon. Whatever impression came from her father came from the man himself. There was no outward adornment there ; there was, so to say, no wig about Mr. Crawley. Now the archdeacon was not exactly adorned ; but he was so thoroughly imbued with liigh clerical belongings and sacerdotal fitnesses as to appear always as u walking, sitting, or standing im- jiersonation of parsondom. To poor Grace, as she entered the room, he appeared to be an im- personation of parsondom in its severest aspect. "Miss Crawley, I believe?" said he. "Yes, Sir," said she, courtesying ever so slightly, as she stood before him at some con- siderable distance. His first idea was that his son must be in- deed a fool if he was going to give up Cosby Lodge and all Barsetshire, and retire to Pau, for so slight and unattractive a creature as he now saw before him. But this idea staid with him only for a moment. As he continued to gaze at her during the interview he came to perceive that there was very much more than he had perceived at the first glance, and that his son, after all, had had eyes to see, though / perhaps not a heart to understand. "Will you not take a chair?" he said. Then Grace sat down, still at a distance from the archdeacon, and he kept his place upon the rug. He felt that there would be a difliculty in making her feel the full force of his eloquence all across the room ; and yet he did not know how to bring himself nearer to her. She be- came suddenly very important in his eyes, and he was to some extent afraid of her. She was so slight, so meek, so young ; and yet there Avas about her something so beautifully feminine — . and withal so like a lady — that he felt instinct- ively that he could not attack her with hai-sh words. Had her lips been full, and her color high, and had her eyes rolled, had she put forth against him any of that ordinary artillery with which youthful feminine batteries are charged, he would have been ready to rush to the com- bat. But this girl about wliora his son had gone mad sat there as passively as though she were conscious of the possession of no artillery. There was not a single gun fired from beneath her eye- lids. He knew not why, but he respected his son now more than he had rcsiiected him for the last two months — more, perhaps, than he 2oG THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. had ever respected him before. He was as ca^er as ever against tlic marriage ; but in thinking of his son in what he said and did aft- er these few first moments of the interview, he ceased to tliink of liini with contempt. Tiie creature before liim was a woman who grew in his opinion till lie began to feel that she w.is in truth fit to be the wife of his son — if only she were not a paujier, and the daughter of a mad curate, and, alas! too i)robably, of a thief. Though his feeling toward the girl was changed, his duty to himself, his family, and his son was the same as ever, and tlicrefore he began his task. "Perhaps you had not expected to sec me?" he said. "No indeed, Sir." " Nor had I intended when I came over hero to call on my old friend, Lady Lufton, to come up to this house. But as I knew that you were Iiere, Sliss Crawley, I tliought that upon the whole it would be better that I should sec you." Then he paused, as though he expected that Grace would say something ; but Grace had no- thing to say. "Of course you must under- stand, Miss Crawley, that I should not venture to speak to you on this subject unless I myself were very closely interested in it." He had not yet said what was the subject, and it was not probable that Grace should give him any assist- ance by affecting to understand this without di- rect explanation from him. She sat quite mo- tionless, and did not even aid him by showing by her altered color that she understood his pur- pose. "My son has told me," said he, "that he has professed an attachment for you, Miss Crawley." Then there was another pause, and Grace felt that she was compelled to say something. "]\Ia- jor Grantly has been very good to me," she said, and then she hated herself for having ut- tered words which were so tame and unwoman- ly in their spirit. Of course her lover's father would despise her for having so spoken. After all, it did not much signify. If he would only despise her and go away it would perhaps be for the best. "I do not know about being good," said the archdeacon. " I think he is good. I think he means to be good." "I am sure he is good," said Grace, warmly. "You know he has a daughter, Miss Craw- ley?" " Oh yes ; I know Edith well." " Of course his first duty is to her. Is it not? And he owes much to his family. Do you not feel that?" " Of course I feel it, Sir." The poor girl had always heard Dr. Grantly spoken of as the archdeacon, but she did not in the least know what she ought to call him. "Now, Miss Crawley, pray listen to me ; I will speak to you very openly. I must speak to you openly, because it is my duty on my son's behalf — but I will endeavor to speak to you kindly also. Of yourself I have heard no- thing but what is favorable, and there is uo reason as yet why I should not respect and es- teem you." Grace told herself that she would do nothing which ought to forfeit his respect and esteem, but that she did not care two straws whether his respect and esteem were bestowed on her or not. She was striving after some- thing very different from that. "If my son were to marry you, he would greatly injure him- self, and would very greatly injure liis child." Again he paused. He had told her to listen, and she was resolved that she would listen — unless he should say something which might make a word from her necessary at the moment. " I do not know whether there does at present exist any engagement between you?" ) "There is no engagement. Sir." "I am glad of that — very glad of it. I do not know whether you are aware that my son is dependent upon me for the greater part of his in- come. It is so, and as I am so circumstanced with my son, of course I feel the closest possible concern in his future j)rospects." Tlie archdea- con did not know how to explain clearly why the fact of his making a son an annual allowance should give him a warmer interest in his son's aftliirs than he might have had had the major been altogether independent of him ; but he trasted that Grace would understand this by her own natural lights. "Now, Miss Crawley, of course I can not wish to say a word that shall hurt your feelings. But there are reasons — " ^ "I know," said she, interrupting him. '"Papa is accused of stealing money. He did not steal it, but people think he did. And then we are so very poor." "You do understand me, then — and I feel grateful ; I do indeed." " I don't think our being poor ought to signi- fy a bit," said Grace. " Papa is a gentleman and a clergyman, and mamma is a lady." " But, my dear — " "I know I ought not to be your son's wife as long as people think that papa stole the money. If he had stolen it, I ought never to be Major Grantly's wife — or any body's wife. I know that very well. And as for Edith — I would sooner die than do any thing that would be bad to her." The archdeacon had now left the rug, and advanced till he was almost close to the chair in which Grace was sitting. "My dear," he said, "what you say does you very much honor — very much honor indeed." Now that he Avas close to her, he could look into her eyes, and he- could see the exact form of her features, and could understand — could not help understand- ing — the character of her countenance. It was a noble face, having in it nothing that was poor, nothing that was mean, nothing that was shape- less. It was a face that promised infinite beauty, with a promise that was on the very verge of fulfillment. There was a play about her mouth j as she spoke, and a curl in her nostril as the fl eager words came from her, which almost made the selfish father give way. Why had they not told him that she was such a one as this ? Why had not Henry himself spoken of the. specialty THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 257 of her beauty ? No man in England knew bet- ter than the archdeacon the ditfercnce between beauty of due kind and beauty of anotlier kind in a woman's face — the one beauty, which comes from liealth and youth and animal spirits, and which belongs to the miller's daughter, and the other beauty, which shows itself in fine lines and a noble spirit — the beauty which comes from breeding. " What you say does you very much honor indeed," said tlie archdeacon. " I should not mind at all about being poor," said Grace. " No ; no ; no," said the archdeacon. "Poor as we arc — and no clergyman, I think, ever was so poor — I should have done as your son asked me at once if it had been only that — be- cause I love him." "If you love him yon will not wish to injure him." "I will not injure him. Sir, there is my promise." And now as she spoke she rose from her chair, and standing close to the archdeacon laid her hand very lightly on the sleeve of his coat. " There is my promise. As long as peo- ple say that papa stole the money I will never marry your son. There." The archdeacon was still looking down at her, and feeling the slight touch of her fingers raised his arm a little as though to welcome the press- ure. He looked into her eyes, which were turned eagerly toward his, and when doing so was quite sure that the promise would be kept. It-would have been sacrilege — he felt that it would have been sacrilege — to doubt such a promise. He almost relented. His soft heart, which was never A'ery well under his own con- trol, gave way so far that he was nearly moved to tell her that, on his son's behalf, he acquitted her of the promise. What could any man's son do better than have such a woman for his wife ? It would have been of no avail had he made her such ofF^,'r. The pledge she had given had not been wrung from her by his influence, nor could his influence have availed aught with her to- ward the alteration of her purpose. It was not the archdeacon who had taught her that it would not be her duty to take disgrace into the house of the man she loved. As he looked down upon her face two tears formed themselves in his eyes, and gradually trickled down his old nose. ' ' My dear," he said, " if this cloud passes away from ' you, you shall come to us and be my daughter." And thus he also pledged himself. There was a dash of generosity about the man, in spite of his selfishness, which always made him desirous of giving largely to those who gave largely to him. He would fain that his gifts should be the bigger, if it were possible. He longed at this moment to tell her that the ^irty check should go for nothing. He would have done it, I think, but that it was impossible for him so to speak in her presence of that which moved her so greatly. He had contrived that her hand should foil from his arm into his grasp, and now for a moment he held it. " You are a good girl," he said — ■ a dear, dear, good girl. When this cloud has passed away, you shall come to us and be our daughter." "But it will never pass away," said Grace. "Let us hope that it may. Let us hope that it may." Then he stooped over her and kissed her, and leaving the room, got out into the hall and thence into the garden, and so away, with- out saying a Avord of adieu to Mrs. Robarts. As he walked across to the Court, whither he was- obliged to go because of his chaise, lie was lost in surprise at what had occurred. He had gone to the parsonage hating the girl, and de- spising his son. Now, as he retraced his steps, his feelings were altogether changed. He ad- mired the girl — and as for his son, even his an- ger was for the moment altogether gone. He would write to his son at once and implore him to stop the' sale. He would tell his son all that had occurred, or rather would make Mrs. Grant- ly do so. In respect to his son he was quite safe. He thought at that moment that he was safe. There would be no use in hurling further threats at him. If Crawley were found guilty of stealing tlw money, there was the girl's prom- ise. If he were acquitted, there was his own pledge. He remembered perfectly well that the girl had said more than this — that she had not confined her assurance to the verdict of a jury, that she had protested that she would not accept Major Grantly's hand as long as peojjle tliought that her father had stolen the check ; but the archdeacon felt that it would be ignoble to hold her closely to her ^-ords. The event, according to his ideas of the compact, was to depend upon the verdict of the jury. If the jury should find Mr. Crawley not guilty, all objection on his part to the marriage was to be withdrawn. And he would keep his wordl In such case it should be withdrawn. When he came to the rags of the auctioneer's bill, which he had before torn down with his umbrella, he stopped a moment to consider how he would act at once. In the first place, he would tell his son that his threats were with- drawn, and would ask him to remain at Cosby Lodge. He would write the letter as he passed through Barchester on his way home, so that his son might receive it on the following morn- ing ; and he would refer the major to his mother for a full explanation of the circumstances. Those odious bills must be removed from every barn-door and wall in the county. At the pres- ent moment his anger against his son was chiefly directed against his ill-judged haste in having put up those ill-omened posters. Then he paused to consider what must be his wish as to the verdict of the jury. He had pledged him- self to abide by the verdict, and he could not but have a wish on the subject. Could he de- sire in his heart that Mr. Crawley should bo found guilty? He stood still for a moment thinking of this, and then he walked on, shaking his head. If it might be possible he would have no wish on the subject whatsoever. "Well!" said Lady Lufton, stopping him in the passage, "have you seen her?" 258 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. "but it AVILL KEVnn PASS AWAV," SAID GRACE. "Yes; I have seen her." " Well ?" " She is a good girl— a very good girl. I am in a great huriy, and hardly know how to tell you more now." "You say that she is a good girl?" "I say that she is a very good girl. An an- gel could not have behaved better. I will tell you all some day, Lady Lufton, but I can hardly tell you now." When the archdeacon was gone old Lady Lufton confided to young Lady Lufton her very •' strong opinion that many months would not be gone by before Grace Crawley would be the mistress of Cosby Lodge. "It will be great promotion," said the old lady, with a little toss of her head. When Grace was interrogated afterward by Mrs. Robarts as to what had passed between her and the archdeacon she had very little to say as to the interview. "No, he did not scold me," she rci)lied to an inquiry from her friend. "But THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAESET. 259 he spoke about your engagement ?" said Mrs. Robarts. "There is no engagement," said Grace. " But I suppose you acknowledged, my dear, that a future engagement is quite possi- ble?"' "I told him, Mrs. Robarts," Grace an- swered, after hesitating for a moment, "that I would never marry his son as long as papa was suspected by any one in the world of being a thief. And I will keep my word." But she said nothing to Mrs. Robarts of the pledge which the archdeacon had made to her. \v mm^ CHAPTER LVIII. THE CKOSS-GRAI>'EDXESS OF MEN. By the time that the archdeacon reached Plumstead his enthusiasm in favor of Grace Crawley had somewhat cooled itself; and the language which from time to time he prepared for conveying his impressions to liis wife, became less fervid as he approached his home. There was his pledge, and by that he would abide ; and so much he would make both his wife and his son understand. But any idea which he nrfght have entertained for a moment of extending the promise he had given and relaxing that given to him was gone before he saw his own chim- neys. Indeed, I fear he had by that time be- gun to feel that the only salvation now open to him must come from the jury's verdict. If the jury should declare Mr. Crawley to be guilty, then — He would not say even to himself that in sncli case all would be right, but he did feel that much as he might regret the fate of the poor Crawleys, and of the girl whom in his warmth he had declared to be almost an angel, nevertheless to him personally such a verdict would bring consolatory comfort. "I have seen ]\Iiss Crawley," he said to his wife, as soon as he had closed the door of his study, before he had been two minutes out of the chaise. He had determined that he would dash at the subject at once, and he thus carried his resolution into effect. "You have seen Grace Crawley?" " Yes ; I went uj) to the jiarsonagc and called upon her. Lady Lufton advised me to do so.'" "And Henry?" "Oh, Henry has gone. He was only there one night. I suppose he saw her, but I am not sure." "Would not Miss Crawley tell you?" " I forgot to ask her." Mrs. Grantly, at hearing this, expressed her surprise by opening wide her eyes. He had gone all the way over to Framley on purpose to look after his son, and learn what were his doings, and when there he had forgotten to ask the person who could have given him better information than any one else ! "But it does not signif\'," continued the arch- deacon ; "she said enough to me to make that of no importance." "And what did she say?" " She said that she would never consent to marry Henry as long as there was any suspicion abroad as to her father's guilt." " And you believe her promise ?" "Certainly I do ; I do not doubt it in the least. I put implicit confidence in her. And I have promised her that if her father is acquit- ted — I will withdraw my opposition." "No!" "But I have. And you would have done the same had you been there." "I doubt that, my dear. I am not so im- pulsive as you are." "You could not have helped yourself. You would have felt yourself obliged to be equally generous with her. She came up to me and she put her hand upon me — " "Pshaw !" said Mrs. Grantly. "But she did, my dear; and then she said, 'I promise you that I will not become your son's wife while people think that papa stole this money.' What else could I do ?" "And is she pretty?" "Very pretty ; very beautiful." "And like a' lady?" "Quite like a lady. There is no mistake about that." "And she behaved well?" "Admirably," said the archdeacon, who Avas in a measure compelled to justify the generosity into which he had been betrayed by his feelings. "Then she is a paragon," said Mrs. Grantly. "I don't know what you may call a paragon, my dear. I say that she is a lady, and that she is extremely good-looking, and that she behaved very well. I can not say less in her favor. I am sure you would not say less yourself if you had been present." " Slie must be a wonderful young woman." "I don't know any thing about her being wonderful." " She must be wonderful when she has suc- ceeded both with the son and with the father." "I wish you had been there instead of me," 260 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. said the archdeacon, angrily. Jlrs. Grantly very probahly wislied so also, fceliup; that in that case a more serene mode of business would liave been adopted. How keenly susceptible tiic archdeacon still was to the influences of feminine charms no one knew better than Mrs. Grantly, and whenever she became aware tiiat he had been in this way seduced from the wis- dom of liis cooler judgment she always felt some- thing akin to indignation against the seducer. As for her husband, she probably told herself nt such moments that he was an old goose. "If you had been there, and Henry with you, you would have made a great deal worse job of it than I have done," said the arclideacon. *' I don't say you have made a bad job of it, my dear," said J\Irs. Grantlj'. "But it's past eight, and vou must be terribly in want of your dinner. Had you not better go np and dress?" In the evening the plan of the future cam- paign was arranged between them. The arch- deacon would not write to his son at all. In passing through Barchestcr he had abandoned Ids idea of disi)atching a note fi'om the hotel, feeling that such a note as would be required was not easily written in a hurry. Mrs. Grant- ly would now write to her son, telling him that circumstances had changed, that it would be altogether unnecessary for him to sell his fur- niture, and begging him to come over and see his father without a day's delay. She wrote her letter that night, and read to tlie archdeacon all that she had written — with the exception of the postscript — "You may bo quite sure that there will be no unpleasantness with your fix- ther." That was the postscript which was not communicated to the archdeacon. * On the third day after that Henry Grantly did come over to Plumstead. His motiier in her letter to him had not explained how it had come to pass that the sale of his furniture would be unnecessaiy. Ilis father had given him to un- derstand distinctly that his income would be withdrawn from him unless he would express his intention of giving up Miss Crawley ; and it had been admitted among them all that Cosby Lodge must be abandoned if this were done. He certainly would not give up Grace Crawley. Sooner than tliat, he would give up every stick in his possession and go and live in New Zea- land if it were necessary. Not only had Grace's conduct to him made him thus lirm, but the natural bent of his own disposition had tended that way also. His father had attempted to dictate to him, and sooner tlian submit to that he would sell the coat off his back. Had his father confined his opposition to advice, and had Miss Crawley been less firm in her view of her duty, the major might have been less firm also. But things had so gone that he was de- termined to be fixed as granite. If others would not be moved from their resolves, neither would he. Such being the state of his mind, he could not understand why he was thus summoned to Plumstead. He had already written over to Pau about his house, and it was well that he should, at any rate, see his mother before he started. He was willing, therefore, to go to I'lumstead, but he took no stcjjs as to the with- drawal of those auctioneer's bills to which the archdeacon so strongly oljected. When he drove into the rectory yard his father was stand- ing there before him. "Henry," he said, "I ani very glad to see you. I am very much obliged to you for coming." Then Henry got out of his cart and shook hands with his father, and the archdeacon began to talk about the weather. "Your mother has gone into Bar- chestcr to see your grandfather," said the arcli- deacon. "If you arc not tired we might as well take a walk. I want to go up as far as Flurry's cottage." The major of course de- clared that he was not at all tired, and that ho shoidd be delighted of all things to go i\]> and see old Flurry, and thus they started. Young Grantly had not even been into the house be- fore he left the yard with his father. Of course he was thinking of the coming sale at Cosby Lodge, and of his future life at Pau, and of his injured position in the world. There would be no longer any occasion for him to he solicitous as to the Plumstead foxes. Of course these things were in his mind ; but he could not be- gin to speak of them till his father did so. " I'm afraid your grandfather is not very strong," said the archdeacon, shaking his head. "I fear ho won't be with us very long." "Is it so bad as that, Sir?" " Well, you know, he is an old man, Henry ; and he was always somewhat old for his age. He will be eighty if he lives two years longer, I think. But he'll never reach eighty — never. You must go and see him before you go back home; you must indeed." The major, of course, promised that he would see his grandfather, and the archdeacon told his son how nearly the old man had fallen in the passage between the ca- thedral and the deanery. In this way they had nearly made their way up to the game-kec])er's cottage without a word of reference to any sub- ject that touched upon the matter of which each of them was of course thinking. Whether the major intended to remain at home or to live at Pau, the subject of Mr. Harding's health was a natural topic for conversation between him and his Ather ; but when his father stopjied sudden- ly, and began to tell him how a fox had been trapped on Darvell's farm — "and of course it was a Plumstead fox — there can be no doubt that Flurry is right about that" — when the archdeacon spoke of this iniquity with much warmth, and told his son how he had at once written off to Mr. Thorne of Ullathorne, and how Mr. Thorne had declared that he didn't believe a word of it, and how Flurry had pro- duced the pad of the fox, with the marks of the trap on the skin — tiien the son began to feel that the ground Avas becoming very warm, and that he could not go on much longer without rushing into details about Grace Crawley. "I've no more doubt that it was one of our foxes than that I stand here," said the archdeacon. THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAESET. 261 "It doesn't matter where the fox was brcil. [ It shoiiklii't have been traijpcil," said tlic major. I " or course not," said tlie archdeacon, indig- ' nantly. I wonder whether he would Iiave been 1 so keen had a Romanist jjricst come into Ins I jiarisli and turned one of his Protestants into a Pai)ist ? Then Flurry came up, and produced the idcn- I tical ])ad out of his jwcket. "I don't su]i]>osc j it was intended," said the major, looking at the interesting relic with scrutinizing eyes. "I suppose it was caught in a rabbit-trap — eh, Flurry?" "I don't see what right a man has with traps i at all, when gentlemen is particidar about their foxes," said I'lurry. " Of course they'd call it rabbits." "I never liked that man on Darvell's farm," said the archdeacon. "Nor I either," said Flurry. "No farmer ought to be on that land who don't have a horse of his own. And if I war Squire Thorne, I wouldn't have no farmer there who didn't keep no horse. When a farmer has a horse of his own, and follies the hounds, there ain't no rab- bit-traps — never. How does that come about, Mr. Henry? Rabbits! I know very well what rabbits is !" ]\Ir. Henry shook his head, and turned away, and the archdeacon followe 1 him. There was an hypocrisy about this ] ret ended care for the foxes which displeased the major. He could not, of course, tell his father that the foxes were no longer any thing to him ; but yet he must make it understood that such was his convic- tion. His mother had written to him, saying tliat the sale of furniture need not take place. It might be all very well for his mother to say that or for his father; but, after what had taken place, he could consent to remain in England on no other understanding than that his income should be made permanent to him. Such per- manence must not be any longer dependent on his father's caprice. In these days lie had come to be somewhat in love with poverty and Pan, and had been feeding on the luxury of his griev- ance. There is, perhnj s, nothing so jdeasant as the preparation for solf-saciifice. To give np Cosby Lodge and the foxes, to marry a penniless wife, and go and live at Pan. on six or seven hundred a year, seemed just now to Ma- jor Grantly to be a fine thing, and he did not intend to abandon this fine thing without receiv- ing a very clear reason for doing so. "I can't quite understand Thorne," said the archdeacon. " He used to be so particular about the foxes, and I don't suppose that a country gentleman will change his ideas because he has given np hunting himself." " Mr. Thorne never thought much of Flurry," said Henry Grantly, with his mind intent upon Pau and his grievance. " He might take my word, at any rate," said the archdeacon. It was a known fact that the archdeacon's solicitude about the Plumstead covers was wholly on behalf of his son the major. The major himself knew this thoroughly, and felt that his fiither's iirescnt special anxiety was intended as a corroboration of the tidings conveyed in his mother's letter. Every word so uttered was meant to have reference to his son's future resi- dence in the country. "Father," he said, turn- ing round shortly, and standing before the arch- • deacon in the pathway, "I think you are quite right about the covers. I feci sure that every gentleman who preserves a fox does good to the country. I am sorry that I shall not have a closer interest in the matter myself." "Why shouldn't you have a closer interest in it?" said the archdeacon. "Because I shall be living abroad." "You got your mother's letter?" " Yes ; I got my mother's letter." " Did she not tell you that you can stay where you are?" ' ' Yes, she said so. But, to tell 3-on the truth, Sir, I do not like the risk of living beyond my assured income." "But if I justify it?" " I do not wish to complain. Sir, but you have made me understand that you can, and that in certain circumstancesyou will, at a moment, with- draw what you give me. Since this was said to me I have felt myself to be unsafe in such a house as Cosby Lodge." The archdeacon did not know how to explain. He had intended that the real explanation should be given by Mrs. Grantly, and had been anxious to return to his old relations with his son without any exact terms on his own part. But his son was, as he thought, awkward, and would drive him to some speech that was un- necessary. "You need not be unsafe there at all," he said, half angrily. "I must be unsafe if I am not sure of my in- come." " Your income is not in any danger. But you had better speak to your mother about it. For myself, I think I may say that I have nev- er yet behaved to any of you with harshness. A son should, at any rate, not be offended be- cause a father thinks that he is entitled to some consideration for what he does." " There arc some points on which a son can not give way even to his father. Sir." " You had better speak to your mother, Hen- ry. She will exjilain to you what has taken place. Look at that plantation. You don't re- member it, but every tree there was planted since you were born. I bought that farm from old !Mr. Thome when he was purchasing St. Ewold's Downs, and it was the first bit of land I ever had of my own." "That is not in Plumstead, I think." "No, this is Plumstead, where we stand, but that's in Eiderdown. The parishes run in and out here. I never bought any other land as cheap as I bought that." "And did old Thorne make a good purchase at St. Ewold's ?" "Yes, I fancy he did. It gave him the 262 THE LAST CHKONICLE OF BARSET. whole of the parisli, which was a great thing. It is astonishing how hmd has risen in vahic since that, and yet rents arc not so very much liigher. Tliey who huy hind now can't have above two-and-a-half fur tlicir money." "I wonder peojile are so fond of land," said the major. *' It is a comfortahle feeling to know that you stand on your own ground. Land is about tlic only tiling that can't fly away. And then, you see, land gives so much more than tlic rent. It gives jiosition and influence and jiolitieal ])ow- or, to say nothing about the game. We'll go back now. I dare say your inotlicr will be at Lome by this time." The archdeacon was striving to teach a g-i'eat lesson to liis son when he fluis sjwke of tiie jileasure which a man feels wlien he stands upon his own ground. lie was bidding his son to tmderstand how great was the position of an heir to a landed property, and how small the position of a man depending on wliat Dr. Grant- ly himself would have called a scratch income — an income made up of a few odds and ends, a share or two in tliis company, and a share or two in that, a sliglit venture in foreign stocks, a small mortgage, and such like convenient but iinintlucntial dribblets. A man, no doubt, may live at Pan on dribblets ; may pay his way, and drink his bottle of clieap wine, and enjoy life aft- er a fasliion while reading (Jalir/nani and look- ing at the mountains. But — as it seemed to the arclidcaeon — when there was a choice be- tween this kind of thing, and fox-covers at Plum- stead, and a seat among the magistrates of Bar- setshire, and an establishment full of horses, beeves, swine, carriages, and hayricks, a man brought up as his son had been brought up ought not to be very long in choosing. It never entered into the archdeacon's mind that he was tempting his son ; but Henry Grantly felt that he was having the good things of the world shown to him, and that he was being told that they should be his — for a consideration. The major, in his present mood, looked at the matter from his own point of view, and de- termined that the consideration was too high. He was pledged not to give np Grace Crawle}', and he would not yield on that ])oint though he might be tempted by all the fox-covers in Bar- setshire. At this moment he did not know how far his father was prepared to yield, or how far it was expected that he should yield himself. He was told that he had to speak to his mother. He would speak to his mother, but, in the mean time, he could not bring himself to make a com- fortable answer to his father's eloquent praise of landed property. He could not allow himself to be enthusiastic on the matter till he knew what was expected of him if he chose to submit to be made a British squire. At present Gallg- nuni and the mountains had their charms for him. There was, therefore, but little conver- sation between tlie father and the son as they walked back to tlie rectory. Late that night the major heard the wh&lo story from his mother. Gradually, and as though unintentionally, Mrs. Grantly told him all she knew of the archdeacon's visit to Fram- ley. !Mrs. Grantly was quite as anxious as was lier husband to keep her son at home, and tliere- fore she omitted in her story those little sneers against Grace which she herself had been tempt- ed to make by the archdeacon's fervor in the girl's favor. The major said as little as was possible while he was being told of his father's adventure, and expressed neither anger nor satisfaction till he had been made thorough!}' to understand that Grace had jiledged lierstdf not to marry him as long as any suspicion sliould rest upon her father's name. " Your father is (piite satisfied with her," said Mrs. Grantly. "lie thinks that she is behav- ing very well." " My father had no right to exact such a pledge." "But she made it of her own accord. She was the first to speak about Mr. Crawley's sup- posed guilt. Your father never mentioned it." " He must have led to it; and I think he had no right to do so. He had no right to go to her at all." "Now don't be foolish, Henry." "I don't see that I am foolish." "Yes, you are. A man is foolish if he won't take what he wants without asking exactly how he is to come by it. That your fatlier should be anxious is the most natural thing in the world. You know how high he has always held his own head, and how much he thinks about the characters and position of clergymen. It is not surprising that he should dislike the idea of such a marriage." "Grace Crawley would disgrace no family," said the lover. "That's all very well for you to say, and I'll take your word that it is so — that is as far as the young lady goes herself. And there's your father almost as much in love with her as you are. I don't know what you would have." "I would be left alone." "But what harm has been done you ? From what you yourself have told me, I know tliat Miss Crawley has said the same thing to you that she has said to her father. You can't but admire her for the feeling." "I admire her for every thing." "Very well. We don't say any thing against that." "And I don't mean to give her up." "Very well again. Let us hope tliat Mr. Crawley will be acquitted, and then all will be right. Your father never goes back from his promise. He is always better than his word. You'll find that if Mr. Crawley is acquitted, or if he escapes in any way, your father will only be happy of an excuse to make much of the young lady. You should not be hard on liim, Henry. Don't you see tliat it is his one great desire — to keep you near to him? The sight of those odious bills nearly broke his lieart." "Then why did he threaten me?" THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAESET. 2G3 "Henry, you arc obstinate." "I am not obstinate, motlier." " Yes, you are. You remember notliinp, niid you forget nothing. Y'ou expect every thing to be made smooth for you, and will do notliing toward making things smootli for any body else. You ought to promise to give up the sale. If the worst came to the worst, your father would not let you suffer in pocket for yielding to Iiim in so mucli." "If tiic worst comes to the worst, I wish to take notliing from my fother." "You won't put oft' the sale, then?'' The son paused a moment before lie answered his mother, thinking over all the circumstances of his position. "I can not do so as long as I am subject to my father's threat," he said, at last. " What took place between mj' father and Miss Crawley can go for nothing with me. He has told me that his allowance to me is to be withdrawn. Let him tell me that he has re- considered the matter." "But he has not withdrawn it. The last quai'ter was paid to your account only the other day. He does not mean to withdraw it." "Let him tell me so; let him tell me that my power of living at Cosby Lodge does not depend on my marriage — that my income will be continued to mc whether I marry or no, and I'll arrange matters witli the auctioneer to- morrow. Y'ou can't suppose that I should pre- fer to live in France." "Henry, you are too hard on your father." *'I think, mother, he has been too hard upon mc." " It is j'ou that arc to blame now. I tell j'ou plainly that that is my opinion. If evil comes of it it will be your own fault." " If evil come of it I must bear it." "A son ought to give up something to his flither — especially to a father so indulgent as i yours." I But it was of no use. And Mrs. Grantly | when she went to her bed could only lament in ' her own mind over what, in discussing the mat- ter afterward with her sister, she called the cross-grainedness of men. " They are as like i each otlier as two peas," she said, "and though each of them wished to be generous, neither of j them would condescend to be just." Early on the following morning there was, no doubt, i much said on the subject between the archdea- con and his wife before they met iheir son at j breakfast ; but neither at breakfast nor afterward was there a word said between the father and son that had the slightest reference to the sub- , ject in dispute between them. Tlie archdeacon 1 made no more speeches in faVor of land, nor did he revert to the foxes. He was very civil to his son — too civil by half, as Mrs. Grantly continued to say to herself. And then the ma- jor drove himself aw.iy in his cart, going tlirough i Barchester, so that he might see his grandfather, j When he wislied liis father good-by, the arch- deacon shook hands with him, and said some- thing about the chance of rain. Had he not i better take the big umbrella? The major thanked liim courteously, and said that he did not think it would rain. Then he was gone. "Upon his own head be it," said the arclidca- con when his son's step was heard in the ])assagc leading to the back-yard. Then Mrs. Grantly got up quietly and fullowed her son. She found him settling himself in his dog-cart, while the servant who was to accompany him was still at the horse's head. She went up close to him, and, standing by the wheel of the gig, whispered a word or two into his ear. " If you love me, Henry, you will postpone the sale. Do it for my sake." There came across his face a look of great pain, but he answered her not a word. TIic archdeacon was walking about the room striking one hand open with the otlicr closed, clearly in a tumult of anger, when his wife re- turned to him. "I have done all that I can," he said — " all that I can ; more, indeed, than was becoming for me. Upon his own head be it ! Upon his own head be it I" " Wiiat is it that you fear?" she asked. " I fear nothing. But if he chooses to sell his things at Cosby Lodge he must abide tlic consequences. They shall not be replaced with my money." " Wliat will it matter if he does sell them?" "Matter! Do you think there is a single person in the county who will not know that his doing so is a siga that he has quarreled with me?" " But he has not quarreled with you." "I can tell you, then, that in tliat case I shall have quarreled with him ! I have not been a hard father, but there are some things which a man can not bear. Of couife you will take his part." "I am taking no part. I only v^ant to sec peace between you." "Peace! — yes; peace indeed. I am to yield in every thing. I am to be nobody. Look here — as sure as ever an auctioneer's hammer is raised at Cosby Lodge I will alter the settle- ment of the property. Every acre shall belong to Charles. There is my word for it." The poor woman had nothing more to say — nothing more to say at that moment. She thought that at the present conjuncture her husband was less in the wrong than her son, but slie couLl not tell him so lest she should strengthen him in his wrath. Henry Grantly found his grandfiither in bed, witli Posy seated on the bed beside him. " I\Iy fother told me tliat you were not quite well, and I thought that I would look in," said the major. "Thank you, my dear — it is very good of you. There is not much the matter with me, but I am not quite so strong as I was once." And the old man smiled as he held his grand- son's hand. "And how is cousin Posy?" said the ma- jor. "Posy is quite well — isn't she, my darling?" said the old man. " Grandpa doesn't go to the cathedral now,'' 264 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. "UONOB TUY FATIIF.K— THAT TUY DAYS MAY BS LONG IN THE LAND.' said rosy; " so I come in to talk to him. Don't I, grandpa?" "And to play cat's-cradle— only we have not had any cat's-cradle this morning — have we, Posy?" " Mrs. Baxter told me not to play this morn- ing;, because it's cold for grandpa to sit up in bed," said Posy. AVlicn the major had been there about twenty minutes he was preparing to take his leave, but Mr. Harding, bidding Posy to go out of the room, told his grandson that he had a word to say to him. "I don't like to interfere, Henry," ha said, " but I arti afraid that things are not quite smooth at Plumstead." " There is nothing wrong betAveen me and my mother," said the major. "God forbid that there should be! but, my dear boy, don't let there be any thing wrong be- tween you and your father. He is a good man, and the time will come when you will be proud of his memory." THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 265 "I am proud of him now." "Then be gentle with him — and submit yourself. I am an old man now — very fast go- ing away from all those I love here. But I am happy in leaving my children because they have ever been gentle to me and kind. If I am per- mitted to remember them whither I am going my thoughts of them will all be pleasant. Should it not be much to them that they have made my death-bed happy?" The major could not but tell himself that Mr. Harding had been a man easy to please, easy to satisfy, and in that respect very different from his father. But of course he said nothing of this. " I will do my best," he replied. " Do, my boy. Honor thy father — that thv/ days may be long in the land." It seemed to the major as he drove away from Barchestcr that every body was against him ; and yet he was sure that he himself was right. He could not give up Grace Crawley ; and un- less he were to do so he could not live at Cosby Lodge. CHAPTER LIX. A LADT PRESENTS HER COMPLIMENTS TO MISS L. D. One morning, while Lily Dale was staying with Mrs. Thome in London, there was brought up to her room, as she was dressing for dinner, a letter which the postman had just left for her. The address was written with a feminine hand, and Lily was at once aware that she did not know the writing. The angles were very acute, and the lines were very straight, and the vowels looked to be cruel and false, with their sharp points and their open eyes. Lily at once knew that it was the performance of a woman who had been taught to write at school and not at home, and she became prejudiced against the writer before she opened the letter. When she had opened the letter and read it her Teelings toward the writer were not of a kindly nature. It was as follows : " A lady presents her compliments to Miss L. D., and earnestly implores Miss L. D. tOi give her an answer to the following question : Is' Miss L. D. engaged to marry Mr. J. E.? The lady in question pledges herself not to interfere with Miss L. D. in any way should the answer be in the affirmative. The lady earnestly re- quests that a reply to this question may be sent to M. D., Post-office, 455 Edgeware Road. In order that L. D. may not doubt that M. D. has an interest in J. E., M. D. incloses the last note she received from him before he started for the Continent." Then there was a scrap, which Lily well knew to be in the handwriting of John Eames, and the scrap was as follows : " Dearest M. — Punctually at 8.30 — ever and always your unalterable J. E." Lily, as she read this, did not comprehend that John's note to,- M. D. had been in itself a joke. Lily Dale had heard of anonvmous letters R before, but had never received one, or even seen one. Now that she had one in her hatid, it seemed to her that there could be nothing more abominable than the writing of such a letter. She let it drop from her as though the receiv- ing, and opening, and reading it had been a stain to her. As it lay on the ground at her feet she trod upon it. Of what sort could a woman be who would write such a letter as that ? Answer it ! Of course she would not answer it. It never occurred to her for a moment that it could become her to answer it. Had she been at home or with her mother she would have called her mother to her, and Mrs. Dale would have taken it from the ground, and have read it, and tlien destroyed it. As it was, she must pick it up herself. She did so, and declared to herself that there should be an end to it. It might be right that somebody should see it, and therefore she would show it to Emily Dunstable. After that it should be destroyed. Of course the letter could have no effect upon her. So she told herself. But it did have a very strong effect, and pi-obably the exact effect which the writer had intended that it should have. J. E. was, of course, John Eames. There was no doubt about that. What a fool the writer must have been to talk of L. D. in the letter, when the outside cover was plainly addressed to Miss Lilian Dale ! But there are some people for whom the pretended mystery of initial letters has a charm, and who love the darkness of anonymous letters. As Lily thought of this she stamped on the letter again. Who was the M. D. to whom she was required to send an answer — with whom John Eames corresponded in the most affectionate terms ? She had resolved that she would not even ask herself a question about M. D., and yet she could not divert her mind from the inquiry. It was, at any rate, a fact that there must be some woman designated by the letters — some woman who had, at any rate, chosen to call herself M. D. And John Eames had called her M. There must, at any rate, be such a woman. This female, be she who she might, had thought it worth her while to make this inquiry about John Eames, and had manifestly learned some- thing of Lily's own history. And the woman had pledged herself not to inteifere with John Eames if L. D. would only condescend to say that she was engaged to him ! As Lily thought of the proposition she trod upon the letter for the third time. Then she picked it up, and having no place of custody under lock and key ready to her hand, she put it in her pocket. At night, before she went to bed, she showed the letter to Emily Dunstable. "Is it not sur- prising that any woman could bring herself to write such a letter ?" said Lily. But Miss Dunstable hardly saw it in the same light. " If any body were to write me such a letter about Bernard, "said she, " I should show it to him as a good joke." " That would be very different. You and Bernard, of course, understand each other." 266 THE LAST CIIKONICLE OF BAKSET. "And so will voii and Mr. Eames — some day, I hope." "Never more than \vc do now, dear. The thinj:; that annoys nie is that such a woman as that should have even heard my name at all." "As long as jjeoplo have pot cars and tongues jieople will hear other people's names." Lily ])aused a monioiit, and then spoke again, asking anotiicr (picstion. '"I su])pose this wo- man does know him? .She must know him, he- cause he has written to her." "She knows something ahout him, no doubt, and has some reason Cor wishing that you should quarrel with liim. If I were you I should take care not to gratify her. As for Mr. Eames's note, it is a joke." "It is nothing to me," said Lily. "I snjjpose," continued Emily, "that most gentleman become acquainted with some people that they would not wish all their friends to know that they knew. They go about so niucli more than we do, and meet people of all sorts." "No gentleman should become intimately acquainted witii a woman who could write sucli a letter as that," said Lily. And as she spoke she remembered a certain episode to John Eames's early life, which liad reached her from a source which she had not doubted, and wliich had given her pain and offended her. She had believed tiiat John Eames had in that case be- haved cruelly to a young woman, and had thought that her offense had come simi)ly from that feeling. "But of course it is nothing to me," she said, " Mr. Eames can choose his friends as he likes. I only wish that my name might not be mentioned to them." "It is not from him that she has heard it." "Perhaps not. As I said before, of course it docs not signify ; only there is something very disagreeable in the whole thing. The idea is so hateful! Of course this woman means mc to understand that she considers herself to have a claim upon Mr. Eames, and that I stand in her way." "And why should you not stand in her way ?" " I will stand in nobody's way. Mr. Eames has a right to give his hand to any one that he pleases. I, at any rate, can have no cause of offense against him. The only thing is that I do wish that my name could be left alone." Lily, when slie was in lier own room again, did destroy the letter ; but before she did so she read it again, and it became so indelibly im- pressed on her memory that she could not forget even the words of it. The lady who wrote had pledged herself, under certain conditions, "not to interfere with Miss L. D." "Interfere with me !" Lily said to herself; " nobody can inter- fere with me ; nobody has power to do so." As she turned it over in her mind her heart became hard against John Eames. No woman would have troubled herself to write sucli a letter with- out some cause for the writing. That the writer was vulgar, false, and unfcminine Lily thouglit that she could jjerceive from the letter itself; but no doubt the woman knew John Eames, had some interest in the question of iiis marriage and was entitled to some answer to her question — only was not entitled to such answer from Lily Dale. For some weeks past now, nj) to the hour at which this anonymous letter had reached her hands, Lily's heart had been growing soft and fitill softer toward John Eames ; and now again it had become hardened. I think that the ap- pearance of Adolplms Crosbie in tlie jfark— that momentary vision of the real man by which- the divinity of the imaginary Apollo had been dash- ed to the ground^ — had done a service to the cause of the other lover ; of the lover who had never been a god, but who of late years had at any rate grown into the full dimensions of a man. Unfortunately for the latter, he liad com- menced his love-making when he was but little more than a boy. Lily, as she had thought of the two together, in the days of her solitude, after she had been deserted by Crosbie, had ever pictured to herself the lover whom she had pre- ferred as having something godlike in his favor, as being far the superior in wit, in manner, in acquirement, and in personal advantage. There had been good-nature and true hearty love on the side of the other man ; but circumstances had seemed to show tliat his good-nature was equal to all, and that he was able to share even his hearty love among two or three. A man of such a character, known ])y a girl from his boy- hood as John Eames had been known by Lily Dale, was likely to find more favor as a friend than as a lover. So it had been between John Fames and Lily. While the untrue memory of what Crosbie was, or ever had been, was pres- ent to her, she could hardly bring herself to ac- cept in her mind the idea of a lover who was less noble in his manhood than tlie false picture which that untrue memory was ever painting for her. Then had come before her eyes the actual man ; and though he had been seen but for a moment, tlie false image had been bioken into shivers. Lily had discovered that she had been deceived, and that her forgiveness had been asked, not by a god, but by an ordinary human being. As regarded the ungodlike man him- self, this could make no difference. Having thought upon the matter deeply, she had re- solved that she would not marry Mr. Crosbie, and had pledged herself to that effect to friends who never could have brought themselves to feel affection for him, even had she married him. But the shattering of the false image might have done John Eames a good turn. Lily knew that she had at any rate full permission from all her friends to throw in her lot with his — if she could persuade herself to do so. Mother, uncle, sis- ter, brother-in-law, cousin — and now this new cousin's bride that was to be — together with Lady Julia and a whole crowd of Allington and Guestwick friends, were in flivor of such a mar- riage. There had been nothing against it but the foct that the other man had been dearer to her ; and that other fact that poor Johnny lack- ed something — something of earnestness, some- THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 267 thing of manliness, somethinjij of tliat Pliosbus divinity with wliich t'rosbie had contrived to invest his own image. Bnt, as I have said above, Jolin had gradually grown, if not into divinity, at least into manliness ; and tlie shat- tering of the false image had done him yeoman's service. Now had come this accursed letter, and Lily, despite herself, dcsi)ite her better judg- ment, could not sweep it away from her mind and make the letter as nothing to her. JL I). had promised not to interfere witli her ! There was no room for such interference, no possibility that such interference should take ])lace. She hoped earnestly — so she told herself — that her old friend John Eames might have nothing to do with a woman so impudent and vulgar as must be this i\I. D. ; but except as regarded old friend- ship, M. D. and John Eames, apart or together, could be as nothing to her. Therefore I say that the letter had had the effect which the writer of it had desired. All London was new to Lily Dale, and Mrs. Thornc was very anxious to show her every thing that could be seen. She was to return to Allington before the flowers of May would have come, and the crowd and the glare and the fashion and the art of the Academy's great exhibition must therefore remain unknown to her ; but she was taken to see many pictures, and among others she was taken to see the pic- tures belonging to a certain nobleman who, with that munificence which is so amply enjoyed and so little recognized in England, keeps open house for the world to see the treasures which the wealth of his family has collected. The necessary order was procured, and on a certain brilliant April afternoon Mrs. Thorne and her party found themselves in this nobleman's draw- ing-room. Lily was with her, of course, and Emily Dunstable was there, and Bernard Dale, and Mrs. Thome's dear friend, ]\Irs. Harold Smitli, and Mrs. Thome's constant and useful attendant, Siph Dunn. They had nearly com- pleted their delightful but wearying task of gaz- ing at pictures, and Mrs. Harold Smith had de- clared that she would not look at another paint- ing till the exhibition was open ; three of the ladies were seated in the drawing-room, and Siph Dunn was standing before them, lecturing about art as thougli he had been brought up on the ancient masters ; Emily and Bernard were lingering behind, and the others were simply delaying their departure till the truant lovers should have cauglit them. At this moment two gentlemen entered the room from the gal- lery, and the two gentlemen were Fowler Pratt/ and Adolphus Crosbie. All the party except Mrs. Thome knew Cros- bie personally, and all of them except Mrs. Har- old Smitii knew something of the story of what had occurred between Crosbie and Lily. Siph Dunn had learned it all since the meeting in the park, having nearly learned it all from what he had seen there with his eyes. But Mrs. Thorne, who knew Lily's story, did not know Crosbie's ajipearancc. But there was his friend Fowler Pratt, who, as will bo remembered, had dined with her but the otiicr day ; and she, with that outsjioken and somewliat loud impulse wliich was natural to her, addressed him at once across the room, calling him by uame. Had she not done so the two men might probably have es- caped through the room, in which case they would have met Bernard Dale and Emily Dun- stable in the doorway. FowIq- Pratt would have endeavored so to escape, and to carry Crosbie with him, as he was quite alive to the ex])edi- cnce of saving Lily from such a meeting. But, as things turned out, escape from Mrs. Thorne was impossible. "There's Fowler Pratt," she had said when they first entered, quite loud enough for Fowler Pratt to hear her. "Mr. Pratt, come here. How d'ye do? You dined with me last Tues- day, and you've never been to call." "I never recognize that obligation till after the middle of May," said Mr. Pratt, shaking hands with Mrs. Thornc and Mrs. Smith, and bowing to Miss Dale. "I don't see the justice of that at all," said Mrs. Thorne. "It seems to me that a good dinner is as much entitled to a morsel of paste- board in April as at any other time. You won't have another till you have called — unless you're specially wanted." Crosbie would have gone on but that in his attempt to do so he passed close by the chair on which Mrs. Harold Smith was sitting, and that he was accosted by her. "Mr. Crosbie," she said, " I haven't seen yon for an age. Has it come to pass that you have buried yourself en- tirely ?" He did not know how to extricate himself so as to move on at once. He paused, and hesitated, and then stopped, and made an attempt to talk to Mrs. Smith as though he were at his ease. The attempt was any thing but successful; but having once stopped he did not know how to put himself in motion again so that he might escape. At this moment Ber- nard Dale and Emily Dunstable came up and joined the group ; but neither of them had dis- covered who Crosbie was till they were close upon him. Lily was seated between Mrs. Thorne and Mrs. Smith, and Siph Dunn had been standing immediately opposite to them. Fowler Pratt, who had been drawn into the circle against his will, was now standing close to Dunn, almost between him and Lily — and Crosbie was stand- ing within two yards of Lily, on the other side of Dunn. Emily and Bernard had gone behind Pratt and Crosbie to Mrs. Thome's side before they had recognized the two men — and in this way Lily was completely surrounded. Mrs. Thorne, who, in spite of her eager, impetuous ways, was as thoughtful of otiiers as any woman could be, as soon as she heard Crosbie's name understood it all, and knew that it would be well that she should withdraw Lily from her plight. Crosbie, in his attempt to talk to Mrs. Smith, had smiled and simpered — and had then felt that to smile and simper before Lily Dale, 268 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. with a prctciidod indifference to her presence, was false on liis jiart, and would seem to be mean. Ho would have avoided Lily for both their sakes had it been ])ossible ; but it was no lonjjcr possible, and he could not kecj) his eves from her face. Hardly knowing what he did, he bowed to her, lifted liis hat, and uttered some word of greeting. Lily, from the nioment that she had perceived his jircscnoe, had looked straight before her, witli something almost of fierceness in her eyes. Both I'ratt and Siidi Dunn had observed her narrowly. It had seemed as though Crosbio had been altogether outside the ken of her eyes or the notice of her ears, and yet she had seen every motion of his body, and had heard every word which had fallen from his lips. Now, when he saluted her, she turned her face full iipon him, and bowed to him. Then she rose from her seat, and made her way, between Sipli Dunn and I'ratt, out of the circle. The blood had mounted to her face and suffused it all, and her whole manner was such that it could escape the observation of none who stood there. Even Mrs. Harold Smith had seen it, and had read the story. As soon as she was on her feet Bernard had dropped Emily's hand, and offered his arm to his cousin. "Lily," he had said out loud, "you had better let me take you away. It is a misfortune that you have been subjected to the insult of such a greeting." Bernard and Crosbio had been early friends, and Bernard had been the unfortunate means of bringing Crosbie and Lil}' together. Up to this day Bernard had never liad his revenge for the ill-treatment which his cousin had received. Some morsel of that revenge came to him now. Lily almost hated her cousin for what he said ; but she took his arm, and walked with him from the room. It must be acknowledged in excuse for Bernard Dale, and as an apology for the apparent indiscretion of his words, that all the circumstances of the meeting had become ap])arent to every one there. The misfortune of the encounter had become too ])lain to admit of its being hidden under any of the ordinarj"- veils of society. Crosbie's salutation had been made before the eyes of them all, and in the midst of absolute silence, and Lily had risen with so queen-like a demeanor, and had moved with so stately a step, that it was impossible that anj' one concerned should pretend to ignore the facts of the scene that had occurred. Cros- bie was still standing close to Mrs. Harold Smith, Mrs. Thornc had risen from her seat, and the words which Bernard Dale had uttered were still sounding in the ears of them all. " Shall I sec after the carriage ?" said Siph Dunn. "Do," saidMrs. Thorne; "or, staya moment; the carriage will of course be there, and we will go together. Good-morning, Mr. Pratt. I ex- pect that, at any rate, you will send me your card by post." Then they all passed on, and Crosbie and Fowler Pratt were left among the pictures. "I think vou Avill agree with me now that you had better give her tip," said Fowler Pratt. " I will never give her up," said Crosbie, " till I shall hear that she has married some one else." " You may take my word for it, that she. will never marry you after what has just now oc- curred." "Very likely not : but still the attempt, even the idea of the attempt, will be a comfort to me. I shall be endeavoring to do that which I ougiit to have done." "What you have got to think of, I should suppose, is her comfort — not your own." Crosbie stood for a while silent, looking at a portrait which was hung just within the doorway of a smaller room into which they had passed, as though his attention were entirely riveted by the picture. But he was thinking of the pic- tiu'e not at all, and did not even know what kind of painting was on the canvas before him. "Pratt," said he, at last, "you are always hard to me." "I will say nothing more to you on the sub- ject if you wish me to be silent." " I do wish you to be silent about that." " That shall be enough," said Pratt. "You do not quite understand me. You do not know how tiioroughly I have repented of the evil that I have done, or how far I would go to make retribution, if retribution were possible!" Fowler Pratt, having been told to hold his tongue as regarded that subject, made no reply to this, and began to talk about the pictures. Lily, leaning on her cousin's arm, was out in the court-yard in front of the house before Mrs. Thome or Siph Dunn. It was but for a min- ute, but still there was a minute in whicli Ber- nard felt that he ought to say a word to her. '• I hope you are not angry with me, Lily, for having spoken." " I wish, of course, that you had not spoken ; but I am not angry. I have no right to be an- gry. I made the misfortune for myself. Do not say any thing more about it, dear Bernard ; that is all." They had walked to the picture-gallery ; but, by agreement, two carriages had come to take them away — Mrs. Thome's and JMrs. Harold Smith's. Mrs. Thornc easily managed to send Emily Dunstable and Bernard away with lier friend, and to tell Siph Dunn that he must manage for himself. In this way it was con- trived that no one but Mrs. Thorne should be Avith Lily Dale. "My dear," said Mrs. Thorne, "it seemed to me that you were a little put out, and so I thought it best to send them all away." "It was very kind." "He ought to have passed on, and not to hava stood an instant when he saw you," said Mrs. Thorne, with indignation. "There are mo- ments when it is a man's duty simply to vanish, to melt into the air, or to sink into the ground — in which he is bound to overcome tlie diffi- culties of such sudden self-removal, or must ever after be accounted poor and mean." THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 269 "I did not want him to vanish — if only-he had not spoken to me." "lie should have vanished. A man is some- times bound in lienor to do so, even when he himself has done nothing wrong — when the sin has been all with the woman. Her femininity has still a right to expect that so much shall be done in its behalf. But when the siu has been all his own, as it was in this case — and such damning sin too — " "Tray do not go on, Mrs. Thorne." " He ought tot^o out and hang himself sim- ply for having allowed himself to be seen. I thouglit Bernard beliaved very well, and I shall tell him so." "I wish you could manage to forget it all, and say no word more about it." "I won't trouble you witli it, my dear; I will promise you that. But, Lily, I can hardly understand you. This man who must have been and must ever be a brute — " "Mrs. Thorne, you promised me this instant that you would not talk of him." " After this I will not; but you must let me have my way noV for one moment. I have so often longed to speak to you, but have not done so from fear of oflending you. Now the mat- ter lias come up by chance, and it was impossi- ble that what has occurred should jiass by with- out a word. I can not conceive wliy the mem- ory of that bad man should be allowed to destroy your whole life." " My life is not destroyed. My life is any thing but destroyed. It is a very hajipy life." "But, my dear, if all that I hear is true, there is a most estimable young man, whom every body likes, and particularly all your own family, and whom you like very much yourself; and you will have nothing to say to him, though liis constancy is like the constancy of an old Paladin — and all because of this wretch who just now came in your way." "Mrs. Thorne, it is impossible to explain it all." " I do not want you to explain it all. Of course I would not ask any young woman to marry a man whom she did not love. Such marriages are abominable to me. But I think that a young woman ought to get married if the thing fairly comes in her way, and if her friends approve, and if she is fond of the man who is fond of her. It may be that some memory of what has gone before is allowed to stand in your way, and that it should not be so allowed. It sometimes happens that a morbid sentiment will destroy a life. Excuse me, then, Lily, if I say too much to you in my hope that you may not suffer after this fashion." " I know how kind you are, Mrs. Thorne." "Here we are at home, and perliaps you would like to go in. I have some calls which I must make." Then the conversation was ended, and Lily was alone. As if she had not thought of it all before ! As if there was any thing new in this counsel which Mrs. Thorne had given her! She had received the same advice from her mother, from her sister, fi-om her uncle, and from Lady Julia, till she was sick of it. How had it come to pass that matters which with others are so private should with her have become the public prop« erty of so large a circle ? Any other girl would receive advice on such a subject from her mo- ther alone, and tlicre the secret would rest. But her secret had been ])ublished, as it were, by the town-crier in tlie High Street! Every body knew that she had been jilted by Adolphus Crosbie, and that it was intended that she should be consoled by John Eames. And ])cople seemed to think that they had a right to rebuke her if she expressed an unwillingness to carry out this intention which the ])ublic had so kindly ar- ranged for her. Morbid sentiment ! Why should she be ac- cused of morbid sentiment because she was un- able to transfer her aft'ections to the man who had been fixed on as her future husband by the large circle of acquaintance wlio had interested themselves in her affairs ? There was nothing morbid in either her desires or her regrets. So she assured herself, with something very like an- ger at the accusation made against her. She had been contented, and was contented, to live at home as her mother lived, asking for no ex- citement beyond that given by the daily routine of her duties. There could be nothing morbid in that. She would go back to Allington as soon as might be, and have done with this Lon- don life, which only made her wretched. This seeing of Crosbie had been terrible to her. She did not tell herself that his image had been shattered. Her idea was that all her misery had come from the nntowardness of the meet- ing. But there was the fact that she had seen the man and heard his A'oice, and tliat the see- ing him and heaving him had made her miser- able. She certainly desired that it might never be her lot either to see him or to hear him again. And as for John Eames — in those bitter mo- ments of her reflection she almost wished the same in regard to him. If he would only cease to be her lover he might be very well ; but he was not very well to her as long as his preten- sions were dinned into her ear by every body who knew her. And then she told herself that John would have had a better chance if he had been content to plead for himself. In this, I think, she was hard upon her lover. He had pleaded for himself as well as he knew how, and as often as the occasion had been given to him. It had hardly been his fault that his case had been taken in hand by other advocates. He had given no commission to Mrs. Thorne to plead for hira. Poor Johnny ! He had stood in much better favor before the lady had presented her compli- ments to Miss L. D. It was that odious letter, and the tlioughts which it had forced upon Lily's mind, which were now most inimical to his in- terests. Whether Lily loved liitn or not, she did not love him well enough not to be jealous 270 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF HAKSET. of him. Had nny such letter reached her re- specting Crosby in the liapjiy days of iier young love she would siuijily have laughed at it. It would have been nothing to her. But now she was sore and unhajjpy, and any trifle was pow- erful enough to irritate her. " Is Miss L. 1). engaged to marry Mr. J. E. ?" "No," said Lily, out loud, "Lily Dale is not engaged to I marry John Eamcs, and never will be so en- gaged." She was almost tempted to sit down and write the required answer to Miss M. D. j Tiiough the letter had been destroyed, she well j remembered the numlierof the ])ost-()fHce in the Edgcwarc lioad. I'oor John ICanies ! That evening she told Emily Dunstable that she thought siic would like to return to Ailing- , ton before the day tliat had been appointed for I her. "15ut why,'' said Emily, " should you be worse than your word?" ! "I ilarc say it will seem silly, but the fact is I am homesick. I'm not accustomed to be away from mamma for so long." "I hoi)e it is not what occurred to-day at the ])icturc-gallery." " I won't deny,tliat it is that in part." " That was a strange accident, you kilow, that might never occur again." "It has occurred twice already, Emily." "I don't call the aftair in the park any thing. Any body may see any body else in the park, of course. He was not brought so near you that he could annoy you there. You ouglit certain- Iv to wait till Mr. Eames has come back from Italy." Then Lily declared that she must and would go back to Allington on the next Monday, and she actually did write a letter to her mother that night to say that such was her intention. But on the morrow lier heart was less sore, and the letter was not sent. CHAPTER LX. THE END OF JAEL AND SISERA. There was to be one more sitting for the pic- ture, as rlie reader will remember, and the day for that sitting had arrived. Conway Dalrym- ple had in the mean time called at Mrs. Van Siever's house, hoping that he might be able to see Clara, and make his offer to her there. But he had failed in his attempt to reach her. lie had found it impossible to say all that he had to say in the painting-room during the very short intervals which Mrs. Broughton left to him. A man should be .allowed to be alone more tlian fifteen minutes with a young lady on the occa- sion in which he offers to her liis hand and his heart ; but hitherto he had never had more than fifteen minutes at his command ; and then there had been the turban ! He had also in the mean time called on Mrs. Broughton, with the intention of explaining to her that if she really intended to favor his views in respect to IMiss Van Sie- ver she ought to give him a little more liberty for expressing himself. On this occasion lie had seen his friend, but had not been able to go as minutely as he Iiad wished into the matter that was so important to himself. ]\Irs. Broughton had found it necessary during this meeting to talk almost exclusively about herself and her own affairs. "Conway," she had said, directly she saw him, " I am so glad you have come ! I think I should have gone mad if I had not seen some one who cares for me." This was early in the morning, not much after eleven, and Mrs. Broughton, hearing first his knock at the door, and then his voice, had met him in the hall and taken him into the dining-room. "Is any thing the matter?" he asked. " Oh, Conway !" "What is it? Has any thing gone wrong with Dobbs?" " Every thing has gone wrong with him. He is ruined." "Heaven and earth ! What do you mean ?" " Simply wdiat I say^ But you must not speak a word of it. I do not know it from him- self." " How do you know it?" " Wait a moment. Sit down there, will you? — and I will sit by you. No, Conway ; do not tnke my hand. It is not right. There — so. Yesterday Mrs. Van Siever was here. I need not tell you all that she said to me, even if I could. She was very harsh and cruel, saying all manner of things about Dobbs. How can I help it if he drinks? I have not encouraged him. And as for expensive living, I have been as ignorant as a child. I have never asked for any thing. When we were married somebody told me how much we should have to spend. It was either two tliousand, or tliree thousand, or four thousand, or something like that. You know, Conway, how ignorant I am about money — that I am like a child. Is it not true?" She THK LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 271 waited for an answer, and Dalrymple was obliged to acknowledge that it was true. And yet he had known the times in which his dear friend had been very sharp in her memory with refer- ence to a few pounds. ' ' And now slic says that Dobbs owes her money which he can not pay her, and that every thin;^ must be sold. She says that Mussclboro must have tlie business, and that Dobbs must shift for liimself elsewhere." "Do you believe that she has the power to decide that things shall go this way or that — as she pleases?" " How am I to know? She says so, and she says it is because he drinks. He does drink. That at least is true ; but how can I help it ? Oh, Conway, what am I to do ? Dobbs did not come home at all last night, but sent for his tilings, saying that he must stay in the City. What am I to do if they come and take the house, and sell the furniture, and turn me out into the street?" Then the poor creature be- gan to cry in earnest, and Dalrymple had to console her as best he might. " How I wish ^ had known you first!" she said. To this Di»1- rymple was able to make no direct answer. He •was wise enough to know that a direct answer might possibl}' lead him into terrible trouble. He was by no means anxious to find himself " protecting" Mrs. Dobbs Broughton from the ruin which her lyisband had brought upon her. Before he left her she had told him a long story, partly of matters of which he had known something before, and partly made up of that which she had heard from the old woman. It was settled, Mi-s. Broughton said, tliat Mr. Mus-, selboro was to marry Clara Van Siever. But it appeared, as far as Dalrymple could learn, that this was a settlement made simply between Mrs. Van Siever and Mussclboro. Clara, as he thought, was not a girl likely to fall into such a settlement without having an ojjinion of her own. Mussclboro was to have the business, and Dobbs Broughton was to be "sold up," and then look for employment in the City. From her husband the wife had not heard a word on this matter, and the above story was simjjly what had been told to Mrs. Broughton by Mrs. Van Siever. "For myself it seems that there can be biit one fate," said Mrs. Broughton. Dal- rymple, in his tenderest voice, asked what that one fate must be. "Never mind," said Mrs. Broughton. "There are some things which one can not tell even to such a friend as you." He -was sitting near her, and liad all but got his arm behind her waist. He was, however, able to be prudent. "Maria," he said, getting up on his feet, " if it should really come about that you should want any thing, you will send to me. You will promise me that, at any rate?" She rubbed a tear from her eye, and said that she did not know. "There are moments in which a man must speak plainly," said Conway Dal- rvmple — " in which it would be unmanly not to do so, however prosaic it may seem. I need hardly tell you that my purse shall be yours if you want it." But just at that moment she did not want his pur.se, nor must it be sui)poscd that she wanted to run away with him and to leave her husband to fight the battle alone with Mrs. Van Siever. The truth was that she did not know what she wanted, over and beyond an as- surance from Conway Dalrymple that she was the most ill-used, the most interesting, and the most beautiful woman ever heard of, either in history or romance. Had he projiosed to her to pack up a bundle find go off with him in a cab to the London, Chatham, and Dover railway sta- tion, en route for Boulogne, I do not for a mo- ment think that she would liave packed up her bundle. She would have received intense grat- ification from the offer— so much so that she would have been almost consoled for her hus- band's ruin ; but she would have scolded her lover, and would have explained to him the great iniquity of which he was guilty. It was clear to him that at this present time he could not make any special terms with her as to Clara Van Siever. At such a moment as this he could hardly ask her to keep out of the way in order that he might have his opjrortuni- ty. But when he suggested that probably it might be better, in the present emergency, to give up the idea of any further sitting in her room, and proposed to send for his canvas, color- box, and easel, she told him that, as far as she was concerned, he was welcome to have that one other sitting for which they had all bargained. "You had better come to-morrow, as we had agreed," she said; "and unless I shall have been turned out into the street by the creditors, you may have the room as you did before. And you must remember, Conway, that though Mrs. Van says that Mussclboro is to have Clara, it doesn't follow that Clara should give way.'' When we consider every thing, we must ac- knowledge- that this was, at any rate, good-na- tured. Then there was a tender parting, with many tears, and Conway Dalrymple escaped from the house. He did not for a moment doubt the truth of the story which Mrs. Broughton had told, as far, at least, as it referred to the ruin of Dobbs Broughton. He had heard something of this before, and for some weeks had expected that a crash was coming. Broughton's rise had been very sudden, and Dalrymple had never re- garded his friend as firmly placed in the com- mercial world. Dobbs was one of those men who seem born to surprise the world by a spurt of prosperity, and might, perhaps, have had a second spurt, or even a third, could he have kept himself from drinking in the morning. But Dalrymple, though he was hardly astonisli- ed by the story, as it regarded Broughton, was put out by that part of it which had reference to Musselboro. He had known that IMusselboro had been introduced to Broughton by Mrs. Van Siever, but, nevertheless, he had regarded the man as being no more than Broughton's clerk. And now he was told that Musselboro was to marry Clara Van Siever, and have all Mrs. Van Sievcr's monev. He resolved, at last, tliat he 272 THE LAST CHRONICLE OE BAKSET. would run his risk about the money, and ti\ke Ch\ra either with or witliout it, if she would have him. And as for that difliculty in asking hoc, if Mrs. Eroughton would give liim no op- portunity of putting the question behind her hack, he would put it before her face. He had not much leisure for consideration on these points, as the next day was the day for the last sitting. On the following morning he found Miss Van Sicver already seated in Mrs. IJroughton's room when he reached it. And at the moment Mrs. Broughton was not there. As he took Clara's hand he could not prevent himself from asking her whether she had hoard any thing ? " Heard what ?" said Clara. ''Then you have not," said he. "Never mind now, as Mrs. Broughton is here." Then Mrs. Broughton had entered the room. She seemed to be quite cheerful, but Dalrymj)le ])erfectly understood, from a special glance which she gave to him, that he was to jicrceive that her cheerfulness was assumed for Clara's benefit. Mrs. Broughton was showing how great a heroine she could be on behalf of her friends. "Now, my dear," she said, "do remember that this is the last da)'. It may be all very well, Conway, and of course you know best ; but as far as I can see, you have not made half as much progress as you ought to have done." "We shall do excellently well," said Dalrymple. "So much the better," said Mrs. Broughton; " and now, Clara, I'll place you." And so Clara was placed on her knees, with the turban on her head. Dalrymple began his work assiduously, know- ing that Mrs. Broughton would not leave the room for some minutes. It was certain tliat she would remain for a quarter of an hour, and it might be as well that he should really use that time on his jiicture. The peculiar position in which he was placed probably made his work difHcult to him. There was something perplex- ing in the necessity which bound him to look upon the young lady before him both as Jael and as the future Mrs. Conway Dalrymple, knowing as he did that she was at present sim- ply Clara Van Siever. A double personification was not difficult to him. He had encountered it with every model that had sat to him, and with every young lady he had attemjjted to win — if he had ever made such an attempt with one before. But the triple character, joined to the necessity of the double work, was distressing to him. "The hand a little further back, if you don't mind," he said, "and the wrist more turned toward me. That is just it. Lean a little more over him. There — that will do ex- actly." If Mrs. Broughton did not go very quickly he must begin to address his model on a totally ditferent subject, even while she was in the act of slaying Sisera. " Have you made up your mind who is to be Sisera," asked Mrs. Broughton. "I think I shall put in my own face," said Dalrymple; "if Miss Van Siever does not ob- ject." "Not in the least," said Clara, speaking with- out moving her face — almost without moving her lij^s. "That will be excellent," said Mrs. Brough- ton. She was still quite cheerful, and really laughed as she spoke. "Shall you like the idea, Clara, of striking the nail right through his head ?" "Oh yes; as well his head as another's. I shall seem to be having my revenge for all the trouble he has given me." There was a slight pause, and then Dalrymple si)oke. "You have had that already, in striking me right througli the heart." "What a very j)retty speech! Was it not, my dear?" said Mrs. Broughton. And then Mrs. Broughton laughed. There was something slightly hysterical in her laugh which grated on Dalrymple's ears — something which seemed to tell him that at the present moment his dear friend was not going to assist him honestly iu his effort. "Only that I should put him out, I wonkl get up and make a courtesy, "said Chira. No young lad}' could ever talk of making a courtesy for such a speech if she supposed it to have been made in earnestness. iVnd Clara, no doubt, understood that a man might make a hundred such speeches in the jjrcscnce of a third ]>crson without any danger that they Avould be taken as meaning any thing. All this Dalrymjjle knew, and be- gan to think that he had better ])Ut down his pallet and brush, and do the work which he had before liim in the most prosaic language that he could use. He could, at any rate, suc- ceed in making Clara acknowledge his intention in this way. He waited still for a minute or two, and it seemed to him that Mrs. Broughton had no intention of piling her fagots on the pres- ent occasion. It might be that the remembrance of her husband's ruin prevented her from sac- rilicing herself in the other direction also. "I am not very good at pretty speeches, but I am good at telling the truth," s;iid Dalrymjile. "Ha, ha, ha 1" laughed Mrs. Broughton, still with a touch of hysterical action in her throat. " Upon my word, Conway, you know how to jjraise yourself." " He disi)raises himself most unnecessarily in denying the prettiness of his language," said Clara. As she spoke she hardly moved her lips, and Dalrymple went on painting from the model. It was clear that Miss Van Siever understood that the painting, and not the pretty speeches, was the important business on hand. Mrs. Broughton had now tucked her feet up on the sofii, and was gazing at the artist as he stood at his work. Dalrymple, remembering how he had offered her his purse— an offer which, in the existing crisis of her affairs, might mean a great deal — felt that she was ill-natured. Had she intended to do him a good turn she would have gone now ; but there she lay, with her feet tucked up, clearly purposing to be present through the whole of that morning's sitting. His anger against her added something to his THE LAST CIIKONICLE OF BARSET. 273 spirit, and made him determine that he would carry out his purpose. Suddenly, therefore, he pre|)ared himself for action. He was in the habit of working with a Turk- ish cap on his head, and with a sliort apron tied round liim. There was sometliing picturesque about the cap, which might not liave been in- congruous with love-making. It is easy to sup- pose that Juan wore a Turkish cap when he sat witli Ilaidee in Lambro's island. But we may be quite sure that he did not wear an apron. Now Dalrymple had thought of all this, and had made up his mind to work to-day without his apron ; but when arranging his easel and his brushes he had put it on from force of habit, and was now disgusted with himself as he re- membered it. He put down his brush, divested his thumb of his pallet, then took off his cap, and after that untied the apron. "Conway, what are you going to do?" said Mrs. Broughton. ' ' I am going to ask Clara Van Siever to be my wife," said Dalrymple. At that moment the door was opened, and Mrs. Van Siever en- tered the room. Clara had not risen from her kneeling pos- ture when Dalrymple began to put off his trap- pings. She had not seen what he was doing [ as plainly as Mrs. Broughton had done, having | her attention naturally drawn toward her Sise- ra ; and, besides this, she understood tliat she was to remain as she was placed till orders to move were given to her. Dalrymple would oc- 1 casLonally step aside from liis easel to look at her in some altered light, and on sucli occasions she would simply hold her hammer somewhat more tiglitly than before. When, therefore, ! Mrs. Van Siever entered the room Clara was still slaying Sisera, in spite of the artist's speech. The speech, indeed, and her mother, both seem- ed to come to her at the same time. The old woman stood for a moment holding the open door in her hand. "You fool!" she said, ! *' what are you doing there, dressed up in that i way like a guy ?" Then Clara got up from her f feet, and stood before her mother in Jael's dress and Jael's turban. Dalrymple thought that the dress and turban did not become her badly, i Mrs. Van Siever apparently tliouglit otlierwise. "Will you have the goodness to tell me, misg, why you are dressed up after that Mad Bess of Bedlam fashion ?" The reader will no doubt bear in mind that | Clara had other words of which to think besides | those wiiich were addressed to her by her mo- ther. Dalrymple had asked her to be his wife ' in the plainest possible language, and slie ' thouglit that the very plainness of the language i became him well. The A'ery taking off of hisi! apron, almost as he said the words, though to himself the action had been so distressing as al- ; most to overcome his purpose, had in it some- i thing to her of direct simple determination which ' pleased her. When he had spoken of liaving ; had a nail driven by her right through his heart ! she had not been in the least gratified ; but the ! taking off of the apron, and the putting down of the pallet, and the downright way in which he had called her Clara ^an Siever — attempting to be neitlier sentimental with Clara nor polite with Miss Van Siever — did please her. Slie had often said to herself that she would never give a plain answer to a man who did not ask lier a plain question ; to a man who, in asking this question, did not say plainly to her, "Clara Van Siever, will you become Mrs. Jones?" — or Mrs. Smith, or Mrs. Tomkins, as the case might be. Now Conway Dalrymple had asked her to become Mrs. Dalrymple very much after this fashion. In spite of the apparition of her mo- ther all this had passed through her mind. Not the less, however, was she obliged to answer her mother before she could give any reply to the other questioner. In the mean time Mrs. Dobbs Broughton had untucked her feet. "Mamma," said Clara, "who ever expected to sec you here ?" " I dare say nobody did," said Mrs. Van Sie- ver ; " but here I am, nevertheless." " Madam," said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, " you might at any rate have gone through the cere- mony of having yourself announced by the serv- ant." "Madam," said the old woman, attempting to mimic the tone of the other, " I thought that on such a very particular occasion as this I might be allowed to announce myself. You tomfool, you, why don't you take that turban off?" Then Clara, with slow and graceful motion, unwound the turban. If Dalrymple really meant what he had said, and would stick to it, she need not mind being called a tomfool by her mother. " Conway, I am afraid that our last sitting is disturbed," said Mrs. Broughton, with her little laugh. " Conway's last sitting certainly is disturbed," said Mrs. Van Siever, and then she mimicked the laugh. "And you'll all be disturbed — I can tell you that. What an ass you must be to go on with this kind of thing after what I said to you yesterday ! Do you know that he got beast- ly drunk in the City last night, and that he is drunk now, while you are going on with your tomfooleries?" Upon iiearing this Mrs. Dobbs Broughton fainted into Dairy mple's arms. . Hitherto the artist had not said a word, and had hardly known what part it would best be- come him now to play. If he intended to marry Clara — and he certainly did intend to marry her if she would have him — it might be as well not to quarrel with Mrs. Van Siever. At any rate, there was nothing in Mrs. Van Siever's intru- sion, disagreeable as it was, which need make him take up his sword to do battle with her. But now, as he held INIrs. Broughton in his arms, and as the horrid words which the old wo- man had spoken rung in his ears, he could not refrain himself from uttering reproach. " You ought not to have told her in this way, before other people, even if it be true," said Conway. "Leave mo to be my own judge of what I ought to do, if you please, Sir. If she had any 274 THE LAST CHHONICLE OF BARSET. feeliii}; at all, what I told her yesterday would have kejit her from all this. But some pcojilc have i!0 feelint;, and will^go on being tomfools though tiie house is on lire." As these words were spoken Mrs. Brouj^liton fainted more per- sistently than ever — so that Dalrymjjle was con- vinced that whether she felt or not, at any rate she heard. He had now dragged her across the room, and laid her upon the sofa, and Clara had come to her assistance. " I dare say you think mc very hard because I speak jilainly, but tliere are things much harder than jilain speak- ing. I low much do you expect to be paid, Sir, for this ])icturc of my girl ?" " I do not expect to be paid for it at all," said Dalrymple. "And who is it to belong to?" "It belongs to mc at jjrcsent." " Then, Sir, it mustn't belong to you any longer. It won't do {ov you to have a jjictnre of my girl to hang up in your painting-room for all your friends to come and make their jokes about, nor yet to make a show of it in any of your exhibitions. My daughter has been a fool, and I can't help it. If you'll tell me what's the cost I'll pay you ; then I'll have the picture home, and I'll treat it as it deserves." Dalrymple thought for a moment about his picture and about Mrs. Van Siever, What had he better do ? He wanted to behave well, and he felt that the old woman had something of justice on her side. "Madam," he said, "I will not .sell this picture ; but it shall be de- stroyed, if you wish it." "I certainly do wish it, but I won't trust to you. If it's not sent to my house at once you'll hear from me through my lawyers." Then Dalrymple deliberately opened his pen- knife and slit the canvas across, through the middle of the picture each way. Clara, as she saw him do it, felt that in truth she loved him. " There, Mrs. Van Siever," he said, "now you can take the bits home with you in your basket if you wish it." At this moment, as the rent canvas fell and fluttered upon the stretcher, there came a loud voice of lamentation from the sofa, a groan of despair, and a shriek of wrath. " Very fine indeed," said Mrs. Van Siever. "When ladies faint they always ought to have their eyes about tiiem. I see that Mrs. Brough-* ton understands tiiat." "Take her away, Conway — for God's sake take her away," said Mrs. Broughton. " I shall take myself away very shortly," said Mrs. Van Siever, "so you needn't trouble Mr., Conway about that. Not but what I thouglit the gentleman's name was Mr. something else." "My name is Conway Dalrymple," said the artist. "Then I suppose you must be her brother, or her cousin, or something of that sort?" said Mrs. Van Siever. "Take her away," screamed Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. "Wait a moment, madam. As you've chopped up your handiwork there, Mr. Con- way Dalrymple, and as I supi)osc my daughter has been more to blame than any body else — " i "She has not been to blame at all," said Dalrymjjle. "That's my affair, and not yours," said Mrs. Van Siever, very sluarjily. " But as you've been at all this trouble, and have now cliopped it up, I don't mind paying you for your time and paints ; only I shall be glad to know how much it will come to ?" "There will be nothing to pay, Mrs. Van Siever." " How long has he been at it, Clara?" "Mamma, indeed you had better not say any thing about paying him." "I shall say whatever I please, miss. Will ten pounds do it, Sir ?" " If you choose to buy the picture, the price will be seven hundred and fifty," said Dalrym- ple, with a smile, pointing to the fragments. " Seven hundred and fifty pounds?" said the old woman. "But I strongly advise you not to make the purchase," said Dalrymple. "Seven hundred and fifty pounds! I cer- tainly shall not give you seven hundred and fifty pounds. Sir." " I certainly think you could invest your mon- ey better, l\Irs. Van Siever. But if the thing is to be sold at all, that is my price. I've thought that there was some justice in your demand that it should be destroyed — and therefoi;e I have destroyed it." Mrs. Van Siever had been standing on the same spot ever since she had entered the room, and now she turned round to leave the room. "If you have any demand to make, I beg that you will send in your account for work done to INIr. Musselboro. He is my man of business. Clara, are you ready to come home ? Tlie cab is waiting at the door — at sixpence the quarter of an hour, if you will be pleased to re- member." "Mrs. Broughton," said Clara, thoughtful of iier raiment, and remembering that it miglit not be well that she should return home, even in a cab, dressed as Jael, "if you will allow me, I will go into your room for a minute or two." " Certainly, Clara, "said Mrs. Broughton, pre- paring to accompany her. "But before you go, Mrs. Broughton," said Mrs. Van Siever, "it may be as well that I should tell you that my daughter is going to be- come the wife of Mr. Musselboro. It may sim- plify matters that you should know this." And Mrs. Van Siever, as she spoke, looked hard at Conway Dalrymple. "Mamma!" exclaimed Clara. "My dear," said Mrs. Van Siever, " you had better change your dress and come away with me." "Not till I have protested against what you have said, mamma." " You had better leave your protesting alone, I can tell you." "Mrs. Broughton," continued Clara, "I must THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 275 beg yoti to understand that mamma has not the slightest right in the workl to tell you what she just now said about me. Nothing on earth would induce me to become the wife of Mr. Broughtoii's partner." There was something whicli made Clara un- willing even to name the man wliom lier mo- ther had publicly proposed as her future hus- band. " He isn't Mr. Broughton's partner," said Mrs. Van Siever. " Mr. Broughton has not got a partner. Mr. ]\Iusselboro is the head of the firm. And as to your marrying him, of course I can't make you." /j "No, mamma; you can not." j " Mrs. Brougliton understands that, no doubt | — and so, probably, does Mr. Dalrymple. ' I only tell tliera what are my ideas. If you choose to marry the sweep at the crossing, I can't help it. Only I don't see what good you would do the sweep, when he would have to sweep for himself and you too. At any rate, I suppose you mean to go home with me now?" Then Mrs. Broughton and Clara left the room, and Mrs. Van Siever was left with Conway Dalrym- ple. "Mr. Dalrymple," said Mrs. Van Siever, " do not deceive yourself. What I told you just now will certainly come to pass." " It seems to me that tliat must depend on the young lady," said Dalrymple. " I'll tell you what certainly will not depend on the young lady," said Mrs. Van Siever, "and that is whether the man who marries her will have more with her than the clothes she stands up in. You will understand that argument, I suppose?" " I'm not quite sure that I do, " said Dalrymple. "Then you'd better try to understand it. Good-morning, Sir. I'm sorry you've had to slit your picture." Then she courtesied low, and walked out on to the landing-place. ' ' Clara," she cried, "I'm waiting for you — sixpence a quarter of an hour — remember that." In a minute or two Clara came out to her, and then Mrs. Van Siever and Miss Van Siever took their departure. " Oil, Conway, what am I to do ? what am I to do ?" said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. Dalrym- ple stood perplexed fur a few minutes, and could not tell her what she was to do. She was in such a position that it was very liard to tell her what to do. " Do you believe, Conway, that he is real- ly ruined?" " What am I to say ? How am I to know ?" "I see that you believe it," said the wretched woman. " I can not but believe that there is something of truth in what this woman says. Why else should she come here witli sucli a story ?" Tlien there was a pause, during which Mrs. Brough- ton was burying her face on the arm of the sofa. "I'll tell you what I'll do, "continued he. "I'll go into the City and make inquiry. It can hardly be but what I shall learn the truth there." Then there was another pause, at the end of whicli Mrs. Broughton got up from the sofa. "Tell me," said she, "what do you mean to do about tliat girl ?" " You heard me ask her to be my wife?" "I did. I did!" "Is it not what you intended?" "Do not ask me. My mind is bewildered. My brain is on fire ! Oh, Conway !" "Shall I go into the City as I proposed?" said Dalrymple, who felt that he miglit, at any rate, improve the position of circumstances by leaving the iiouse. "Yes — yes; go into the City ! Go any where. Go. But stay! Oh, Conway !" There was a sudden change in her voice as she spoke. " Hark — there he is, as sure as life." Then Conway listened, and heard a footstep on the stairs, as to which he had then but little doubt that it was the footstep of Dobbs Brougliton. " Oh Heavens ! he is tipsy !" exclaimed Mrs. Broughton; "and Avhat shall we do?" Then Dalrymple took her hand and pressed it, and left the room, so that he might meet the hus- band on the stairs. In the one moment that he had for reflection lie thought it was better that there should be no concealment. CHAPTER LXI. "it's dogged as does it." In accordance with the resohition to which the clerical commission had come on the first day of their sitting, Dr. Tempest wrote the fol- lowing letter to Mr. Crawley : " Rectoky, SiLVEKBEinGE, April 9, 1S6-. "Deak Sir, — I have been given to under- stand that you have been informed that the Bishop of Barchester has appointed a commis- sion of clergymen of the diocese to make in- quiry respecting certain accusations which, to the great regret of us all, have been made against you, in respect to a check for twenty pounds which was passed by you to a tradesman in this town. The clergymen appointed to form this commission are Mr. Oriel, the rector of Grcsh- amsbury, Mr. Robarts, the vicar of Framley, Mr. Quiverful, the warden of Hiram's Hospital at Barchester, Mr. Thumble, a clergyman estab- lished in that city, and myself. We held our first meeting on last Monday, and I now write to you in compliance with a resolution to which we then came. Before taking any other steps we thought it best to ask you to attend us here on next Monday, at two o'clock, and I beg that you will accept this letter as an invitation to that effect. "We are, of course, aware th.^t you are about to stand your trial at the next assizes for the of- fense in question. I beg you to understand that I do not express any opinion as to your guilt. But I think it right to point out to you that in the event of a jury finding an adverse verdict, the bishop might be placed in great difliculty un- less he were fortified with the opinion of a com- mission formed from vour follow clerical labor- 276 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. crs in the diocese. - Should such adverse ver- dict unrurttinatcly be {j;iven, the bishop would hardly be justified in nllowinj,' a clergyman phiced as you tiicn would be jilaced to return to his cure after the expiration of such ])unishment as the judge might award, without a further deci- sion from an ecclesiasiical court. Tliis decision he could only obtain by jirocecding against yon under the Act in reference to clerical offenses, which empowers him as bisliop of the iliocese to bring you before tl-.e Court of Arches — unless you would tliink well to sulmiit yom-self entirely to his judgment. You will, I think, understand what I m;;an. Tlie judge at assizes might iind it Ills duty to imprison a clergyman for a montli — regarding that clergyman simjjly as he would regard any other ))erson found guilty by a jury, and thus made subject to his judgment — and might do this for an olTense which the ecclesi- astical judge would find himself obliged to visit with tlie severer sentence of prolonged suspen- sion, or even with dejjrivation. " We are, however, clearly of opinion that should tlie jury find tliemselves able to actjuit yon, no further action whatsoever should be taken. In such case we think that tlie bisliop may regard your innocence to be fully estab- lished, and in such case wc shall recommend his lordship to look upon the matter as altogeth- er at an end. I can assure you that in such case I shall so regard it myself. "You will perceive that, as a consequence of this resolution, to which wc have already come, we are not minded to make any inquiries our- selves into tlie circumstances of j'our alleged guilt till the verdict of the jury shall be given. If you arc acquitted, our course will be clear. But should you be convicted, we must in that case advise the bishop to take the proceedings to which I have alluded, or to abstain from tak- ing them. We wish to ask you whether, now that our opinion has been conveyed to you, yon will lie willing to submit to the bishop's decision in the event of an adverse verdict being given by the jury; and we think that it will be better for us all that you should meet us here at the hour I have named on Monday next, the 15th instant. It is not our intention to make any report to the bishop until the trial shall be over. "I have tlie honor to be, " My dear Sir, "Your very obedient servant, " MoRTiMKR Tempest, "The Kev. Josiah Ckawley, Houglestock." In the same envelope Dr. Tempest sent a short private note, in which he said that he should be very happy to see Mr. Crawley at half past one on tlie Monday named, that luncheon would be ready at that hour, and that, as Mr. Crawley's attendance was required on public grounds, he would take care that a carriage was provided for the day. Mr. Crawley received this letter in his wife's presence, and read it in silence. Mrs. Crawley saw that he fiaid close attention to it, and was sure — she felt tiiat she was sure — that it referred in some way to the terrible subject of the chccfc for twenty pounds. Indeed, every thing that came into the house, almost every word spoken there, and every thought that came into the breasts of any of the family, had more or 1 reference to the coming trial. How could it be otherwise ? There was ruin coming on them all! — ruin and complete disgrace coming on father, mother, and children ! To have been accused itself was very bad ; but now it seemed to be the opinion of every one that the verdict must bei against the man. Mrs. Crawley herself, who was perfectly sure of her husband's innocence before God, believed that the jury would find him guilty; and believed also that he had be- come i)ossessed of the money in some manner that would have been dishonest had he not been so different from other people as to be entitled to be considered innocent where another man would have been plainly guilty. She was full of the check for twenty pounds, and of its re- sults. When, therefore, he had read the letter through a second time, and even then had spoken no word about it, of course she could not refrain from questioning him. "My love," she said, "what is the letter?" "It is on business," he answei'cd. She was silent for a moment before she spoke again. " May I not know the business ?" "No," said he; "not at present." " Is it from the bishop?" "Have I not answered you? Have I not given you to understand that, for a while at least, I would jn-efer to keep the contents of this epistle to myself?" Then he looked at her very sternly, and afterward turned his eyes upon the fire-place and gazed at the fire as though he were striving to read there something of his fu- ture fate. She did not much regard the sever- ity of his speech. That, too, like the taking of the check itself, was to be forgiven him becaitse he was diftcrent from other men. His black mood had come upon him, and every thing was to be forgiven him now. He was as a child when cutting his teeth. Let tlie poor wayward sufferer be ever so petulant, the mother simply pities and loves him, and is never angry. "I beg your pardon, Josiah," she said, " but I thought it would comfort you to speak to me about it." "It will not comfort rae," he said. " Nothing comforts me. Nothing can comfort me. Jane, give me my hat and my stick." His daughter brought to liim his hat and stick, and without another word he went out and left them. As a matter of course he turned his steps to- ward Hoggle End. When he desired to be long absent from the house he always went among the brickmakers. His M'ife, as she stood at the window and watched the direction in which he went, knew that he might be away for hours. The only friends out of his own family with whom he ever spoke freely were some of these rough parishioners. But he was not thinking of the brickmakers when he started. He was simply desirous of again reading Dr. Tempest's THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 277 letter, and of considering it, in some spot where no eye could see him. He walked away with long steps, regarding nothing — neither the ruts in the dirty lane, nor the young primroses which •were fast showing themselves on the banks, nor the gathering clouds which might have told liim of the coming rain. He went on for a couple of miles, till he had nearly reached the outskirts of the colony of Hoggle End, and then he sat himself down upon a gate. He had not been there a minute before a few slow large drojjs be- gan to fall, but he was altogether too much wrapped up in his thoughts to regard the rain. What answer should he make to this letter from the man at Silverbridge? The position of his own mind in reference to his own guilt or his own- innocence was very sin- gular. It was simply the truth that he did not know how the check had come to him. He did know that he had blundered about it most egre^ giously, especially when he had averred that this check for twenty pounds had been identical with a check for another sum which had been given to him by Mr. Soames. He had blundered since, in saying that the dean had given it to him. There could be no doubt as to this, for the dean j had denied that ho had done so. And he had I come to think it very possible that he had in- 1 deed picked the check up, and liad afterward \ used it, having deposited it by some strange ac- ; cident — not knowing tlien what he was doing, ! or wliat was the nature of the bit of paper in his j hand — with the notes which he had accepted from the dean with so much reluctance, with I such an agony of spirit. In all these thoughts I of his own about his own doings and his own I position, he almost admitted to himself his own 1 insanity, his inability to manage his own affairs I with that degree of rational sequence which is ! taken for granted as belonging to a man when I he is made subject to criminal laws. As he , puzzled his brain in his efforts to create a mem- I ory as to the check, and succeeded in bringing 'i to his mind a recollection that he had once II known something about tlie check — that the ji check had at one time been the subject of a '} thought and of a resolution — he admitted to him- 1 self that in accordance with all law and all rea- ' son he must be regarded as a thief. He had i taken and used and spent that which he ought to have known was not his own — which he would have known not to be his own but for some ter- rible incapacity with which God had afflicted him. What then must be the result? His mind was clear enough about this. If the jury 1 could see every thing and know every thing— as he would wish that they should do ; and if this bishop's commission, and the bishop himself, and the Court of Arches with its judge, could see and know every thing ; and if so seeing and so knowing they could act with clear honesty and perfect wisdom — what would they do? They would declare of him that he was not a thief, only because he was so muddy-minded, so addle- pated as not to know the difference between meum and tuum ! There could be no other end to it, let all the lawyers and all the clergymen in England put their wits to it. Though lie knew himself to be muddy-minded and addle- patcd, he could see that. And could any one say of such a man that he was fit to be the act- ing clergyman of a parish — to have a freehold possession in a ])arisli as curer of men's souls ! The bishop was in the right of it, let him be ten times as mean a fellow as he was. And yet as he sat there on the gate, while the rain came down heavily upon him, even when admitting the justice of the bishop, and the truth of tlie verdict which the jury would no doubt give, and the ju-opriety of the action which that cold, reasonable, prosperous man at Silverbridge would take, he pitied himself with a tenderness of commiseration which knew no bounds. As for those belonging to him, his wife and children, his pity for them was of a different kind. He would have suffered any in- crease of suffering, could he by such agony have released tliem. Dearly as he loved tlieni, he would have severed himself from them had it been possible. Terrible thoughts as to their fate had come into his mind in the worst mp- ments of his moodiness — thoughts whicli he had had suflScicnt strength and manliness to put away from him with a strong hand, lest tliey should drive him to crime indeed; and these had come from the great pity wliicli he had felt for them. But the commiseration which he had felt for himself had been different from tliis, and had mostly visited him at times when that other pity was for the moment in abeyance. What though he had taken the ciieck, and spent tlie money though it was not his ? He might be guilty before the law, but he was not guilty before God. There had never been a thouglit of theft in his mind, or a desire to steal in bis heart. He knew that well enough. No jury could make him guilty of tliefc before God. And what though this mixture of guilt and in- nocence had come from madness — from mad- ness which these courts must recognize if they chose to find him innocent of tlie crime ? In spite of his aberrations of intellect, if there were any such, his ministrations in his parish were good. Had lie not preached fervently and well — preaching the true gospel ? Had he not been very diligent among his people, striving with all his might to lessen the ignorance of the igno- rant, and to gild with godliness the learning of the instructed ? Had he not been patient, en- during, instant, and in all things amenable to the laws and regulations laid down by the Church for his guidance in his duties as a par- ish clergyman ? Who could point out in what he had been astray, or where he had gone amiss? But for the work which he had done with so much zeal the Church which he served had ])aid him so miserable a pittance that, though life and soul had been kept together, the reason, or a fragment of the reason, had at moments es- caped from his keeping in the scramble. Hence it was that this terrible calamity had fallen upon him ! Who had been tried as he had 278 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. boen tried, and liad pone tliioii,i;h such fire with less loss of intellectual jjower tluui he had done? He was still a scholar, though no brother scholar ever came near liini, and would make Greek iambics as be walked alonj;; the lanes. His memory was stored with poetry, though no book ever came to bis bands except those shorn and tattered volumes which lay ujjon his table. Old problems in trigonometry were tiic jileasing re- laxations uf bis mind, and comijlications of fig- ures were a delight to him. There was not one of those ])rosperous clergymen around him, and who scorned him, whom be could not have in- structed in Hebrew. It was always a gratifica- tion to him to remember that his old friend the dean was weak in his Hebrew. He, with these acquirements, with these fitnesses, had been thrust down to the ground — to the very granite — and because in that harsh, heartless thrusting his intellect had for moments wavered as to com- mon things, cleaving still to all its grander, no- bler possessions, be was now to be rent in ])icces and scattered to the winds, as being altogether vile, worthless, and worse than worthless. It wjs thus that be thought of himself, pitying himself, as he sat upon the gate, while the rain fell ruthlessly on his shoulders. He ])itied himself with a commiseration that was sickly in spite of its truth. It was the fault of the man that he was imbued too strongly with self-consciousness. He could do a great thing or two. He could keep up his courage in positions which would wash all courage out of most men. He could tell the truth though truth should ruin him. He could sacrifice all that he had to duty. He could do justice though the heaven should fiill. But he could not forget to pay a tribute to himself for the greatness of his own actions ; nor, when accept- ing with an effort of meekness the small pay- ment made by the world to him in return for his great works, could he forget the great pay- ments made to others for small work. It was not sufficient for him to remember that he knew Hei>re\\', but he must remember also that the de.in (lid not. Nevertheless, as he sat tliere under the rain, lie made up his mind with a clearness that cer- tainly had in it nothing of that muddiness of mind of which he had often accused himself. Indeed, the intellect of this man was essentially clear. It was simply his memory that would play him tricks — his memory as to things which at the moment were not important to him. The fact that the dean had given him money was very important, and he remembered it well. But the amount of the money, and its form, at a moment in which he bad flattered himself that he might have strength to leave it unused, had not been important to him. Now he resolved that he would go to Dr. Tempest, and that he would tell Dr. Tempest that there was no oc- casion for any further inquiry. He would sub- mit to the bishop, let the bishop's decision be what it might. Things were different since the day on wliicli he had refused Mr. Thumbic ad- mission to his pulpit. At that time people be- lieved him to be innocent, and be so believed of himself. Now people believed him to be guilty, and it could not be right that a man held in such slight esteem should exercise the func- tions of a parish priest, let his own opinion of himself be what it might. He would submit himself, and go any where — to the galleys or the work-house, if they wished it. As for his wife and children, they would, he said to him- self, be better without him than with him. The world would never be so liard to a woman or to children as it had been to him. He was sitting saturated with rain — saturated also with thinking — and quite unobservant of any thing around him, when he was accosted by an old man from Hoggle End, with whom be was well acquainted. " Thee be wat, Marster Crawley," said the old man. " Wet !" said Crawley, recalled suddenly back to the realities of life. "Well — yes. I am wet. That's because it's raining." "Thee be teeming o' wat. Hadn't thee bet- ter go wliome ?" "And are not you wet also?" said Mr. CraAv- ley, looking at the old man, wlio had been at work in the brick-field, and who was soaked with mire, and from whom there seemed to come a steam of muddy mist. "Is it me, yer reverence? I'm wat in course. The loikes of us is always wat — that is barring the insides of us. It comes to us natural to have the rheumatics. How is one of us to help bisself against having on 'em ? But there ain't no call for the loikes of you to have the rheumatics." "My friend," said Crawley, who was now standing on the road — and as he spoke he put out his arm and took the brickmakcr by the hand — -"there is a worse complaint than rheu- matism — there is, indeed." "There's what tiiey calls the coUerer," said Giles Hoggett, looking up into Mr. Crawley's face. "That ain't a got a hold of yer?" "Ay, and worse than the cholera. A man is killed all over when he is struck in his pride — and yet he lives." " Maybe that's bad enough too," said Giles, with his hand still held by the other. "It is bad enough," said Mr. Crawley, strik- ing bis breast with his left hand. "It is bad enough." "Tell 'ee what. Master Crawley' — and yer rev- erence mustn't think as I means to be preaching — there ain't nowt a man can't bear if he'll only be dogged. You go whonie. Master Crawley, and think o' that, and maybe it'll do ye a good yet. It's dogged as does it. It ain't thinking about it." Then Giles Hoggett withdrew his band from the clergyman's, and walked away toward his home at Hoggle End. Mr. Crawley also turned homeward, and as he made his way through the lanes he repeated to himself Giles Hoggett's words. " It's dogged as does it. It's not thinking about it." He did not sav a word to his wife on that THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 279 nfternoon about Dr. Tempest; and she was so much taken up with liis outward condition when ho returned as almost to liave forgotten tlie let- ter. He allowed himself, but barely allowed liiniself, to be made dry, and then for the re- liiaiuder of the day applied himself to learn the l.sson which Hoggctt had endeavored to teach him. But the learning of it was not easy, and liardly became more easy when he had worked the problem out in his own mind, and discov- ered that tlie brickmaker's doggedness simply meant self-abnegation — that a man should force himself to endure any thing that might be sent upon him, not only without outward grumbling, but also without grumbling inwardly. Early on the next morning he told his wife that he was going into Silverbridge. " It is that letter — the letter which I got yesterday, that calls me," he said. And then he handed her the let- ter as to which he had refused to speak to her on the preceding day. ' ' But this speaks of your going next Monday, Josiah," said Mrs. Crawley. / "I find it to be more suitable that I should go to-day," said he. " Some duty I do owe in this matter both to the bishop and to Dr. Tem- pest, who, after a fasliion, is, as regards my present business, the bishop's representative. But I do not perceive tliat I owe it as a duty to either to obey implicitly their injunctions, and I will not submit myself to the cross-questionings of the man Thumble. As I am purposed at present I shall express my willingness to give up the parish." " Give up the parish altogether?" "Yes, altogether." As he spoke he clasped both his hands together, and having held them for a moment on high, allowed them to fall thus clasped before him. "I can not give it up in part; I can not abandon tlie duties and reserve the honorarium. Nor would I if I could." "I did not mean that, Josiah. But pray think of it bfefore you speak." "I have thought of it, and I will think of it. Farewell, my dear." Then he came u]) to her and kissed her, and started on his journey on . foot to Silverbridge. It was about noon when he reached Silver- bridge, and he was told that Dr. Tempest was at home. The servant asked liim for a card. "I have no card," said Mr. Crawley, "but I will write my name for your belioof if your mas- ter's hospitality will allow me paper and pencil." The name was written, and as Crawley waited in the drawing-room he spent his lime in hating I Dr. Tempest because the door had been opened by a man-servant dressed in black. Had the man been in livery he would have hated Dr. Tempest all the same. And he M'ould have hated him a little had the door been opened even liy a smart maid. , ,. "Your letter came to hand yesterday morn- ing. Dr. Tempest," said Mr. Crawley, still stand- ing, though the doctor had pointed to a chair for him after shaking hands with him; "and ' having given yesterday to the consideration of it, with what judgment I have been able to ex- ercise, I have felt it to be incumbent upon me to wait uj)on you witiiout further delay, as by doing so I may perhaps assist your views and save labor to those gentlemen who are joined with you in this commission of which yon have sj)okcn. To somn of them it may possibly i)e troublesome that they should be brought togeth- er iierc on next Monday." Dr. Tempest had been looking at him during this sjjccch, and could see by his shoes and trow- scrs that he had walked from Hogglestock to Silverbridge. "Mr. Crawley, will you not sit down ?" said he, and then he rang his bell. Mr. Crawley sat down, not on the chair indicated, but on one further removed and at the other side of the table. When the servant came — the objectionable butler in black clothes that were so much smarter than Mr. Crawley's OM'n — his master's orders were communicated with- out any audible word, and the man returned with a decanter and wine-glasses. "After your walk, Mr. Crawley," said Dr. Tempest, getting up from his seat to pour out the wine. "None, I thank you." "Pray let me persuade you. I know the length of the miles so well." "I will take none, if you please. Sir," said :Mr. Crawley. "Now, Mr. Crawley,"said Dr. Tempest, "do let me sjjeak to you as a friend. You have walked eight miles, and are going to talk to me on a subject which is of vital importance to your- self. I won't discuss it unless you'll take a glass of wine and a biscuit." "Dr. Tempest!" " I'm quite in earnest. I won't. If you do as I ask you you shall talk to me till dinner- time, if you like it. There. Now you may be- gin." Mr. Crawley did eat the biscuit and did drinl: the wine, and as he did so he acknowledged to himself that Dr. Tempest was right. He felt that tlie wine made him stronger to speak. " I hardly know why you have preferred to-day to next Monday," said Dr. Tempest ; " but if any thing can be done by your presence here to-day your time shall not be thrown away." "I have preferred to-day to Monday," said Crawley, "partly because I would sooner talk to one man than to five." •'There is something in that, certainly," said Dr. Tempest. "And as I have made up my mind as to the course of action which it is my duty to take in the matter to which your letter of the 9th of this month refers, there can be no reason why I should postpone the declaration of my purpose. Dr. Tempest, I have determined to resign my pre- ferment at Hogglestock, and shall write to-day to the Dean of Barchester, who is the patron, acquainting him of my purpose." " You mean in the event — in the event — " "I mean. Sir, to do this without reference to any event that is future. The bishop, Dr. Tem- 280 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. pest, when I shall have been jJroveJ to be a thief, shall have no trouble cither in causing my suspension or my deprivation. The name and fame of a parish eler^ynian shouUl be unstained. Mine have become foul with infamy. I will not wait to be deprived by any court, by any bislioji, or by any commission. I will bow my head to that ]>ulilic opinion which has readied me, and I will dein-ive myself." He had got up from his chair, and was stand- ing as he pronounced the final sentence against himself. Dr. Tempest still remained seated in his chair, looking at him, and for a few mo- ments there was silence. "You must not do tiiat, Mr. Crawley," Dr. Tempest said, at last. "But I shall do it." "Then the dean must not take your resigna- tion. Speaking to you frankly, I tell you that there is no prevailing opinion as to the verdict which the jury may give." " My decision has nothing to do with the jury's verdict. My decision — " " Stop a moment, Mr. Crawley. It is possi- ble that you might say that which should not be said." " There is nothing to be said — nothing which T could say, which I would not say at the town cross if it were possible. As to this money, I do not know whether I stole it or whether I did not." "That is just what I have thought." "It is so." "Then you did not steal it. There can be no doubt about that." " Thank you, Dr. Tempest. I thank you heartily for saying so much. But, Sir, you are not the jury. Nor, if you were, could you white- wash me from the infamy which has been cast on me. Against the opinion expressed at the beginning of these proceedings by the bishop of the diocese^ — or rather against that expressed by his wife — I did venture to make a stand. Nei- ther the opinion which came from the palace, nor the vehicle by which it was expressed, command- ed my respect. Since that others have spoken to whom I feel myself bound to yield — yourself not the least among them. Dr. Tempest — and to them I shall yield. You may tell the Bishop of Bai'chester that I shall at once resign the per- petual curacy of Hogglestock into the hands of the Dean of Barchester, by whom I was ap- pointed." " No, Mr. Crawley ; I shall not do that. I can not control you ; but thinking you to be wrong, I shall not make that communication to the bishop." "Then I shall do so myself." "And your wife, Mr. Crawley, and your children ?" At that moment Mr. Crawley called to mind the advice of his friend Giles Hoggett. " It's dogged as does it." He certainly wanted some- thing very strong to sustain him in his difficulty. He found that this reference to his wife and children required him to be dogged in a very marked manner. " I can only trust that the wind may be tempered to them," he said. "They will, indeed, be shorn lambs." Dr. Tempest got u]) from his chair, and took a couple of turns about the room before he spoke again. "Man," he said, addressing Mr. Craw- ley with all his energy, "if you do this thing you will then at least be very wicked. If the jury find a verdict in your favor you are safe, and the chances arc that the verdict will be in your favor." " I care nothing now for the verdict," said Mr. Crawley. "And you will turn your wife into tlie poor- house for an idea !" "It's dogged as does it," said Mr. Crawley to himself. " I have thought of that," he said, aloud. "That my wife is dear to me, and that my children are dear, I will not deny. She was softly nurtured. Dr. Tempest, and came from a house in which want was never known. Since she has shared my board she has had some experience of that nature. That I should have brought her to all this is very terrible to me — ^so terrible that I often -wonder how it is that I live. But, Sir, you will agree with me, that my duty as a clergyman is above every thing. I do not dare, even for their sake, to remain in the par- ish. Good-morning, Dr. Tempest." Dr. Tem- pest, finding that he could not prevail with him, bade him adieu, feeling that any service to the Crawleys within his power might be best done by intercession with the bishop and with the dean. Then Mr. Crawley walked back to Hoggle- stock, repeating to himself Giles Hoggett's words, "It's dogged as does it." CHAPTER LXIL MR. CRAWLET'S letter TO THE DEAN. Mr. Crawley, when he got home after his walk to Silverbridge, denied that he was at all tired. "The man at Silverbridge whom I went to see administered refreshment to me — nay, he administered it with salutary vio- lence," he said, affecting even to laugh. "And I am bound to speak well of him on behalf of mercies over and beyond that exhibited by the persistent tender of some wine. That I should find him judicious I had expected. What little I have known of hira taught me so to think of him. But I found with him also a softness of heart for which I had not looked." "And you will not give up the living, Jo- siah ?" ) "Most certainly I will. A duty, when it is clear before a man, should never be made less so by any tenderness in others." He was still thinking of Giles Hoggett. "It's dogged as docs it." The poor woman could not answer him. She knew well that it was vain to argue with him. She could only hope that in, the event of his being acquitted at the trial, the dean, whose friendship she did not doubt, might THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 281 re-endow him with tlie small benefice which was their only source of bread. On the following morning there came by post a short note from Dr. Tempest. "My dear Mr. CraAvley," the note ran, "I implore you, if therq' be yet time, to do nothing rashly. And even although you should have written to the bishop or to the dean, your letters need have no effect if you will allow me to make them inoperative. Permit me to say that I am a man much older than you, and one who has mixed much both with clergymen and with the world at large. I tell you with absolute confidence that it is not your duty iu your present position to give up your living. Should your conduct ever be called iu question on this matter you will be at perfect liberty to say that you were guided by my ad- vice. You should take no step till after the trial. Then, if the verdict be against you, you should submit to the bishop's judgment. If the verdict be in your favor, the bishop's intei-fer- ence will be over. '•And you must remember that if it is not your duty as a clergyman to give up your liv- ing, 3'OU can have no right, seeing that you have a wife and family, to throw it away as an indulgence to your pride. Consult any other friend you please — Mr. Robarts, or the dean himself. I am quite sure that any friend who knows as many of the circumstances as I know will advise you to hold the living, at any rate till after the trial. You can refer any such friend to me. "Believe me to be, yours very truly, "Mortimer Tempest." Mr. Crawley walked about again with this letter in his pocket, but on this occasion he did not go in the direction of Hog;,dc End. From Hogglc End be could hardlv hope to pick up S further lessons of wisdom. What could any Giles lloggett say to him beyond what he had said to him already? If he were to read the doctor's letter to lloggett, and to succeed in making lloggett understand it all, lloggett could only caution him to be dogged. But it seemed to him that lloggett and his new friend at Sil- verbridge did not agree in their doctrines, and it might be well that he should endeavor to find out which of them had most of justice on his side. He was quite sure that lloggett would advise him to adhere to his jn'ojcct of giving up the living— if only lloggett could be made to understand the circumstances. He had written, but had not as yet sent away Ills letter to the dean. His letter to the bishop would be but a note, and he had postponed tiie writing of that till the other should be copied and made complete. He had sat up late into the night composing and altering his letter to his old friend, and now that the composition was finished he was loth to throw it away. Early in this morning, be- fore the postman had brought to him Dr. Tem- pest's urgent remonstrance, he had shown to his wife the draught of his letter to the dean. " I can not say that it is not true," she had said. "It is certainly true." "But I wish, dear, you would not send it. Why should you take any step till the trial be over ?" "I shall assuredly send it," he had replied. "If you will peruse it again you will see that the epistle would be futile were it kept till I shall have been proved to be a thief." "Oh, Josiah, such words kill me." "They are not pleasant, but it will be well that you should become used to them. As for the letter, I have taken some trouble to express myself with perspicuity, and I trust that I may have succeeded." At that time Hoggett was altogether in the ascendant ; but now, as he started on his walk, his mind was somewhat per- turbed by the contrary advice of one who, after all, might be as wise as Hoggett. There would be nothing dogged in the conduct recommended to him by Dr. Tempest. Were he to follow the doctor's advice, he would be trimming his sails so as to catch any slant of a breeze that might be favorable to him. There could be no dog- gedness in a character that would submit to such trimming. The postman came to Hogglestock but once in a day, so that he could not dispatch his letter till the next morning — unless, indeed, he chose to send it a distance of four miles to the nearest f post-office. As there was nothing to justify this, there was another night for the copying of his letter — should he at last determine to send it. He had declared to Dr. Tempest that he would send it. He had sworn to his wife that it should go. He had taken much trouble with it. He believed in Hoggett. But, nevertheless, this incumbency of Hogglestock was his all in the world. It might be that he could still hold it, and have bread at least for his wife to eat. Dr. 282 THE LASL CHRONICLE OF BARSET. Tempest had told him that he would be pvoba- hly acciiiitted. Dr. Tempest knew as much of all the cireumstauces as did he himself, and had told him tb.at he was not guilty. After all, Dr. Tempest knew more about it than Hogyett knew. If he resigned the living, what would become of him — of him — of him and of his wife? Wliith- cr would they first go when they turned their back ujion the door inside which there had at any rate been slicltcr for them for many years ? He calculated every thing that he had, and found that at the end of April, even when he should have received his rent -charge, there would not be five pounds in hand among them. As for his furniture, he still owed enough to make it impossible that lie should get any thing out of that. And these tiioughts all had refer- ence to his ]iosition if he should be acquitted. What would become of his wife if he should be convicted ? And as for himself, whither should he go when he came out of prison ? He had completely realized the idea that Hoggett's counsel was opjiosed to that given to him by Dr. Tempest ; but then it might certainly be the case that Hoggett had not known all the facts. A man should, no doubt, be dogged when the evils of life are insuperable ; but need he be so wlien the evils can be overcome ? Would not Hoggett himself undergo any treat- ment which lie believed to be sjiccific for rheu- matism ? Yes ; Hoggett would undergo any treatment that was not in itself opposed to his duty. The best treatment for rheumatism might be to stay away from the brick-field on a rainy day ; but if so there would be no money to keep the ])ot boiling, and Hoggett would cer- tainly go to the brick-field, rheumatism and all, as long as his limbs would carry him there. Yes; he would send his letter. It was his duty, and he would do it. Men looked askance at him, and pointed at him as a thief. He would send the letter, in spite of Dr. Tempest. Let justice be done, though the heaven may fall. He had heard of Lady Lufton's offer to his wife. The offers of the Lady Luftons of the world had been sorely distressing to his spirit, since it liad first come to jiass that such otters had reached him in consequence of his poverty. But now there was something almost of relief to him in the thought that the Lady Luftons would, after some fashion, save his wife and children from starvation ; would save his wife from the poor-house, and enable his children to have a start in the world. For one of his chil- dren a brilliant marriage might be provided — if only he himself were out of the way. How could he take himself out of the way? It had been whispered to him that he might be impris- oned for two months — or for two years. Would it not be a grand thing if the judge would con- demn him to be imprisoned for life ? Was there ever a man whose existence was so pur- poseless, so useless, so deleterious, as his own ? And yet he knew Hebrew well, whereas the dean knew but very little Hebrew. He could make Greek iambics, and doubted whether the bishop knew the difference between an iambus and a trochee. He could disport himself with trigonometry, feeling confident that Dr. Tempest had forgotten his way over the asses' bridge. He knew " Lycidas" by heart; and as for Thumblc, he felt quite sure that Thumble was incompetent of understanding a single allusion in that divine poem. Nevertheless, though all this wealth of acquirement Avas his, it would be better for himself, better for those who belonged to him, better for the world at large, that he should he put an end to. A sentence of penal servitude for life, witliout any trial, would be of all things tiie most desirable. Then there would 1)0 ample room for the practice of that virtue which Hoggett had taught him. When he returned home the Hoggethan doc- trine prevailed, and he prepared to coj)y his let- ter. But before he commenced his task he sat down with his youngest daughter, and read — or made her read to him — a passage out of a Greek poem, in which are described the trou- bles and agonies of a blind giant. No giant would have been more powerful — only that he was blind, and could not see to avenge himself on those who had injured him. "The same story is always coming up,'' he said, stopping the girl in her reading. "We have it in vari- ous versions, because it is so true to life. Ask for this great deliverer now, and find him Eyeless in Gaza, at the mill with slaves. It is the same stor}-. Great power reduced to impotence, great glory to misery, by the hand of Fate — Necessity, as the Greeks called her ; the goddess that will not be shunned! At the mill with slaves ! People, when they read it, do not appreciate the horror of the picture. Go on, my dear. It may be a question wheth- er Polyphemus had mind enough to suffer; but, from the description of his power, I should think that he had. ' At the mill with slaves !' Can any jiicture be more dreadful than that ? Go on, my dear. Of course you remember Mil- ton's Samson Agonistes. Agonistes indeed!" His wife was sitting stitching at the other side of the room ; but she heard his words — heard and understood them ; and before Jane could again get herself into the swing of the Greek verse she was over at her husband's side, with her arms round his neck. "My love!" she said. "My love!" He turned to her, and smiled as he spoke to her. "These are old thoughts with me. Poly- phemus and Belisarius, and Samson and Mil- ton, have always been pets of mine. The mind of the strong blind creature must be so sensible of the injury that has been done to him ! The impoteney, combined with his strength, or rath- er the impoteney with the memory of former strength and former aspirations, is so essentially tragic !" She looked into his eyes as he spoke, and there was something of the flash of old days, when the world was young to them, and when he would tell her of his hopes, and repeat to her THE LxVST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 283 long passages of iJoetry, and would criticise for her advantage the works of old writers. "Thank God," she said, "that you are not blind. It' may yet be all right with you." "Yes — it may be," he said. " And you shall not be at the mill with slaves. " "Or, at any rate, not eyeless in Gaza, if the Lord is good to me. Come, Jane, we will go on." Then he took up the passage himself, and read it on with clear, sonorous voice, every now and then explaining some passage or ex- pressing his own ideas upon it, as thougli he were really happy with his poetry. It was late in the evening before he got out his small stock of best letter paper, and sat down to work at his letter. lie first addressed himself to the bishop ; and what he wrote to the bishop was as follows : " IIOGGLESTOCK PARSONAGE, A2ml 11, 1SG-. "My Lokd Bisiior, — I have been in com- munication with Dr. Tempest, of Silverbridge, from whom I have learned that your lordshij) has been pleased to appoint a commission of inquiry — of which commission he is the chair- man — with reference to the proceedings which it may be necessary that you should take, as bishop of this diocese, after my forthcoming trial at the approaching Barchester assizes. My lord, I think it right to inform you, partly with a view to the comfort of the gentlemen named oiif that commission, and partly with the purport ojf giving you that information which I think that a bishop should possess in regard to the clerical affairs of his own diocese, that I have by this post resigned my preferment at Hogglestock into the hands of the Dean of Barchester, by whom it was given to me. In tliesc circumstances it will, I suppose, be unnecessary for you to con- tinue the commission which you have set in force ; but as to that, your lordship will, of course, be the only judge. " I have the honor to be, my Lord Bishop, "Your most obedient and very humble serv- ant, JosiAH Crawley, "Perpetual Curate of Hogglestock. "The Eight Reverend the Bishop of Barchester, etc. "The Palace, Barchester." But the letter which was of real importance— which was intended to say something— was that to the dean, and that also shall be given to tlie reader. Mr. Crawley had been for a while in doubt how he should address his old friend in commencing this letter, understanding that its tone throughout must, in a great degree, be made conformable with its first words. He would fain, in his pride, have begun "Sir." The question was between that and " My dear Arabin." It had once between them always been " Dear Frank" and " Dear Joe ;" but the occasions for "Dear Frank" and "Dear Joe" between them had long been passed. Crawley would have been very angry had he now been called Joe by the dean, and would have bitten his tongue out before he would have called the dean Frank. His better nature, however, now prevailed, and he began his letter, and com- pleted it as follows : " My dicak Arahin, — Circumstances, of which you have probably heard something, comjjcl me to write to you, as I fear, at some length. I am sorry that the trouble of such a letter should be forced upon you during your holidays" — Mr. Crawley, as he wrote this, did not forget to re- mind himself that he never had any holidays — "but I think you will admit, if you will bear with me to the end, that I have no alternative. "I have been accused of stealing a check for twenty pounds, which check was drawn by my Lord Lufton on his London bankers, and was lost out of his pocket by Mr. Soames, his lord- ship's agent, and was so lost, as ]\Ir. Soames states — not with an absolute assertion — during a visit which he made to my parsonage here at Hogglestock. Of the fact that I paid the check to a tradesman in Silverbridge there is no doubt. When questioned about it, I first gave an answer which was so manifestly incorrect that it has seem- ed odd to me that I should not have had credit for a mistake from those who must have seen that detection was so evident. The blunder was un- doubtedly stupid, and it now bears heavy on me. I then, as I have learned, made another error — of which I am aware that you have been in- formed. I said that the check had come to me from you, and in saying so I thought that it had formed a portion of that alms which your open-handed benevolence bestowed upon me when I attended on you, not long before your departure, in your library. I have striven to remember the facts. It may be — nay, it prob- ably is the case — that such struggles to catch some accurate glimpse of by-gone things do not trouble you. Your mind is, no doubt, clearer and stronger than mine, having been kept to its proper tune by greater and fitter work. With me, memory is all but gone, and the power of thinking is on the wane ! I struggled to re- member, and I thought that the check had been in the envelope which you handed to me — and I said so. I have since learned, from tidings re- ceived, as I am told, direct from yourself, that I was as wrong in the second statement as I had been in the first. The double blunder has, of course, been very heavy on me. " I was taken before the magistrates at Sil- verbridge, and was by them committed to stand my trial at the assizes to be holdcn in Barches- ter on the 28th of this month. Without doubt the magistrates had no alternative but to com- mit me, and I am indebted to them that they have allowed me my present liberty upon bail. That my suflTerings in all this should have been grievous, you will understand. But on that head I should not touch were it not that I am bound to explain to you that my troubles in reference to this parish of Hogglestock, to which I was appointed by you, have not been the slightest of those sufferings. I felt at first, be- lieving then that the world around me would 284 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. think it unlikely that such a one as I had will- fully stolen a sum of money, that it was my duty to maintain myself in my church. I did so maintain myself against an attack made upon me by the bishop, who sent over to Hogglcstock one Mr. Tliumble, a gentleman doubtless in holy orders, though I know nothing and can learn nothing of the place of his cure, to dis- possess me of my pulpit and to remove me from my ministrations among my people. To Mr. Thumble I turned a deaf car, and would not let him somucli as open his mouth inside the porch of my church. Up to this time I myself have road tlic services, and have ])reached to the peo- |>lo, and liave continued, as best I could, my visits to tlie poor and my labors in the school, tliougli I know — no one knows as well — how un- fitted I am for such work by the grief which has fallen upon me. " Tlien the bishop sent for me, and I thought it becoming on my part to go to him. I pre- sented myself to his lordsliip at his palace, and was minded to be much governed in my con- duct by what he might say to me, remembering that I am bound to respect tlie office, even though I may not approve the man ; and I hum- bled myself before his lordship, waiting patient- ly for any directions wiiich he in his discretion might think it proper to bestow on me. But there arose up between us that very pestilent woman, his wife — to his dismay, seemingly, as much as to mine — and she would let there be place for no speecli but her own. If there be aught clear to me in ecclesiastical matters it is this — that no authority can be delegated to a female. The special laws of this and of some other countries do allow that women shall sit upon the temporal thrones of the earth, but on the lowest step of the throne of the Cluircii no woman has been allowed to sit as bearing autliority, the romantic tale of the woman Poijc notwithstanding. Thereupon I left the palace in wrath, feeling myself aggrieved tiiat a wo- man should have attempted to dictate to me, and finding it hopeless to get a clear instruction from his lordship — the woman taking up tlie word whenever I put a question to my lord the bishop. Notliing, therefore, came of tliat inter- view but fruitless labor to myself, and anger, of which I have since been ashamed. " Since that time I have continued in my parish — working not without zeal, though in truth almost without hope — and learning even from day to day that the opinions of men around me have declared me to be guilty of tlie crime imputed to me. And now the bishop has issued a commission as preparatory to proceeding against me under the Act for the punishment of clerical offenses. In doing this, I can not say that tlie bishop has been ill-advised, even tliough the advice may have come from that evil-tongued lady, his wife. And I hold that j a woman may be called on for advice, with most [ salutary effect, in affairs as to which any show of female authority would be equally false and pernicious. With mo it has ever been so, and i \ I have had a counselor by me as wise as she has been devoted." It must be noticed tluit in the draught copy of his letter which Mr. Craw- ley gave to his wife to read this last sentence j was not inserted. Intending that she slioukl I read his letter, he omitted it till he made the fair coi)y. " Over this commission his lordship has api)ointcd Dr. Temiiest, of Silverbridge, to pre- side, and with him I have been in communica- tion. I trust that the labors of tlic gentlemen of whom it is composed may be brought to a si)eedy close ; and, having regard to their trou- ble, which in such a matter is, I fear, left with- out remuneration, I have informed Dr. Tempest that I should write this letter to you with the intent and assured puqjose of resigning the per- petual curacy of Ilogglestock into your hands. " You will be good enough, therefore, to un- derstand that I do so resign tlie living, and that I shall continue to administer the senices of the church only till some clergyman, certified to me as coming from you or from the bishop, may present himself in the parish, and shall de- clare himself ])repared to undertake the cure. Should it be so that Mr. TlmmUe be sent hither again, I will sit under him, endeavoring to catch improvement from his teaching, and striving to overcome the contempt which I felt for him ' when he before visited this parish. I annex be- neath my signature a copy of the letter which I have written to the bishop on this subject. "And now it behooves me, as the guardian- ship of the souls of those around mo was placed in my hands by you, to explain to yon as shortly as may be possible the reasons which have in- duced me to abandon my work. One or two whose judgment I do not discredit — and I am allowed to name Dr. Tempest, of Silverbridge, as one — have suggested to me that I should take no step myself till after my trial. They think tliat I should have regard to the chance of the verdict, so that the preferment may still be mine slionld I be acquitted ; and they say that should I be acquitted, the bishop's action against me must of necessity cease. That they are right in these facts I do not doubt ; but in giving such advice they look only to facts, having no regard to the conscience. I do not blame them. I should give such advice myself, knowing that a friend may give counsel as to outer things, but that a man must satisfy his inner conscience by his own perceptions of what is right and what is wrong. "I find myself to be ill-spoken of, to be re- garded with hard eyes by those around me, my people thinking that I have stolen this money. Two farmers in tliis parish have, as I am aware, expressed opinions that no jury could acquit me honestly, and neither of these men have ap- peared in my church since the expression of that opinion. I doubt whether they have gone to other churches; and if not they have been de- terred from all public worship by my presence. If this be so, how can I with a clear conscience remain among these men? Shall I take from their hands ^^•ages for those administrations which their deliberately formed opinions will THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 28S not allow them to accept from my hr.nJs ?" And yet, thou{:;h ho thus jtleatled nr;ainst himself, he knew that the two men of whom he was speak- ing were thick-headed dolts who were always tipsy on Saturday nights, and wlio came to church perhaps once in three weeks. " Your kind heart will douhtlcss proni])t 3'ou to tell me that no clergj'man could he safe in his parish if he were to allow the oi>inion of chance parishioners to prevail against him ; and you would ])rohabIy lay down for my guidance that grand old doctrine, 'Nil conscirc sibi, nulla pallescere culpa.' Presuming that you may do so, I will acknowledge such guidance to be good. If my mind were clear in tliis matter, I would not budge an inch for any farmer — no, nor for any bishop, farther than he might by law com- pel me ! But my mind is not clear. I do grow pale, and my hair stands on end with horror, as I confess to myself that I do not know whether I stole this money or no ! Such is the fact. In all sincerity I tell you that I know not whether I be guilty or innocent. It may be that I pick- ed up the check from the floor of my room, and afterward took it out and used it, not knowing whence it had come to me. If it be so, I stole it, and am guilty before the laws of my country. If it be so, I am not fit to administer the Lord's sacraments to these people. When the cup was last in my hand and I was blessing them I felt that I was not fit, and I almost dropped the chal- ice. That God will know my weakness and par- don me the perplexity of my mind — that is be- tween Him and His creature. " As I read my letter over to myself I feel how weak are my words, and how inefficient to explain to you the exact position in which I stand ; but they will suffice to convince you that I am assuredly purposed to resign this par- ish of Hogglestock, and that it is therefore in- cumbent on you, as patron of the living, to nom- inate my successor to the benefice. I have only further to ask your pardon for this long letter, and to thank you again for the many and great marks of friendship which you have conferred on me. Alas ! could you have foreseen in those old days how barren of all good would have been the life of him you then esteemed, you might perhaps have escaped the disgrace of being called the friend of one whom no one now re- gards with esteem. "Nevertheless, I may still say that I amj "With all affijction, yours truly, " JosiAii Crawley." The last paragraph of the letter was also added since his wife had read it. When he had first composed his letter he had been somewhat proud of his words, thinking that he had clearly told his story. But when, sitting alone at his desk, he read it again, filling his mind as he went on with ideas which he would fain have expressed to his old friend, were it not that he feared to indulge himself with too many words, he began to tell himself that his story was any tiring but well told. There was no expression there of the Iloggcthan doctrine. In answer to sucli a letter as that the dean might well say, "Think again of it. Try yet to save yourself. Never mind the two farmers, or Mr. Thumble, or the bishop. Stick to the ship while there is a plank above the water." Whereas it had been his desire to use words that should make the dean clearly understand that the thing was de- cided. He had failed— as he had failed in every thing throughout his life ; but nevertlieless the letter must go. Were he to begin again he would not do it better. So he added to what he had written a copy of his note to the bishop, and the letter was fastened and sent. Mrs. Crawley might probably have been more instant in her efi'orts to stop the letter, had she not felt that it would not decide every thing. In the first place, it was not improbable that the letter might not reach the dean till after his re- turn home — and Mrs. Crawley had long since made up her mind t-hat she would see the dean as soon as possible after his return. She had heard from Lady Lufton that it was not doubted in Barchester that he would be back at any rate before the judges came into the city. And then, in the next place, was it probable that the dean would act upoji such a letter by filling up the vacanc}', even if he did get it? She trusted in the dean, and knew that he would help them, if any help were possible. Should the verdict go against her husband, then indeed it might be that no help would be possible. In such case she thought that the bishop with his commission might prevail. But she still believed that the verdict would be favorable — if not with an as- sured belief, still with a hope that was sufficient to stand in lieu of a belief. No single man, let alone no twelve men, could think that her hus- band had intended to appropriate that money dishonestly. That he had taken it improperly — without real possession — she herself believed; but he had not taken it as a thief, and could not merit a thief's punishment. After two days he got a reply from the bish- op's chaplain, in which the chaplain expressed the bishop's commendation of Mr. Crawley's present conduct. " Mr. Thumble shall proceed from hence to Hogglestock on next Sunday," said the chaplain, "and shall relieve ypu for the present from the burden of your duties. As to the future status of the parish, it will perhaps be hest that nothing shall be done till the dean returns — or perhaps till the assizes shall be over. This is the bishop's opinion." It need hardly be explained that the promised visit of Mr. Thumble to Hogglestock was gall and worm- wood to Mr. Crawley. He had told the dean that should Mr. Thumble come he would en- deavor to learn something even from him. But it may be doubted whether Mr. Crawley in his present mood could learn any thing useful from Mr. Thumble. Giles Hoggett was a much more effective teacher. " I will endure even that," he said to his wife, as she handed to him back the letter from the bishop's chaplain. 2&6 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. CHAPTEK LXIIL TWO VISITORS TO IIOGGLKSTOCK. Thk cross-KraincJness of men is so great that tilings will often be forced to go wron<:;, even when they have the strongest possible iiatnral tendency of their own to go right. It was so now in tiiese atVairs between the archdeacon and his son. The original difhculty was solved by tlie good feeling of the young lady — by that and by the real kindness of the archdeacon's nature. They had come to terms which were .satisfac- tory to both of them, and those terms admitted of perfect reconciliation between the father and his son. Whetlier the major did marry the lady or wliether he did not, his allowance was to be continued to him, the archdeacon being perfectly willing to trust himself in the matter to the pledge which he had received from Miss Crawley. All that he rcfpurcd from his son was simjjly this — that he should pull down the bills advertising the sale of his effects. Was any desire ever more rational? The sale had been advertised for a day just one week in ad- vance of the assizes, and the time must have been selected— so thought the archdeacon — with a malicious intention. Why, at any rate, should the things be sold before any one knew whether the father of the young lady was or was not to be regarded as a thief? And why should the things be sold at all, when the archdeacon had tacitly withdrawn his threats — when he had given his son to understand that the allowance would still be paid quarterly with the custom- ary archidiaconal regularity, and that no altei"- ation was intended in those settlements under which the Plumstead foxes would, in the ripe- ness of time, become the property of the major himself? It was thus that the archdeacon looked at it, and as he did so he thought that his son was the most cross-grained of men. But the major had his own way of looking at the matter. lie had, he flattered himself, dealt very fairly with his father. Wlien he had first made up his mind to make Miss Crawley his wife he had told his father of his intention. The archdeacon had declared that, if he did so, such and such results would follow — I'esults which, as was a])parent to every one, would make it indispensable that the major should leave Cosby Lodge. The major had never complained. So he told himself. He had simply said to his ftither : "I shall do as I have said. You can do as you have said. There- fore I shall prepare to leave Cosby Lodge." He had so prepared ; and as a part of that prep- aration the auctioneer's bills had been stuck lip on the posts and walls. Then the archdeacon had gone to work surreptitiously w^ith the lady — the reader will understand that we are still fol- lowing the workings of the major's mind — and having succeeded in obtaining a pledge which he had been wrong to demand, came forward very graciously to withdraw his threats. He withdrew his threats because he had succeeded in his object by other means. The major knew nothing of the kiss that had been given, of tho two tears that had trickled down his father's nose, of the generous epithets which the arch- deacon had aj)j)lied to Grace. He did not guess how nearly his father had yielded alto- gether beneath the pressure of Grace's charms — how willing he was to yield altogether at the first decent opportunity. His father had ob- tained a jiledge from Grace that she would not marry in certain circumstances — as to which circumstances the major was strongly resolved that they should form no bar to his marriage — and then came forward with his eager demand that the sale should be stojiped ! The major could not submit to so much indignity. lie had resolved that his father should have nothing to do with his marriage one way or the other. He would not accejit any thing from his father on the understanding that his father had any such right. His fiither had asserted such right with threats, and he, the major, taking such threats as meaning something, had seen that he must leave Cosby Lodge. Let his father come forward and say that they meant nothing, that he abandoned all right to any interference as to his son's marriage, and then the son — would dutifully consent to accept his father's bounty I They were both cross-grained, as Mrs. Grantly declared ; but I think that the major was the most cross-grained of the two. Something of the truth made its way into Henry Grantly's mind as he drove himself home from Barchester after seeing his grandfather. It was not that he began to think that his fa- ther was right, but that he almost perceived that jit might be becoming in him to forgive some fault in his father. He had been implored to honor his father, and he was willing to do so, understanding that such honor must, to a certain degree, imply obedience — if it could be done at no more than a moderate expense to his feel- ings. The threatened auctioneer was the cause of oflFense to his father, and he might see wheth- er it would not be possible to have the sale post- poned. There would, of course, be a pecuni- ary loss, and that, in his diminished circum- stances — he would still talk to himself of his diminished circumstances— might be inconven- ient. But so much he thought himself bound to endure on his father's behalf. At any rate, he would consult the auctioneer at Silver- bridge. But he would not make any pause in the measures which he had proposed to himself as likely to be conducive to his marriage. As for Grace's pledge, such pledges from young ladies never went for any thing. It was out of the question that she should be sacrificed, even though her father had taken the money. And, moreover, the very gist of the major's generosi- ty was to consist in his marrying her whether the father were guilty or innocent. He under- stood that perfectly, and understood also that it was his duty to make his purpose in this re- spect known to Grace's family. He determined, tlierefore, that he would go over to Hoggle- THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 287 stock, and sec Mr. Cniwlcy before he saw the auctioneer. Hitherto Major Grantly liad never even spok- en to Mr. Crawley. It may be remembered that the major was at the ])resent moment one of the bailsmen for the due a])pearancG of Mr. Crawley before the judge, and that he had been present when the magistrates sat at the inn in Silverbridge. He therefore knew the man's presence, but except on that occasion he had never even seen his intended future father-in- law. From tlie moment when he had first al- lowed himself to think of Grace he had desired, yet almost feared, to make acquaintance with the father, but liad been debarred from doing so by the peculiar position in which Mr. Craw- ley was placed. He had felt that it would be impossible to speak to the father of his affec- tion for the daughter without any allusion to the coming trial; and lie did not know how such allusion could be made. Thinking of this, he had at different times almost resolved not to call at Ilogglestock till the trial should be over. Then he would go there, let the result of the trial have been what it might. But it had now become necessary for him to go on at once. His father had precipitated matters by his appeal to Grace. He would appeal to Grace's father, and reach Grace through his influence. He drove over to Ilogglestock, feeling him- self to be any thing but comfortable as he came near to the house. And when he did reach the spot he was somewhat disconcerted to find that another visitor was in the house before him. He presumed this to be the case, because there stood a little pony horse — an animal which did not strongly recommend itself to his instructed eye — attached by its rein to the palings. It was a poor, humble-looking beast, whose knees had very lately become acquainted with the hard and sharp stones of a newly-mended highway. The blood was even now red upon the wounds. "He'll never be much good again," said the major to his servant. " That he won't. Sir," said the man. "But I don't think he's been very much good for some time back." " I shouldn't like to have to ride him into Silverbridge," said the major, descending from the gig, and instructing his servant to move the horse and gig about as long as he might remain within the house. Then he walked across the little garden and knocked at the door. The door was immediately opened, and in the pas- sage he found Mr. Crawley, and another clergy- man whom the reader will recognize as Mr. Thumble. Mr. Thumble had come over to make arrangements as to the Sunday services and the parochial work, and had been very urg- ent in impressing on Mr. Crawley tliat the du- ties were to be left entirely to himself. Hence had come some bitter words, in which Mr. Craw- ley, though no doubt he said the sharper things of the two, had not been able to vanquish his en- emy so completely as he had done on former occasions. " There must be no interference, my dear Sir — none whatever, if you please," Mr. Thum- ble had said. "There shall be none of which the bishop shall have reason to complain," Mr. Crawley had replied. "There must be none at all, Mr. Crawley, if you please. It is only on that understanding that I have consented to take the parish tempo- rarily into my hands. Mis. Crawley, I hope that there may be no mistake about the schools. It must be exactly as though I were residing on the spot." " Sir," said Mr. Crawley, very irate at this appeal to his wife, and speaking in a loud voice, " do you misdoubt my word ; or do you think that if I were minded to be false to you that I should be corrected in my falsehood by the firm- er faith of my wife?" " I meant nothing about falsehood, Mr. Craw- ley." " Having resigned this benefice for certain reasons of my own, with which I shall not trou- ble you, and acknowledging as I do — and have done in writing imder my hand to the bishop — the propriety of his lordship's interference in providing for the services of the parish till my successor shall have been instituted, I shall, with what feelings of regret I need not say, leave you to the ])erformance of your temporary duties!" "That is all that I require, Mr. Crawley." " But it is wholly unnecessary that you should instruct me in mine." "The bishop especially desires" — began Mr. Thumble. But Mr. Crawley interrupted him instantly : "If the bishop has directed you to give me such instruction, the bishop has been much in error. I will submit to receive none from him through you. Sir. If j'ou please, Sir, let there be an end of it;" and Mr. Crawley waved his hand. I hope that the reader will conceive the tone of Mr. Crawley's voice, and will appreci- ate the aspect of his face, and will see the mo- tion of his hand as he spoke these latter words. Mr. Thumble felt the power of the man so sensi- bly that he was unable to carry on the contest. Though IMr. Crawley was now but a broken reed, and was beneath his feet, yet Mr. Thum- ble acknowledged to himself that he could not hold his own in debate with this broken reed. But tlie words had been spoken, and the tone of the voice had died away, and the fire in th3 eyes had burned itself out before the moment of the major's arrival. Mr. Thumble was now returning to his horse, and having enjoyed — if he did enjoy — his little triumph about the par- ish, was becoming unhappy at the future dan- gers that awaited him. Perhaps he was the more unhappy because it had been proposed to him by authorities at the palace that he should repeatedly ride on the same animal from Bar- chester to Ilogglestock and back. Mr. Crawley was in the act of replying to lamentations on this subject, with his hand on the latch, when the major arrived — "I regret to say. Sir, that 288 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. I can not assist you by siip|ilying any other steed." Tlicn tlie major hail knocked, and Mr. Crawley had at once opened the door. "Yon probably do not remember mc, Mr. Crawley?" said the major. "I am Major Crantly." Mrs. Crawley, Avho heard these words inside the room, sprant:^ nj) from her chair, and could hardly resist the temiitation to rush into the passage. She too had barely seen Ma- jor Grantly; and now the only bri^'lit j,'leam which appeared on her horizOTi de])cnded on his constancy under circumstances whicli would have justified his inconstancy. 15iit had he meant to be inconstant, surely he would never have come to Ilogglestock ! "I remember you well, Sir," said Mr. Craw- ley. "I am under no common obligation to j'ou. You arc at present one of my bailsmen." "There's nothing in that," said the major. Mr. Thumble, who had caught the name of Grantly, took oft' his hat, which he had put on his head. He had not been particular in kcci)ing oft" his hat before Mr. Crawley. Kut he knew very well that Archdeacon Grantly was a big man in the diocese ; and though the Grantlys and the Proudies were opposed to each other, still it might be well to take oft' his hat before any one who had to do with the big ones of the diocese. "I hope your respected father is well. Sir?" said Mr. Thumble. " Pretty well, I thank you." The major stood close up against the wall of the passage, so as to allow room for Mr. Thumble to pass out. His business was one on which he could hardly begin to speak until the other visitor should have gone. Mr. Crawley was standing with the door wide open in his band. He also was anx- ious to be rid of Mr. Thumble, and was perhaps not so solicitous as a brother clergyman should have been touching the future fate of Mr. Thum- ble in the matter of the, bishop's old cob. " Really I don't know what to do as to get- ting upon him again," said Mr. Thumble. "If you will allow him to progress slowly," said Mr. Crawley, "he will probably travel with the greater safety." " I don't know what you call slow, Mr. Craw- ley. I was ever so much over two hours com- ing here from Barchester. He stumbled almost at every step." " Did he fall while you were on him ?" asked the major. "Indeed he did, Sir. You never saw such a thing, Major Grantly. Look here." Then Mr. Thumble, turning round, showed that the rear portion of his clothes had not escaped with- out injury. "It was well he was not going fast, or you would have come on to your head, " said Grantly. "It was a mercy," said Thumble. "But, Sir, as it was, I came to the ground with much violence. It was on Spigglewick Hill, where the road is covered with loose stones. I see. Sir, you have a gig and horse here, with a servant. Perhaps, as the circumstances are so very pe- culiar — " Then Mr. Thumble stopped, and look- ed up into the major's face with imploring eyes. But the major had no tenderness for sucli sutt'er- ings. "I'm sorry to say that I am going quite the other way," he said. "I am returning to Silverbridgc." Mr. Thumble hesitated, and then madft a re- newed request. "If you would not mind tak- ing mc to Silverbridgc, I could get home from thence by railway ; and jjcrhajis you would al- low your servant to take the horse to Barches- ter." Major Grantly was for a moment dumfoundcd. "The request is most unreasonable, Sir," said Mr. Crawley. " That is as Major Grantly pleases to look at it," said Mr. Thumble. "I am sorry to say that it is quite out of my power," said the major. "You can surely walk, leading the beast, if you fear to mount him," said Mr. Crawley. "I shall do as I please about that," s.aid Mr. Thumble. "And, Mr. Crawley, if you will have the kindness to leave things in the parish just as they are — just as they are, I will be obliged to you. It is the bishop's wish that you should touch nothing." Mr. Thumble was by this time on the step, and Mr. Crawley instantly slammed the door. " The gentleman is a cler- gyman from Barchester," said Mr. Crawley, mod- estly folding his hands upon his breast, "whom the bishop has sent over hero to take upon him- self temporarily the services of the church, and, as it appears, the duties also of the parish. I refrain from animadverting upon his lordship's choice." "And are you leaving Hogglestock ?" "When I have found a shelter for my wife and children I shall do so ; nay, peradventure, I must do so before any such shelter can be found. I shall proceed in that matter as I am bid. I am one who can regard myself as no longer possessing the privilege of free action in any thing. But while I have a room at your service permit me to ask you to enter it." Then Mr. Crawley motioned him in with his hand, and Major Grantly found himself in the presence of Mrs. Crawley and her younger daughter. He looked at them both for a moment, and could trace much of the lines of that face wliicli he loved so well. But the troubles of life had almost robbed the elder lady of her beauty ; and with the younger, the awkward thinness of the last years of feminine childhood had not yet given place to the fulfillment of feminine grace. But the likeness in each was quite enough to make him feel that he ought to be at home in that room. He thought that he could love the [woman as his mother, and the girl as his sister. He found it very difficult to begin any conver- sation in their presence, and yet it seemed to be his duty to begin. Mr. Crawley had marshaled him into the room, and having done so, stood aside near the door. Mrs. Crawley had received him very graciously, and having done so, seem- ed to be ashamed of her own hospitality. Poor Jane had shrunk back into a distant corner, near THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 289 the open standing-desk at which she was accus- tomed to read Greek to her father, and, of course, could not be expected to speak. If Major Grantly could have found himself alone with any one of the three — nay, if he could have heen there with any two, he could have opened his budget at once ; but, before all the family, he felt the difficulty of his situation. "Mrs. Crawley," said he, "I have been most anxious to make your acquaintance, and I trust you will excuse the liberty I have taken in call- ing." "I feel grateful to you, as I am sure does also my husband." So much she said, and then felt angry with herself for saying so much. Was she not expressing her strong hope that he might stand fast by her child, whereby the whole Craw- ley family would gain so much — and the Grantly family lose much, in the same proportion ? * ' Sir, " said Mr. Crawley, ' ' I owe you thanks, still unexpressed, in that you came forward, to- gether with Mr. Robarts of Framley, to satisfy the not unnatural requisition of the magistrates before whom I was called upon to appear in the early winter. I know not why any one should have ventured into such jeopardy on my ac- count." " There was nq jeopardy, Mr. Crawley. Any one in the county would have done it." "I know not that; nor can I see that there was no jeopardy. I trust that I may assure you that there is no danger — none, I mean, to you. The danger to myself and those belonging to me is, alas ! very urgent. The facts of my position are pressing close upon me. Methinks I suffer more from the visit of the gentleman who has just departed from me than from any thing that has yet happened to me. And yet he is in his right — he is altogether in liis right." "No, papa; he is not," said Jane, from her standing-ground near the upright desk. "My dear," said her father, "you should bo silent on such a subject. It is a matter hard to be understood in all its bearings — even by those , who are most conversant with them. But as to this we need not trouble Major Grantly." After that there was silence among them, and for a while it seemed as though there could be no approach to the subject on which Grantly had come thither to express himself. Mrs, Crawley, in her despair, said something about the weath- er; and the major, tr^'ing to draw near the spe- cial subject, became bold enough to remark "that he had had the pleasure of seeing Miss Craw- ley at Framley." "Mrs. Robarts has been very ■ kind," said Mrs. Crawley, "very kind indeed. iYou can understand, Major Grantly, that this must be a very sad house for any young person." "I don't think it is at all sad," said Jane, still -standing in the corner by the upright desk. Then Major Grantly rose from his scat and walked across to the girl and took her hand. "You are so like your sister," said he. "Your sister is a great friend of mine. She has often spoken to me of you. I hope we shall be friends some day." But Jane could make no answer to this, though she had been able to vindicate the general character of the house while she was left in her corner by herself. "I wonder whether you would be angry with me," contin- ued the major, " if I told you that I wanted to speak a word to your father and mother alone ?" To this Jane made no reply, but was out of the room almost before the words had reached the cars of her father and mother. Though she was only sixteen, and had as yet read nothing but Latin and Greek — unless we arc to count the twelve books of Euclid and Wood's Algebra, and sundry smaller exercises of the same de- scription — she understood as well as any one then present the reason why her absence was required. As she closed the door the mnjor paused for a moment, expecting, or perhaps hoping, that the fother or the mother would say a word. But neither of them had a word to say. They sat silent, and as though conscience-stricken. Here was a rich man come, of whom they had heard that he might probably wish to wed their daugh- ter. It was manifest enough to both of them that no man could marry into their family with- out subjecting himself to a heavy portion of that reproach and disgrace which was attached to them. But how was it possible that they should not care more for their daughter — for their own flesh and Ldood, than for the incidental welfare of this rich man? As regarded the man him- self they had heard every thing that was good. Such a marriage was like the opening of para- dise to their child. "Nil conscire sibi," said the fother to himself, as he buckled on his armor for tlie fight. When he had waited for a moment or two the major began. "Mrs. Crawley," he said, addressing himself to the mother, "I do not quite know how far you may be aware that I — ■ that I have for some time been — been acquninted with your eldest daughter." "I have heai-d from her that she is acquaint- ed with you," said Mi's. CraAvley, almost pant- ing Avith anxiety. "I may as well make a clean breast of it at once," said the major, smiling, "and say out- right that I have come here to request your per- mission and her father's to ask her to be my wife." Then he was silent, and for a few mo- ments neither Mr. nor Mrs. Crawley replied to him. She looked at her husband, and he gazed at the fire, and the smile died away from the major's face as he watched the solemnity of them both. There was something almost for- bidding in the peculiar gravity of Mr. Crawley's countenance when, as at present, something op- erated within him to cause him to express dis- sent from any proposition that was made to him. " I do not know how far this may be altogether new to you, Mrs. Crawley, "said the mnjor, wait- ing for a reply. "It is not new to us," said Mrs. Crawley. "May I hope, then, that you will not disap- prove?" " Sir," said Mr. Crawley, "I am so placed 290 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. by the iintowanl circumstances of my life that I can liarUly claim to exercise over my own daugh- ter tliat autiiority which should belong to a pa- rent." "My dear, do not say that,'' exclaimed Mrs. Crawley. "But I do say it. Within three weeks of this time I may be a prisoner, subject to the criminal laws of my country. At this moment I am without tlie ]iower of carnini; bread for my- self, or for my wife, or for my children. IMajor Grantly, you have even now seen the dejiarturc of the gentleman who has been sent here to take my jjlace in this i)arish. I am, as it were, an outlaw here, and entitled neither to obedience nor respect tVom those who under other circum- stances would be bound to give mc both." " Major Grantly," said the poor woman, " no husband or father in the county is more closely obeyed or more thoroughly respected and loved." '' I am sure of it," said the major. "All this, however, matters nothing," con- tinued I\Ir. Crawley, "and all speech on such homely matters would amount to an imperti- nence before you, Sir, were it not that you have hinted at a purpose of connecting yourself at some future time with this unfortunate family." "I meant to be plain-sjioken, Mr. Crawley." "I did not mean to insinuate, Sir, that there was aught of reticence in your words, so con- trived that you might fiill back upon the vague- ness of your expression for protection, should you hereafter see fit to change your purpose. I should have wronged you much by such a sug- gestion. I rather was minded to make known to you that I — or, I should rather say, we," and ]\Ir. Crawley pointed to his wife — "shall not accept your ])lainness of speech as betokening an;iht beyond a conceived idea iu furtherance o*^ which you have thought it expedient to make certain incpiiries." "I don't quite follow you," said the major. "But what I want you to do is to give me your consent to visit your daughter; and I want Mis. Crawley to write to Grace and tell her that it's ail right." Mrs. Crawley was quite sure tliat it was all right, and was ready to sit down and write the letter that moment, if her husband would permit her to do so. "I am sorry that I have not been explicit," said Mr. Crawley, "but I will endeavor to make myself more plainly intelligible. My daughter. Sir, is so circumstanced in reference to her fa- ther, that I, as her father and as a gentleman, can not encourage any man to make a tender to her of his hand." " But I have made up my mind about all that." "And I, Sir, have made up mine. I dare not tell my girl that I think she will do well to ]ilace her hand in yours. A lady, wiien she does that, should feel at least that her hand is clean." "It is the cleanest and the sweetest and the fairest hand in Barsetshire," said the major. j\Irs. Crawley could not restrain herself, but runniim- up to him, took his hand in hers and kissed it. "There is unfortunately a stain, which is vi- carial," began Mr. Crawley, sustaining up to that point his voice with Roman fortitude — with a fortitude which would have been Roman hail it not at that moment broken down under the j)ressure of human feeling. He could keep it u]) no longer, but continued his s))eech with broken sobs, and with a voice altogether clianged in its tone — rapid now, whereas it had before been slow — natural, whereas it had hitherto been affected — human, whereas it had hitherto been Roman. "Major Grantly," he said, "I am sore beset ; but what can I say to you ? My darling is as p>n'e as the light of day — only that she is soiled with my imj)urity. She is fit /to grace the house of the best gentleman in En- gland, had I not made her unfit." "She shall grace mine," said the major. "By God, she shall! — to-morrow, if she'll have me." Mrs. Crawley, who was standing beside him, again raised bis hand and kissed it. " It may not be so. As I began by saying — or rather strove to say, for I have been over- taken by weakness, and can not speak my mind — I can not claim authority over my child as would another man. How can I exercise au- thority from between a prison's bars?" " She would obey your slightest wish," said Mrs. Crawley. "I could express no wish," said he. "But I know my girl, and I am sure that she will not consent to take infamy with her into the house of the man who loves her." " There will be no infamy," said the major. " Infiimy ! I tell you that I shall be proud of the connection." "You, Sir, are generous in your prosperity. We will strive to be at least just in our adversi- ty. My wife and children are to be pitied — be- cause of the husband and the father." " No !" said Mrs. Crawley. "I will not heai that said without denying it." " But they must take their lot as it has been given to them," continued he. "Such a posi- tion in life as that which you have proposed, to bestow upon my child would be to her, as re- gards human affairs, great elevation. And from what I have heard — I may be permitted to add also from what I now learn by personal experience — such a marriage would be laden with fair promise of future happiness. But if you ask my mind, I think that my child is not fi'ee to make it. You, Sir, have many rela- tives, who are not in love, as you are, all of whom would be affected by the stain of my dis- grace. You have a daughter, to whom all your solicitude is due. No one should go to your house as your second wife who can not feel that she will serve your child. My daugliter would feel that she was bringing an injury upon the babe. I can not bid her do this — and I will not. Nor do I believe that she would do so if I bade her." Then he turned his chair round, and sat with bis face to the wall, wiping away the tears with a tattered handkerchief. Mrs Crawley led the major away to the fur- THE LAST CIIROlN'ICLi^: OF BARSET. 291 titer window, and there stood lookinp; up into his face. It need hardly be snid that they also ■were crying. Whose eyes could have been dry after such a scene — upon liearing such words ? "You had better go," said Mrs. Crawley, " I know him so well. You had better go." "Mrs. Crawley," he said, whispering to her, "if I ever desert her, may all that 1 love de- sert me ! But you will help mc ?" ■' " You would want no help were it not for this trouble." "But you will help me ?" Then she jiaused a moment. "I can do no- thing," she said, "but what he bids me." 'You will trust me, at any rate?" said the major. " I do trust you," she replied. Then he went without saying a word further to Mr. Crawley. As soon as he was gone, the wife went over to her husband, and put her arm gently round his neck as he was sitting. For a while the hus- band took no notice of his wife's caress, but sat motionless, with his face still turned to the wall. Then she sjioke to him a word or two, telling him that their visitor was gone. " My child !" he said. "My poor child! my darling! She has found grace in this man's sight; but even of that has her father robbed her ! The Lord has visited upon the children the sins of the fa- ther, and will do so to the third and fourth gen- eration." CHAPTER LXIV. THE TRAGKDY IN HOOK COUKT. Conway Dalrtmplk had hurried out of the foom in Mr^. Broughton's house in which he lad been painting Jael and Sisera, thinking that t would be better to meet an angry and perhaps |ipsy husband on the stairs, than it would be either to wait for him till he should make his way into his wife's room, or to hide away from him with the view of escajiing altogether from so disagreeable an encounter. He had no fear of the man. He did not think tiiat there would be any violence — nor, as regarded himself, did he much care if there was to bo violence. But he felt that he was bound, as far as it might be possible, to screen the poor woman from the ill eftects of her husband's temper and condition. He was, therefore, prepared to stop Broughton on the stairs, and to use some force in arresting him on his way, should he find the man to be really intoxicated. But he had not descended above a stair or two before he was aware that the man below him, whose step had been heard in the hall, was not intoxicated, and that ho was not Uobbs Broughton. It was Mr. Mus- sclboro. "It is you, is it?" said Conway. "I thought it was Broughton." Then he looked into the man's face, and saw that he was ashy pale. All tliat appearance of low-bred jauntiness which used to belong to him seemed to have been washed out of him. His hair had forgotten to curl, his gloves had been thrown aside, and even /his trinkets were out of sight. "What has happened?" said Conway. " What is the mat- ter? Something is wrong." Then it occurred to him that Musselboro had been sent to the house to tell the wife of the husband's ruin. "The servant told me that I should find you up stairs," said Musselboro. "Yes ; I have been painting here. For some time past I have been doing a ])icture of Miss Van Siever. Mrs. Van Siever has been here to-day." Conway thought tliat this information would produce some strong cftect on Clara's pro- posed husband ; but he did not seem to regard the matter of the picture nor the mention of ^liss Van Sievcr's name. " She knows nothing of it ?" said he. " She doesn't know yet?" "Know what?" asked Conway. "She knows that her husband has lost money." "Dobbs has — destroyed himself." "What!" " Blew his brains out this morning just inside the entrance at Hook Court. The horror of drink was on him, and he stood just in the path- way and shot himself. Bangles was standing at the top of their vaults and saw him do it. I don't think Bangles will ever be a man again. Lord ! I shall never get over it myself. The body was there when I went in." Then I\Ius- selboro sank back against the wall of the stair- case, and stared at Dalrymple as though he still saw before him the terrible sight of which he had just spoken. Dalrymple seated himself on the stairs and strove to bring his mind to bear on the tale which he had just heard. What was he to do, and how was that poor woman up stairs to be informed? "You came here intending to tell her," he said, in a whisper. He feared every moment that Mrs. Broughton would appear on 292 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. the stairs, and Icnrn from a word or two what had happened without any hint to prepare her for the catastrophe. "I thought you would be here. I knew you were doing the picture. He knew it. Ilc'd had a letter to say so — one of those anonymous ones." "But that didn't influence him?" "I don't tiiink it was that, "said Musselboro. " lie meant to have had it out with her ; but it wasn't tliat as brought this about. Terhaps you didn't know that he was clean ruined ?" 'e cob h_v the bridle the whole way home from Ilog^lestock. Some hour or two before Mr. Tlmmble's re- turn Mrs. I'roudic returned to her husband, thinking it better to let him know what she had done. She resolved to be very firm with him, but at the same time she determined not to use harsh language if it could be avoided. "My dear," she said. " I have arranged with Mr. Thumble." She found him on this occasion silting at his desk with papers before him, with a pen in his hand ; and she could see at a glance that nothing had been written on the j)apcr. What would she have tliought had she known that when he placed the sheet before him he was proposing to consult the archbishoj) as to the propriety of his resignation ! lie had not, however, progressed so far as to write even the date of his letter. "You have done what?" said he, throwing down the pen. "I have arranged with Mr. Thumble as to going out to Hogglestock," said she, firmly. " Indeed he has gone already." Then the bish- op jumped up from his seat, and i-ang the bell with violence. " What are you going to do?" said Mrs. Proudie. " I am going to depart from here," said he. "I will not stay here to be the mark of scorn for all men's fingers. I will resign the diocese." " You can not do that," said his wife. "I can try, at any rate," said he. Then the servant entered. "John," said he, addressing -the man, " let Mr. Thumble know the moment ho returns to the palace that I wish to see him here. Perhaps he may not come to the palace. In that ease let word be sent to his house." Mrs. Proudie allowed the man to go before she addressed her husband again. "What do you mean to say to Mr. Thumble when you see him?" "That is nothing to you." She came up to him, and put her hand upon his shoulder, and spoke to him very gently. "Tom," she said, "is that the way in which you speak to your wife ?" " Yes, it is. You have driven me to it. Why have you taken upon yourself to send that man to Hogglestock?" "Because it was right to do so. I came to you for instructions, and you would give none." "I should have given what instructions I pleased in proper time. Thumble shall not go to Hogglestock next Sunday." "Who shall go, then?" "Never mind. Nobody. It does not mat- ter to you. If you will leave me now I shall be obliged to you. There will be an end of all this very soon — very soon." Mrs. Proudie after this stood for a while thinking what she would say ; but she left the room without uttering another word. As she looked at him a hundred different thoughts came into her mind. She had loved him dear- ly, and she loved him still ; but she knew now — at this moment felt absolutely sure — that by him siie was hated I In sjjite of all her rough- ness and temper, Mrs. I'roudic was in this like other women — that she would fain have been loved had it been j)ossiblc. She had always meant to serve him. She was conscious of that ; conscious also in a way that, although she had been industrious, although she had been fai'thful, although she was clever, yet slie had failed. At the bottom of her heart she knew that she had been a bad wife. And yet she had meant to be a pattern wife ! She liad meant to be a good Christian; but she had so exercised her Christianity that not a soul in the world loved her, or would endure her presence if it could be avoided ! She had sufficient in- sight to the niiuds and feelings of those around her to be aware of this. And now her husband had told her that her tyranny to him was so overbearing that he must throw uj) his great po- sition, and retire to an obscurity that would be exceptionally disgraceful to them both, because he could no longer endure the public disgrace which her conduct brought upon him in his high place before the world ! Her heart was too full for speech ; and she left him, very quiet- ly closing the door behind her. She was preparing to go up to her chamber, with her hand on the balusters and with her foot on the stairs, when she saw the servant who had answered tlie bishojt's bell. "John," she said, "when I\Ir. Thumble comes to the palace, let me see him before he goes to my lord." " Yes, ma'am," said John, who well under- stood the nature of these quarrels between his •master and his mistress. But the commands of the mistress were still paramount among the servants, and John proceeded on his mission with the view of accomplishing Mrs. Proudie's behests. Then Mrs. Proudie went up stairs to her chamber, and locked her door. Mr. Thumble returned to Barchester that day, leading the broken - down cob ; and a dreadful walk he had. He was not good at ' walking, and befoi'e he came near Barchester had come to entertain a violent hatred for the beast he was leading. The leading of a horse that is tired, or in pain, or lame, or even stiff in his limbs, is not pleasant work. The brute will not accommodate his paces to the man, and will contrive to make his head very heavy on the bridle. And he will not walk on the part of the road which the man intends for him, but Avill lean against the man, and will make him- self altogether very disagreeable. It may be understood, therefore, that Mr. Thumble was not in a good humor when he entered the palace yard. Nor was he altogether quiet in liis mind as to the injury which he had done to the ani- mal. "It was the brute's fault," said Mr. Thumble. "It comes generally of not knowing how to ride 'em," said the groom. For Mr. Thumble, though he often had a horse out of the episcopal stables, was not ready with his shillings to the man who waited upon him with the steed. THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 301 He had not, however, come to any satisfac- tory understanding respecting the broken knees ■when the footman from the palace told him he was wanted. It was in vain that Mr. Thumble pleaded that he was nearly dead with fatigue, that he had walked all the way from Iloggle- stock and must go home to change his clothes. John was peremptory with him, insisting that he must wait first upon Mrs. Proudie and then upon the bishop. Mr. Thumble might perhaps liave turned a deaf ear to the latter command, but the former was one which he ftdt himself bound to obey. So he entered the palace, rath- er cross, very much soiled as to his outer man ; and in this condition went up a certain small staircase which was familiar to him, to a small parlor which adjoined Mrs. Proudie's room, and there awaited the arrival of the lady. That he should be required to wait some quarter of an liour was not surprising to him ; but when half an hour was gone, and he remembered himself of his own wife at home, and of the dinner which he had not yet eaten, he ventured to^ ring the bell. Mrs. Proudie's own maid, MisJ Draper by name, came to him and said that she had knocked twice at Mrs. Proudie's door and would knock again. Two minutes after that .she returned, running into the room with her arms extended, and exclaiming, "Oh Heavens, Sir; mistress is dead!" Mr. Thumble, hardly knowing what he was about, followed the woy man into the bedroom, and there he found himr self standing awestruck before the corpse of her who had so lately been the presiding spirit of the palace. The body was still resting on its legs, leaning against the end of the side of the bed, while one of the arms was close clasped round the bed-post. The mouth was rigidly close, but the eyes were open as though staring at him. Nevertheless there could be no doubt from the first glance that the woman was dead. He went up close to it, but did not dare to touch it. There was no one as yet there but he and Mrs. Draper — no one else knew what had happened. "It's her heart," said Mrs. Draper. "Did she suffer from heart complaint?" he asked. "We suspected it. Sir, though nobody knew it. She was very shy of talking about herself." "We must send for the doctor at once," said Mr. Thumble. "We had better touch nothing till he is here." Then they retreated and the door was locked. In ten minutes every body in the house knew it except the bishop ; and in twenty minutes the nearest apothecary with his assistant were ill the room, and the body had been properly laid upon the bed. Even then the husband had not been told — did not know either his relief or his loss. It was now past seven, which was the usual hour for dinner at the palace, and it was probable that he would come out of his room among the servants if he were not summoned. When it was proposed to Mr. Thumble that he should go in to him and tell him, he positively declined, saying that the sight which he had just seen and the exertions of the day together, liad so imncrved him that he had not physical strength for the task. The apothecary, who had been summoned in a hurry, had csca])cd, prob- ably being equally unwilling to be the bearer of such a communication. The duty therefore fell to Mrs. Draper, and under the pressing instance of the other servants she descended to her mas- ter's room. Had it not been that the hour of dinner had come, so that the bishop could not have been left much longer to himself, the evil time would have been still postponed. She went very slowly along the passage, and was just going to pause ere she reached the room, when the door was opened and the bishop stood close before her. It was easy to be seen that he was cross. His hands and face were unwashed and his face was haggard. In these days he would not even go through the ceremony of dressing himself before dinner. "Mrs. Dra- per," he said, "why don't they tell me that din- ner is ready? Are they going to give me any dinner ?" She stood a moment witliout answer- ing him, while the tears streamed down her face. "What is the matter?" said he. "Has your mistress sent you here ?" " Oh, laws!" said Mrs. Draper — and she put out her hands to support him if such support should be necessary. "What is the matter?" he demanded, an- grily. "Oh, my lord; bear it like a Christian. Mistress isn't no more." He leaned back against the door-post, and she took hold of him by the arm. " It was the heart, my lord. Dr. Filgrave hisself has not been yet; but that's what it was." The bishop did not say a word, but walked back to his chair before the fire. CHAPTER LXVIL IN MEMORIAM. The bishop, wheil he had heard the tidings of his wife's death, walked back to his seat over the fire, and Mrs. Draper, the housekeeper, came and stood over him without speaking. Thus she stood for ten minutes, looking down at him and listening. But there was no sound ; not a word, nor a moan, nor a sob. It was as though he also were dead, but that a slight irregular movement of his fingers on the top of his bald head told her that his mind and body were still active. "My lord," she said, at last, "would you wish to see the doctor when he comes?" She spoke very low, and he did not answer her. Then, after another minute of silence, she asked the same question again. "What doctor?" he said. " Dr. Filgrave. We sent for him. Perhaps he is here now. Shall I go and see, my lord?!' Mrs. Draper found that her position there was weary, and she wished to escape. Any thing on his behalf requiring trouble or work she would JOS THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. have done willint;ly ; but she could not stand there forever watcliing the motion of liis (in{;ers. "I suppose I must see liim," said the bisliop. Mrs. Draper took this as an order fur her dt-jiart- ure, and crei)t silently out of tlie room, closinj^ tlic door beliind her witii tlie long jirotraeted elaborate clitk wliich is always i)roduccd by an attempt at silence on such occasions. He did not care for noise or for silence. Had she slammed tlic door he would not have regarded it. A wonderful silence had come u\Km him which for the time almost crushed him. He would never hear tliat well-known voice again ! He was free now. Even in his misery — for he was very miserable — he could not refrain from telling himself that. No one could now l)ress uncalled-for into his study, contradict him in the i)resence of those before whom he was bound to be authoritative, and rob him of all liis dignity. There was no one else of whom he was afraiil. She had at least kept him out of the hands of other tyrants. He was now his own master, and there was a feeling — I may not call it of relief, for as yet there was more of i)ain in it than of satisfaction — a feeling as though he had escaped from an old trouble at a terrible cost of which he could not as yet calculate the amount. He knew that he might now give up all idea of writing to the archbishop. She had in some ways, and at certain periods of his life, been very good to him. She had kept his money for him and made things go straight when they had been poor. His inter- ests had always been her interests. Without her he would never have been a bishop. So, at least, he told himself now, and so told himself jirobably with truth. She had been very careful of his children. She had never been idle. She had never been fond of pleasure. She had neglected no acknowledged duty. He did not doubt that she was now on her way to heaven. He took his hands down from his head, and clasping them together, said a little prayer. It may be doubted whether he quite knew for what he was praying. The idea of praying for her soul, now that she was dead, would have scan- dalized him. He certainly was not j)rayiiig for his own soul. I think he was praying thnt God might save him from being glad that his wife was dead. But she was dead — and, as it were, in a mo- ment! He had not stirred out of that room since she had been there with him. Then there had been angry words between them — perhaps more determined enmity on his part than ever had before existed ; and they had parted for the last time with bitter animosity. But he told himself that he had certainly been right in what he had done then. He thought he had been right then. And so his mind went back to the Crawley and Thumble question, and he tried to alleviate the misery which that last interview with his wife now created by assuring himself that he at least had been justified in what he had done. But yet his thoughts were very tender to her. Nothing reopens the springs of love so full}' as absence, and no absence so thoroughly as that which must needs be endless. We want that which we have not; and especially that which we can never have. She had told him in the very last moments of her presence with him that he was wishing that she were dead, and he had made her no rejjly. At the moment he had felt, with savage anger, that such was his wish. Her words had now come to pass, and he \\as a wid- ower ; and he assured himself that he would give all that he possessed in the world to bring her back again. Yes, he was a widower, and he might do as he ])leased. The tyrant was gone, and he was free. The tyrant was gone, and the tyranny lad douljtless been very oiii)ressive. Wlio had suffered as he had done ? But in thus being left without his tyrant he was wretchedly deso- late. Might it not be that the tyranny had been good for him? — that the Lord had known best what wife was fit for him? Then he thought of a storj' which he had read- — and had well marked as he was reading — of some man who had been terriidy afflicted by his wife, whose wife had starved him and beaten him and reviled him; and yet this man had been able to thank his God for having thus mortified him in the flesh. Might it not be that the mortification which he himself had doubtless suffered in his flesh had been intended for his welfare, and had been very good for hin» ? But if this were so, it might be that the mortification was now re- moved because the Lord knew that his servant had been sufficiently mortified. He had not been starved or beaten, but the mortification had been certainly severe. Then there came words — into his mind, not into his mouth — "The Lord sent the thorn, and the Lord has taken it away. Blessed be the name of the Lord." After tluit he was very angry with himself, and tried to pray that he might be forgiven. While he was so striving there came a low knock at the door, and Mrs. Draper again entered the room. "Dr. Filgrave, my lord, was not at home," said Mrs. Draper ; " but he will be sent the very moment he arrives." "Very well, Mrs. Draper." "But, my lord, Avill you not come to your dinner? A little soup, or a morsel of some- thing to eat, and a glass of wine, will enable your lordship to bear it better." He allowed Mrs. Draper to persuade him, and followed her into the dining-room. "Do not go, Mrs. Dra- per," he said ; "I would rather that you should stay with me." So Mrs. Draper staid with him, and administered to his w'ants. He was desirous of being seen by as few eyes as possible in these the first moments of his freedom. He saw Dr. Filgrave twice, both before and after the doctor had been up stairs. There was no doubt, Dr. Filgrave said, that it was as Mrs. Draper had surmised. The poor lady was suf- fering, and had for years been suffering, from heart -complaint. To her husband she had never said a word on the subject. To Mrs. THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 303 Draper a word had been said now and again — a word when some moment of fear would come, when some sharp stroke of agony woukl tell of danger. But Mrs. Draper had kept the secret of her mistress, and none of the family had known that there was aught to be feared. Dr. Filgrave, indeed, did tell the bishop that he had dreaded all along exactly that which had hap- pened. He had said the same to Mr. Kerechild, the surgeon, when they two had had a consulta- tion together at the jialace on tlie occasion of a somewhat alarming birth of a grandchild.' But lie mixed up this information with so nmch medical Latin, and was so pompous over it, and the bishop was so anxious to be rid of him, that Ills words did not have much effect. "What did it all matter? The thorn was gone, and the wife was dead, Jtnd the widower must balance his gain and loss as best ho might. He slept well, but wlien he woke in the morn- ing the dreariness of his loneliness was very strong on him. He must do something, and must see somebody, but he felt that lie did not know how to bear himself in his new position. He must send of course for his chajdain, and tell his chaplain to open all letters and to answer them for a week. Then he remembered how many of his letters in days of yore had been opened and been answered by the helpmate who had just gone from liim. Since Dr. Tem])est's visit he had insisted that the jialace letter-bag should always be brought in the first instance to him ; and this had been done, greatly to the an- noyance of his wife. In order that it might be done the bishop had been up every morning an hour before his usual time ; and every body in the household had known wliy it was so. He thought of this now as the bag was brought to him on the first morning of his freedom. He could have it where he pleased now— either in his bedroom or left for him untouched on the breakf;ist-tablc till he should go to it. "Bless- ed be the name of the Lord," he said, as he thought of all this; but he did not stop to ana- lyze what he was saying. On this morning he would not enjoy his liberty, but desired that the letter-bag might be taken to Mr. Snapper, the chaplain. The news of Mrs. Proudie's death had spread all over Barchester on the evening of its occur- reiice, and had been received with that feeling of distant awe which is always accompanied hy some degree of pleasurable sensation. There was no one in Barchester to lament a mother, or a sister, or a friend who was really loved. There were those, doubtless, who regretted the woman's death ; and even some who regretted it without any feeling of personal damage done to themselves. There had come to be around Mrs. Proudie a party who thought as she thought on church matters, and such people had lost their head, and thereby their strength. And she had been stanch to her own party, preferring bad tea from a low-church grocer to good tea from a grocer who went to the ritualistic church or to no church at all. And it is due to her to say that she did not forget those who were true to her — looking after them 'mindfully where looking after might be jirofitable, and fighting their battles where fighting might be more serv- iceable. I do not think that the ajipetitc for breakfast of any man or woman in Barchester was disturbed by the news of Mrs. Proudie's death, but there were some who felt that a trou- ble had fallen on them. Tidings of the catastrophe readied Hiram's Hospital on the evening of its occurrence — Hiram's Hosj)ital, where dwelt Mr. and Mrs. Quiverful with all their children. Now Mrs. Quiverful owed a debt of gratitude to Mrs. Proudie, having been placed in her present comfortable home by that lady's patronage. Mrs. Quiverful perhaps understood the charac- ter of the deceased woman, and expressed her o])inion respecting it as graphically as did any one in Barchester. There was the natural sur- ])risc felt at the Warden's lodge in the IIos])ital when the tidings were first received there, and the Quiverful family was at first too full of dis- may, regrets, and surmises to be able to give themselves im])artially to criticism. But on the following morning, conversation at the breakfast- table naturally referring to the great loss which the bishop had sustained, Mrs. Quiverful thus pronounced her opinion of her friend's charac- ter : " You'll find that he'll feel it, Q.," she said to her husband, in answer to some sarcastic re- mark made by him as to tiie removal of the thorn. "He'll feel it, though she was almost too many for him while she was alive." "I dare say he'll feel it at first," said Quiv- erful; "but I think he'll be more comfortable than he has been." " Of course he'll feel it, and go on feeling it till he dies, if he's the man I take him to be. You're not to think that there has been no love because there used to be some words, that he'll find himself the happier because he can do things more as he pleases. She was a great hel]) to him, and he must have known that she was, in spite of the sharpness of her tongue. No doubt she was sharp. No doubt she was upsetting. And she could make herself a fool too in her struggles to have every thing her own way. But, Q., there were worse women than Mrs. Proudie. Slie was never one of your idle ones, and I'm quite sure that no man or woman ever heard her say a word against her husband be- hind his back." "All the same, she gave him a terribly bad life of it, if all is true that we hear." "There are men who must have what you call a terribly bad life of it, whatever way it goes with them. The bishop is weak, and he wants somebody near to him to be strong. She was strong — perhaps too strong; bnt he had his advantage out of it. After all, I don't know that his life has been so terribly bad. I dare say he's had every thing very comfortable about him. And a man ought to be grateful for that, though very few men ever are." Mr. Quiverful's predecessor at the Hospital, 304 THE LAST CHRONICLE UF BAliSET. old Mr. Hanling, whose halcyon duys in Bar- chester hsid beeii passed before tlic coming of the I'roiulies, was in bed i)la}ing cat's-cradlc with I'osy seated on tlie counteri)anc when the tidings of Mrs. Proiidie's deatli were brouglit to him by Jlrs. Baxter. "Oh, Sir!" said Mrs. Baxter, seating herself on a ciiair by the bed- side. Mr. Harding liked Mrs. Baxter to sit down, because he was almost sure on such oc- casions to have the advantage of a prolonged conversation. "What is it, Mrs. Baxter?" "Oh, Sir!" "Is any thing the matter?" And the old man attemjtted to raise himself in his bed. "You mustn't frighten grandjia," said I'osy. "No, my dear; and tliere isn't nothing to frighten him. There isn't indeed, Mr. Hard- ing. Tiiey're all well at IMumstcad, and when I heard from the missus at Venice every thing was going on well." "But what is it, Mrs. Baxter?" "God forgive her all her sins — -Mrs. Proudie ain't no more." Now there had been terrible feud between the palace and the deanery for years, in carrying on which the persons of the opposed households were wont to express them- selves with eager animosity. Mrs. Baxter and Mrs. Draper never si)()ke to each otiier. The two coachmen each longed for an opportuni- ty to take the otlier before a magistrate for some breach of the law of the road in driv- ing. The footmen abused each other, and the grooms occasionally fought. The masters and mistresses contented themselves with simple hatred. Therefore it was not surprising that Mrs. Baxter, in speaking of the death of Mrs. Proudie, should remember first her sins. "Mrs. Proudie dead !" said the old man. "Indeed she is, Mr. Harding," said Mrs. Baxter, putting both her hands together ])iously. "We're just grass, ain't we, Sir? and dust and clay and flowers of the field?" Whether Mrs. Proudie had most partaken of the clayey nature or of the flowery nature, Mrs. Baxter did not stop to consider. " Mrs. Proudie dead !" said Posy, with a so- lemnity that was all her own. "Then she won't scold the poor bishop any more." " No, my dear ; she won't scold any body any more ; and it will be a blessing for some, I must say. Every body is always so consider- ate in this house, ]\Iiss Posy, that we none of us know notliing about what that is." "Dead !" said Mr. Harding again. " I think, if you please, Mrs. Baxter, you shall leave me for a little time, and take Miss Posy with you." He had been in the city of Barchester some fif- ty years, and here was one who might have been his daughter, wdio had come there scarcely ten years since, and who now had gone before him ! He had never loved IVIrs. Proudie. Perhaps he had gone as near to disliking Mrs. Proudie as he had ever gone to disliking any person. Mrs. Proudie had wounded him in every part that was most sensitive. It would be long to tell, nor need it be told now, how she had ridiculed his catliedral work, how she hail made nothing of him, how slie had despised him, always man- ifesting her contemi)t plainly. He had been even driven to rebuke her, and it had perhaps been the only ])ersonal rebuke which he had ever uttered in Barchester. But now she was gone ; and he thought of her simply as an act- ive ])ious wonmn, who had been taken away from her work before her time. And for the bishop, no idea ever cnter.ed Mr. Harding's mind as to the removal of a thorn. The man had lost his life's companion at that time of life when such a companion is most needed ; and Mr. Harding grieved ibr him with sincerity. The news went out to I'lumstead Episcopi by tlie postman, and happened to reach the arch- deacon as he was talking to his rector at the 'kittle gate leading into the church-yard. '• Mrs. Proudie dead!" he almost shouted, as the post- man notified the fact to him. "Im])ossible!" "It be so for zartain, yer reverence," said the jjostman, who was proud of his news. "Heavens!" ejaculated the archdeacon, and then hurried in to his wife. "My dear," he said — and as he spoke he could hardly deliver himself of his words, so eager was he to speak them — "who do you think is dead? Gracious Heavens! Mrs. Proudie is dead!" Mrs. Grant- ly dropped from her hand the teaspoonful of tea that was just going into the pot, and repeated her husband's words. "Mrs. Proudie dead?" Tiiere was a pause, during which they looked into each other's faces. "My dear, I don't believe it," said Mrs. Grantly. But she did believe it very shortly. There were no prayers at Plumstead rectory that morn- ing. The archdeacon immediately went out into the village, and soon obtained sufficient evidence of the truth of that which the postman liad told him. Then he ruslied back to his wife. "It's true," he said. "It's quite true. She's dead. There's no doubt abcuit that. She's dead. It was last night about seven. Tliat was when they found her, at least, and she may have died about an hour before. Filgrave says' not more than an hour." " And how did she die ?" "Heart-complaint. She was standing up, taking hold of the bedstead, and so they found her." Then there was a pause, during which the archdeacon sat down to his breakfast. "I wonder how he felt when he heard it?" " Of course he was terribly shocked." "I've no doubt he was shocked. Any man would be sliocked. But when you come to think of it, what a relief I" ' ' How can you speak of it in that way ?" said Mrs. Grantly. ' ' How am I to speak of it in any other way ?" said the archdeacon. "Of course I shouldn't go and say it out in the street." " I don't think you ought to say it any where," said Mrs. Grantl}'. "The poor man no doubt feels about his wife in the same way that any body else Avould." THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 30i] "And if any other poor man has got such a wife as she was, you may be quite sure that lie woukl be ghxd to be rid of her. I don't say that he wished her to die, or that he would have done any thing to contrive her death — " "Gracious, archdeacon! do pray hold your tongue." "But it stands to reason that her going will be a great relief to him. What has she done for him? She has made him contemptible to every body in the diocese by her interference, and his life has been a burden to him through her violence." "Is that the w'ay you carry out your proverb of De mortuis ?" said Mrs. Grantly. "The proverb of De mortuis is founded on humbug. Humbug out of doors is necessary. It would not do for you and me to go into the High Street just now and say what we think about Mrs. Proudie ; but I don't sujjpose that kind of thing need be kept up in here, between you and me. She was an uncomfortable woman — so uncomfortable that I can not believe that any one will regret her. Dear me ! Only to think that she has gone ! You may as well give me my tea." I do not think that Mrs. Grantly 's opinion differed much from that expressed by her hus- band, ortliat she was, in truth, the least offended by the archdeacon's plain speech. But it must be remembered that there was probably no house in the diocese in which Mrs. Proudie liad been so thoroughly hated as she had been at the Plum- stead rectory. There had been hatred at the deanery ; but the hatred at the deanery had been mild in comparison with the hatred at Plumstead. The archdeacon was a sound friend ; but he was also a sound enemy. From the very first arrival of the Proudies at Barchester Mrs. Proudie had thrown down her gauntlet to him, and he had not been slow in picking it up. The war had been internecine, and each had given the other ten-jble wounds. It had been understood that there should be no quarter, and there had been none. His enemy was now dead, and the arcli- deacon could not bring himself to adopt before his wife the namby-pamby everyday decency of speaking well of one of whom he had ever thought ill, or of expressing regret when no re- gret could be felt. " May all her sins be forgiv- en her," said Mrs. Grantly. " Amen !" said the archdeacon. There was something in the tone of his Amen which thoroughly implied that it was uttered only on the understanding that her departure from the existing world was to be re- garded as an unmitigated good, and that she should, at any rate, never come back again to Barchester. When Lady Lufton heard the tidings she was not so bold in speaking of it as was her friend the archdeacon. "Mrs. Proudie dead!" she said to her daughter-in-law. This was some hours after tlie news had reached the house, and when the fact of the poor lady's death had been fullv recognized. " What will he do without her"?" "The same as other men do," said young Ladj' Lufton. "But, my dear, he is not the same as other men. He is not at all like other men. He is so weak that he can not walk without a stick to lean upon. No doubt she was a virago, a wo- man who could not control her temper for a mo- ment! No doubt she had led him a terrible life ! I have often pitied him with all my heart. But nevertheless she was useful to him. I sup- pose she was useful to him. I can hardly be- lieve that Mrs. Proudie is dead. Had he gone, it would have seemed so much more natural. Poor woman ! I dare say she had her good ])oints." The reader will be pleased to remem- ber that the Luftons had ever been strong par- tisans on the side of the Grantlys. The news made its way even to Hogglestock on the same day. Mrs. Crawley, when she heard it, went out after her husband, who was in the school. "Dead!" said he, in answer to her whisper. " Do you tell me that the woman is dead?" Then Mrs. Crawley explained that the tidings were credible. "May God forgive her all her sins," said Mr. Crawley. "She was a violent woman, certainly, and I think that she misunderstood her duties ; but I do not say that slie was a bad woman. I am inclined to think that she was earnest in her endeavors to do good." It never occurred to Mr. Crawley that he and his affair had, in truth, been the cause of her death. It was thus that she was spoken of for a few days ; and then men and women ceased to speak much of her, and began to talk of the bishop instead. A month had not passed before it was surmised that a man so long accustomed to the comforts of married life would marry again ; and even then one lady connected with low- church clergymen in and around the city was named as a probable successor to the great lady who was gone. For myself, I am inclined to think that the bishop will for the future be con- tent to lean upon his cliaplain. The monument that was put up to our old friend's memory in one of the side aisles of the choir of the cathedral was supposed to be de- signed and executed in good taste. Tliere was a broken column, and on the column simply the words, " My beloved wife !" Then there was a slab by the column, bearing Mrs. Proudie's name, with the date of her life and death. Beneath this was the common inscription : ^^Requiescat in pace." CHAPTER LXVIII. THE OBSTINACY OF SIR. CRAWLEY. Dr. Tempest, when he heard the news, sent immediately to Mr. Robarts, begging him to come over to gilverbridge. But this message was not occasioned solely by the death of Mrs. Proudie. Dr. Tempest had also heard that Mr. Crawley had submitted himself to the bishoj) ; 30G THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. tliat instant advantage — and, as Dr. Tempest tlioiif^lit, luit'air advantage — had been taken of Mr. Crawley's submission ; and that tlie perni- cious Thiunble liad been at once sent over to Hdgglestofk. Had these i)ahu'C doings with refcivncc to Mr. Crawley been unaccoin])anicd by the catastrophe which had happened, the doc- tor, nuK'h as he might have regretted them, would lirobably have felt that tliere was nothing to be don!\ He could not in such case have prevent- ed Thumble's journey to Hogglestock on the next Sunday, and certainly he could not have softened the heart of tiic ])residing genius at the i)alace. But things were very dilfcrcnt now. Tlie jircsiding genius was gone. Every body at the ])alai'e would for a while be weak and vacil- lating. Tiiumble would be then thoroughly cowed ; and it might at any rate be possible to make some movement in Mr. Crawley's favor. Dr. Tempest, therefore, sent for Mr. Kobarts. " I'm giving you a great deal of trouble, Ro- harts," said the doctor; "but then you arc so much younger than I am, and I've an idea that you would do more for this poor man than any one else in the diocese." Mr. Robarts of course declared that he did not begrudge ids trouble, and that he would do any thing in his power for the poor man. "I think that you should see him again, and that you should then sec Thuni- ble also. I don't know whether you can con- descend to be civil to Thumble. I could not." " I am not quite sure that incivility would not be more efficacious," said Mr. Robarts. " Very likely. There are men who are deaf as adders to courtesy, but who arc compelled to obedience at once by ill-usage. Very likely Thumble is one of them ; but of that you will be the best judge yourself. I would see Craw- ley first, and get his consent." "That's the difficulty." "Then I should go on without his consent, and I would see Thumble and the bishop's chap- lain, Snapper. I think you might nuinage just at this moment, when tliey will all be a little abasiied and perplexed by this woman's death, to arrange tliat simply nothing shall be done. The great thing will be that Crawley should go on with the duty till the assizes. If it should then ha]ipcn tliat he goes into Barchester, is acquit- ted, and comes back again, the whole thing will be over, and there will be no further interfer- ence in the parish. If I were you I think I would try it." Mr. Robarts said that he would try it. "I dare say Mr. Crawley will be a little stiti-necked with you." " He will be very stiflf-neckcd with me," said Mr. Robarts. "But I can hardly think that he will throw away the only means he lias of suj)porting his wife and children when he finds that there can be no occasion for his doing so. I do not sup- pose that any person wishes him to throw up his work now that that ])oor woman has gone." Mr. Crawley had been almost in good spirits since the last visit which Mr. Thumble had made to him. It seemed as though the loss of every thing in the Avorld was in some way satisfactory to him. He had now given up his living by his own doing, and had after a fashion acknowl- edged his guilt by this act. He had proclaimed to all around him that he did not think himself to be any longer fit to perform the sacred func- tions of his office. He spoke of his trial as though a verdict against him must be the result. He knew that in going into prison he would leave his wife ami children dependent on the charity of their friends— on charity which they must condescend to accept, though he could not condescend to ask it. And yet he was able to carry himself now with a greater show of fortitude than had been within his power wdicn the extent of his calamity was more doubtful. I must not ask the reader to suppose that he was cheerful. To have been cheerful under such circumstances would have been itdmman. But he carried his head on high, and walked firmly, and gave his orders at home with a clear voice. His wife, who was necessarily more despondent than ever, wondered at him — but wondered in silence. It certainly seemed as though the very extremity of ill-fortune was good for him. And he was very diligent with his school, passing the great- er part of the morning with the children. Mr. Thumble had told him that he would come on Sunday, and that he would then take charge of ' the parish. Up to the coming of Mr. Thumble he would do every thing in the parish that could be done by a clergyman with a clear spirit and a free heart. Mr. Thumble should not find that spiritual weeds had grown rank in the parish be- cause of his misfortunes. Mrs. Broudic had died on the Tuesday — that having been the day of Mr. Thumble's visit to Hogglestock — and Mr. Robarts had gone over to Silverbridge, in answer to Dr. Tempest's invita- tion, on the Thursday. He had not, therefore, the command of much time, it being his express object to prevent the a])pearance of Mr. Thumble at Hogglestock on the next Sunday. He had gone to Silverbridge by railway, and had, there- fore, been obliged to postpone his visit to Mr. Crawley till the next day ; but early on the Fri- day morning he rode over to Hogglestock. Tliat he did not arrive there with a broken-knee'd horse, the reader may be quite sure. In all matters of that sort Mr. Robarts was ever above reproach. He rode a good horse, and drove a neat gig, and was always well dressed. On this account Mr. Crawley, though he really liked Mr. Robarts, and was thankful to him for many kind- nesses, could never bear his presence with per- fect equanimity. Robarts was no scholar, was not a great preacher, had obtained no celebrity as a churchman — had, in fact, done nothing to merit great reward ; and yet every tfiing had been given to him with an abundant hand. Within the last twelve-month his wife had in- herited Mr. Crawley did not care to know how many thousand pounds. And yet Mr. Robarts had won all that he possessed by being a clergy- man. Was it iiossible that Mr. Crawley should regard such a man with equanimity ? Robarts I THE LAST CHKONICLE OF BARSET. 307 rode over witli a groom behind him — really tak- ing the groom because he knew that Mr. Craw- ley would have no one to hold liis horse for him — and the groom was tiic source of great oiVensc. He came upon Mr. Crawley standing at the school door, and stopping at once, jumped off his nag. There was something in the way in wliicli he sprang out of the saddle and threw tlie reins to the raau which was not clerical in Mr. Crawley's eyes. No man could be so quick in tlie matter of a horse who spent as many hours witli the poor and with the children as should be spent by a parish clergyman. It might be probable that Mr. Kobarts had never stolen twen- ty pounds — might never be accused of so dis- graceful a crime — but nevertiielcss Mr. Crawley had his own ideas, and made his own compari- sons. "Crawley," said Robarts, "I am so glad to find you at liome." "I am generally to be found in the parish," said the perpetual curate of Hogglestock. "I know you are," said Robarts, who knew the man well, and cared nothing for his friend's jieculiarities wlien he felt his own withers to be unwrung. "But you might have been down at Ilogglc End with the brickmakers, and then I sliould have had to go after you." " I should have grieved — " began Crawley ; but Robarts interrupted him at once. " Let us go for a walk, and I'll leave the man with the horses. I've something special to say to you, and I can say it better out here than in the house. Grace is quite well, and sends her love. She is growing to look .so beautiful !" " I hope she may grow in gi'ace with God," said Mr. Crawley. " She's as good a girl as I ever knew. By- the-by, you had Henry Grantly over here the otlier day ?" "Major Grantly, whom I can not name with- out expressing my esteem for him, did do us the honor of calling upon us not very long since. If it be with reference to him that you have tak- en til is trouble — " "No, no; not at all. I'll allow him and the ladies to fight out that battle. I've not the least doubt in the world how tliat will go. "When I'm told that she made a complete con- quest of the archdeacon there can not be a doubt about that." " A conquest of the archdeacon !" But Mr. Robarts did not wish to have to ex- plain any thing further about the arclideacon. "Wei-e you not terribly shocked, Crawley," he asked, " when you heard of tlie death of Mrs. Proudie ?" "It was sudden and very awful," said Mr. Crawley. " Such deaths are always shocking. Not more so, perhaps, as regards the wife of a bishop than with any other woman." " Only we happened to know her." " No doubt the finite and meagre nature of our feelings does prevent us from extending our symjiathies to those whom we have not seen in the flesh. It should not be so, and would not with one who had nurtured his heart witli ])r( here. I wonder whether you can help us ?" I "Do you know Mr. Crawley? Are you a friend of liis ?" "I never saw him in my life ; but he married I my cousin." "I gave him the check, you know," said Mrs< Arabiu. "What!" exclaimed Eames, literally almost knocked backward by the easiness of tlie words wliich contained a solution for so terrible a dif- ficulty. The Crawley case had assumed sucli magnitude, and the troubles of the Crawley family had been so terrible, that it seemed to him to be almost sacrilegious that words so simply uttered should suffice to cure every thing. lie had hardly hoped — had at least barely hoped — that JMrs. Arabiu might be able to suggest something which would put them all on a track toward discovery of the truth. But he found that she had the clew in her hand, and that the clew was one which required no further delicacy of investigation. There would be nothing more to unravel ; no journey to Je- rusalem would be necessary ! "Yes," said Mrs. Arabin, "I gave it to liim. They have been writing to my husband about it, and never wrote to me ; and till I received iV letter about it from my father, and another froiri my sister at Venice the day before yesterday, I knew nothing of the particulars of Mr. Crawley's trouble." "Had you not heard that he had been taken before the magistrates ?" "No; not so much even as that. I had seen in Galignani something about a clergyman, but I did not know what clergyman ; and I heard that there was something wrong about Mr. Crawley's money, but tliere has always been something wrong about money with poor Mr. Crawley ; and as I knew that my husband had been written to also, I did not interfere further than to ask the particulars. My letters have followed me about, and I only learned at Ven- ice, just before I came here, what was the na- ture of the case." "And did you do any thing?" ' ' I telegraphed at once to !Mr. Toogood, who I understand js acting as Mr. Crawley's solicitor. My sister sent me his address." "He is my uncle." "I telegraphed to him, telling him that I had given Mr. Crawley the check, and then I wrote to Archdeacon Grantly giving him the wliole history. I was obliged to come here be- fore I could return home, but I intended to start this evening." "And what is the whole history?" asked John Eames. The history of the gift of the check was very simple. It has been told how Mr. Crawley in his dire distress had called upon his old friend! at the deanery asking for pecuniary assistance.' This he had done with so much reluctance that his spirit had given way while he was waiting in the dean's librarv, and he had wished to de- U part without accejjtiug what the dean was quite willing to bestow upon him. From this cause it had come to pass there had been no time for explanatory words even between the dean and his wife — from whose private funds had in truth come the money which had been given to Mr. Crawley. For the private wealth of the family belonged to Mrs. Arabin, and not to the dean ; and was left entirely in Mrs. Arabin's hands, to be disposed of as slic might please. Previously to Mr. Crawley's arrival at the deanery this mat- ter had been discussed between the dean and his wife, and it had been agreed between them that a sum of fifty pounds should be given. It should be given by Mrs. Arabin, but it was thought that the gift would come with more comfort to the recii)ient from the hands of his old friend than from those of his wife. There had been much discussion between them as to the mode in which tliis might be done with least offense to the man's feelings — for they knew Mr. Craw- ley and his peculiarities well. At last it was agreed that the notes should be put into an en- velope, which envelope tlie dean should have ready with him. But when the moment came the dean did not have the envelope ready, and was obliged to leave the room to seek his wife. And Mrs. Arabin exjilained to John Eames that even she had not had it ready, and had been forced to go to her own desk to fetch it. Then, at the last moment, with the desire of increasing the good to be done to people who were so terribly in want, she put the check for twenty jiounds, which was in her possession as money of her own, along with the notes, and in this way the check had been given by the dean to Mr. Crawlej'. "I shall never forgive myself for not telling the clean," she said. "Had I done that all this trouble would have been saved !" "But where did you get the check?" Eames asked, with natural curiosity. "Exactly," said Mrs. Arabin. "I have got to show now that I did not steal it — have I not ? Mr. Soames will indict me now. And, indeed, I have had some trouble to refresh my memory as to all the particulars, for you see it is more than a year past." But Mrs. Arabin's mind was clearer on such matters than Mr. Crawley's, and she was able to explain that she had taken the check as part of the rent due to her from the landlord of ' ' The Dragon of Wantly, " which inn was lier property, having been the property of her first husband. For some years past there had been a difficulty about the rent, things not having gone at "The Dragon of Wantly" as smoothly as they had used to go. At one time the money had been paid half-yearly by the land- lord's check on the bank at Barchester. For the last year and a half this had not been done, and tiie money had come into Mrs. Arabin's hands at irregular periods and in in-egular sums. There was at this moment rent due for twelve months, and Mrs. Arabin expressed her doubt whether she would get it on her return to Bar- chester. On the occasion to which she was now 3U THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. alluding the money had been paid into hex* own hands, in the deanery breakfast-parlor, by a man she knew very well — not the landlord himself, but one bcarinf? tlie landlord's name, whom site believed to be the landlord's brother, or at least his cousin. Tlie man in question was named Daniel Stringer, and he had been employed in " Tiie Dragon of Wantly," as a sort of clerk or managing man, as long as she had known it. Tiic rent had been jiaid to her by Daniel String- er (juitc as often as by Daniel's brotlicr or cous- in, John Stringer, who was, in truth, the land- lord of tlic hotel. When in their handkerchiefs, and hurried up and down the street to tell each other that the great secret liad been discovered, and that in trutli Mr. Crawley had not stolen the check. The solu- tion of the mystery was not known to all — wa^ known on that night only to the very select i)or- tion of the aristocracy of Silverbridgc to wliom it was communicated by RLary Walker or Miss Anne Prettyman. For Mary Walker, when earnestly entreated by Jane, the jiarlor-maid, to tell her something more of the great news, had so .*ar respected her father's caution as to say not a word about Mrs. Arabin. "Is it true. Miss Mary, that he didn't steal it ?" Jane asked, imploringlj'. "It is true. He did not steal it." "And who did, Miss Mary? Indeed I won't tell any body." "Nobody. But don't ask any more questions, for I won't answer tiiem. Get me my hat at once, for I want to go up to Miss Prcttyman's." Then Jane got Miss Walker's hat, and immediately afterward scampered into the kitchen with- tlie news. "Oh, law, cook, it's all come out ! Mr. Crawley's as innocent as the unborn babe. The gentleman up stnirs what's just come, and was here once befure — for I know'd him immediate — I lieard liim say so. And master said so too." "Did master say so his own self?" asked the cook, " Indeed he did ; and Miss Mary told me the same this moment." "If master said so, then there ain't a doubt as they'll find him innocent. And who took'd it, Jane ?" " Miss Mary says as nobody didn't steal it." "That's nonsense, Jane. It stands to reason as somebody had it as hadn't ought to Iiave had it. But I'm as glad as any thing as how that poor reverend gent '11 come oft" — I am. Tliey tells me it's weeks sometimes before a bit of butcher's meat finds its way into liis house." Then the groom and the house-maid and tiie cook, one after another, took occasion to slip out of the back-door, and poor Jane, who had really been the owner of the news, was left alone to answer the bell. Miss Walker found the two Miss Prettymans sitting together over their accounts in the elder Miss Prettyman's private room. And she could sea at once by signs which were not unfamiliar to her that Miss Anne Prettyman was being scolded. It often happened that Miss Anne Prettyman was scolded, especially when the ac- counts were brought out upon the table. " Sis- ter, they are illegible," jMary Walker lieard, as the servant opened the door for her. " I don't think it's quite so bad as that," said Miss Anne, unable to restrain her defense. Then, as Mary entered the room, Miss Pretty- man the elder laid her hands down on certain books and papers as though to hide them from profane eyes. "I am glad to see you, Mary," said Miss Prettyman, gravely. " I've brought such a piece of news," said Mary. " I knew you'd be glad to hear it, so I ventured to disturb you." " Is it good news ?" said Anne Prettyman. "Very good news. Mr. Crawley is inno- cent." Both the ladies sprung on to their legs. Even Miss Prettyman herself jumped up on to her legs. "No!" said Anne. "Your father has discovered it?" said Miss Prettyman. " Not exactly that. Mr. Toogood lias com,c down from London to tell him. Mr. Toogood, you know, is Mr. Crawley's cousin ; and he is a lawyer, like papa." It may be observed that ladies belonging to the families of solicitors al- ways talk about lawyers, and never about attor- neys or barristers. "And does Mr. Toogood say that INIr. Craw- ley is innocent?" asked Miss Prettyman. " He has heard it by a message from Mrs. Arabin. But you mustn't mention this. You won't, please, because papa has asked me not. I told him that I should tell you." Then, for the first time, the frown passed away entirely from Miss Prettyman's face, and the papers and account-books were pushed aside, as being of no moment. The news had been momentous enough to satisfy her. Mary continued her story almost in a whisper. " It was ]\Irs. Ara- bin who sent the check to Mr. Crawley. She says so herself. So that makes Mr. Crawley quite innocent. I am so glad." " But isn't it odd he didn't say so?" said Miss Prettyman. "Nevertheless it's true," said Mary. " Perhaps he forgot," said Anne Prettyman. " Men don't forget sucli things as that," said the elder sister. "I really do think Mr. Crawley could forget any thing," said the younger sister. "You may be sure it's true," said Mary Walker, " because papa said so." "If he said so it must be true," said Miss Prettyman ; "and I am rejoiced. I really am rejoiced. Poor man ! Poor ill-used man! And nobody has ever believed that he has really been guilty, even though they may have thought that he spent the money without any proper right to it. And now he will get off". But dear me, Mary, Mr. Smithe told me yesterday that he had al- ready given up his living, and that Mr. Spoon- er, the minor canon, was trying to get it from the dean. But that was because Mr. Spooner and Mrs. Proudie had quarreled ; and as Mrs. Proudie is gone, Mr. Spooner very likely won"t want to move now." "They'll never go and put any body into Hogglestock, Annabella, over Mr. Crawley's head," said Anne. "I didn't say that they would. Surely I may be allowed to repeat what I hear, like an- other person, witliout being snapped up." " I didn't mean to snap you up, Annabella." " You're always snapping me up. But if this is true, I can not sa}' how glad I am. My jjoor Grace! Now, I sujipose, there will be no diffi- 318 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. culty, and Grace will become a great lady." Tlien tlicy discussed very minutely the chances of Grace Crawley's promotion. John Walker, Mr. Wintln-0]i, and several otli- ers of the chosen spirits of Silverbridgc, were jiluying whist at a provincial club, which had cstablislied itself in the town, when the news was brou;.jht to them. Though Mr. Winlhrop was the partner of the great Walker, and though Jolm Walker was the great man's son, I fear that the news reached their cars in but an under- hand sort of way. As for the great man him- self, he never went near the club, preferring his si ijipers and tea at home. The Walkerian groom, rushing up tiie street to the "CJeorge and Vul- ture," paused a moment to tell his tidings to the club porter ; from the club porter it was whis- jiored respectfully to the JSilverbridge apotheca- ry, who, by special grace, was a member of tlie club ; and was by him repeated with much cau- tious solemnity over the card-table. "Who told you that, Balsam ?" said John Walker, throwing down his cards. "I've just heard it," said Balsam. "I don't believe it," said John. "I shouldn't wonder if it's true," said Win- tln'op. "I always said that something would turn up." ' ' Will you bet three to one he is not found guilty?" said John Walker. "Done," said Winthrop; "in pounds." That morning the odds in the club against the event had been only two to oue. But as the matter was discussed the men in the club began to be- lieve the tidings, and before he went home John Walker would have been glad to hedge his bet on any terms. After he had spoken to his father he gave his money up for lost. But Mr. Walker — the great Walker — had more to do that night before his son came home from the club. He and Mr. Toogood agreed that it would be right that they should see Dr. Tempest at once, and they went over together to the rectory. It was past ten at this time, and they found the doctor almost in the act of putting out the candles for the night. " I could not but come to you, doctor," said Mr. Walker, "with the news my friend has brought. Mrs. Arabin gave the check to Crawley. Here is a telegram from her saying so." And the tele- gram was handed to the doctor. He stood perfectly silent for a few minutes, reading it over and over again. " I see it all," he said, when he spoke at last. "I see it all now ; and I must own I was never before so much puzzled in my life." "I own I can't see why she should have given him Mr. Soames's check," said Mr. Walker. "I can't say where she got it, and I own I don't much care," said Dr. Tempest. "But I don't doubt but what she gave it him witliout telling the dean, and that Crawley thought it came from the dean. I'm very glad. I am, indeed, very glad. I do not know that I ever pitied a man so much iu my life as I have pit- ied Mr. Crawley." "It must have been a hard case when it has moved him," said Mr. Walker to Mr. Toogood as they left the clergyman's house ; and then the Silverbridge attorney saw the attorney from London home to his inn. It was the general opinion at Silverbridge that the news from Venice ought to be com- municated to the Crawleys by Major Grantly. Mary Walker had expressed this oj>iuion very strongly, and her mother had agreed with her. Miss i'rettyman also felt that poetical justice, or, at least, the romance of justice, demanded this ; and, as she told her sister Anne after JMary Walker left her, she was of opinion that such an arrangement might tend to make things safe. "I do thiuk he is an honest man and a fine fel- low," said Miss Prettyman ; " but, my dear, you know what the jiroverb says, ' Tliere's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip.' " Miss Pretty- man thought that any thing which might be done to prevent a slip ought to be done. The idea that the jdeasant task of taking the news out to Hogglestock ought to be confided to Ma- jor Grantly was very general ; but then Mr. Walker was of opinion that the news ought not to be taken to Hogglestock at all till something more certain than the telegram had reached them. Early on the following morning the two lawyers again met, and it was arranged between them that the London lawjer should go over at once to Barchcster, and that the Silverbridge lawyer should see Major Grantly. Mr. Too- good was still of ojiinion that with dne diligence something miglit yet be learned as to the check by inquiry among the denizens of "The Dragon of Wantly ;" and his opinion to this effect was stronger than ever when he learned from Mr. Walker tliat " The Dragon of Wantly" belonged to Mrs. Arabin. Mr. Walker, after breakfiist, had himself driv- en up in his open carriage to Cosby Lodge, and, ! as he entered the gates, observed that the auc- tioneer's bills as to the sale had been pulled down. The Mr. Walkers of the world know every thing, and our Mr. Walker had quite un- derstood that the major was leaving Cosby Lodge because of some misunderstanding with his father. The exact nature of the misunder- standing he did not know, even though he was Mr. W^alker, but had little doubt that it referred in some way to Grace Crawley. If the arch- deacon's objection to Grace arose from the im- putation against the father, that objection would now be removed, but the abolition of the posters could not as yet have been owing to any such cause as that. Mr. Walker found the major at the gate of the farm-yard attached to Cosby Lodj,e, and perceived that at that very moment he was engaged in superintending the abolition of sundry other auctioneer's bills from sundry other posts. " What is all thi^ about ?" said Mr. Walker, greeting the major. "Is there to be * no sale after all ?" . " It has been postponed," said the m.ajor. "Postponed for good, I hope ? Bill to be read again this day six months !" said Mr. Walker. THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAESET. 319 "I rather think not. But circumstances have induced me to have it ])ut off." Mr. Walker had got out of the carriage, and had taken Major Grantly aside. " Just come a little further," he said ; "I've something spe- cTal to tell you. News reached me last ni^ht which will clear Mr. Crawley altogether. We know now where he got the check." . " You don't tell me so !" / "Yes, I do. And though the news has reached us in such a way that we can not act upon it till it's confirmed, I do not in the least doubt it." " And how did he get it ?" "You can not guess?" " Not in the least," said the major ; " unless, after all, Soames gave it to him." " Soames did not give it to him, but Mrs. Arabin did." " Mrs. Arabin ?" / " Yes, Mrs. Arabin." "Not the dean?" "No, not the dean. What we know is this, that your aunt has telegraphed to Crawley's cousin, Toogood, to say that she gave Crawlej'- that check, and that she has written to your fa- ther about it at length. We do not like to tell Crawley till that letter has been received. It is so easy, you know, to misunderstand a telegram, and the wrong copying of a word may make such a mistake !" " When was it received ?" " Toogood received it in London only yester- day morning. Your father will not get his let- ter, as I calculate, till the day after to-morrow. But perhaps you had better go over and see him, and prepare him for it. Toogood has gone to Barchester this morning." To this proposi- tion Grantly made no immediate answer. He could not but remember the tei-ms on which he had left his father; aaid though he had, most un- willingly, pulled down the auctioneer's bills, in compliance with his mother's last prayer to him — and, indeed, had angrily told the auctioneer to send him in his bill when the auctioneer had demurred to these proceedings — nevertheless he was hardly prepared to discuss the matter of Mr. Crawley with his father in pleasant words — in words which should be full of rejoicing. It was a great thing for him, Henry Grantly, that Mr. Crawley should be innocent, and he did rejoice ; but he had intended his father to understand that he meant to persevere, whether Mr. Craw- ley were innocent or guilty, and thus he would now lose an opportunity for exhibiting his ob- stinacy — an opportunity which had not been without a charm for him. He must console himself as best he might with the returning pros- pect of assured prosperity, and with his renewed hopes as to the Plumstead foxes ! ' ' We think, miTJor, that when the time comes you ought to be the bearer of the news to Hogglestock," said Mr. Walker. Then the major did under- take to convey the news to Hogglestock, but) he made no promise as to going over to riuni- stead. CHAPTER LXXII. MR. TOOGOOD AT "THE DRAGON OF WANTLT." In accordance with his arrangement with Mr. Walker, Mr. Toogood went over to Barchester early in the morning and put himself up at "The Dragon of Wantly." He now knew the following facts : that Mr. Soames, when he lost his check, had had with him one of the servants from that inn ; that the man who had been with Mr. Soames had gone to New Zealand ; that the check had found its way into the hands of Mrs. Arabin ; and that Mrs. Arabin was the owner of the inn in question. So much he believed to be within his knowledge, and if his knowledge should prove to be correct, his work would be done as far as Mr. Crawley was concerned. If Mr. Crawley had not stolen tlie check, and if that could be proved, it would be a question of no great moment to Mr. Toogood who had stolen it. But he was a sportsman in his own line who liked to account for his own fox. As he was down at Barcliester, he thought that he might as well learn how tlie check had got into Mrs. Arabin's hands. No doubt that for her own personal possession of it she would be able to account on her return. Probably such account would be given in her first letter home. But it might be well that he should be prepared with any small circumstantial details which he might be able to pick up at the inn. He reached Barchester before breakfast, and in ordering his tea and toast reminded the old waiter with the dirty towel of his former ac- quaintance with him. " I remember you. Sir," said the old waiter. " I remember you very well. You was asking questions about the check which Mr. Soames lost afore Christmas." Mr. Toogood certainly had asked one question on the subject. He had inquired whether a cer- tain man who had gone to New Zealand had been the post-boy who accompanied Mr. Soames when the check was lost ; and the waiter had professed to know nothing about Mr. Soames or the check. He now perceived at once that the gist of the question had remained on the old man's mind, and that he was recognized as being in some way connected with the lost money. "Did I? Ah, yes; I think I did. And I think you told me that he was the man ?" " No, Sir ; I never told you that." "Then you told me that he wasn't." "Nor I didn't tell you that neither," said the waiter, angrily. "Then what the devil did you tell me ?" To this further question the waiter sulkily declined to give any answer, and soon afterward left the room. Toogood, as soon as he had done his breakfast, rang the bell, and the same man ap- peared. "Will you tell Mr. Stringer that I should be glad to see him if he's disengaged," said Mr. Toogood. "I know he's bad with the gout, and therefore if he'll allow me, I'll go to him instead of his coming to me.'" Mr. | Stringer was the landlord of the inn. The ' 320 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF DARSET. waiter hesitateil a moment, and then declared that to the best of his belief his master was not down. He would po and see. Toogood, how- ever, would not wait for that ; but rising quick- ly and passing tlie waiter, crossed the hall from the coft'ee-rooni, and entered what was called tlic bar. The bar was a small room connected with the hall by a large open window, at which orders for rooms were given and cash was paid, and glasses of beer were consumed — and a good deal of miscellaneous conversation was carried on. The bar-maid was here at the window, and there was also, in a corner of tlie room, a man at a desk with a red nose. Tongood knew that the man at the desk witli the red nose was Jlr. Stringer's clerk. So mucli he had learned in his former rummaging about the inn. And he also remembered at this moment that he had observed the man witii tlic red nose standing under a narrow archway in the close as he was coming out of the deanery on the occasion of his visit to Mr. Harding. It liad not occurred to him then that the man witli the red nose was watching him, but it did occur to him now that tlie man with the red nose had been there, un- der the arch, with the express purpose of watch- ing him on that occasion. Mr. Toogood passed (piickly through the bar into an inner parlor, in which was sitting Mr. Stringer, the landlord, ])ropi)ed among his cushions. Toogood, as he had entered the hotel, had seen Mr. Stringer so j)laced, througli the two doors, wdiich at fiiat moment had both hapiiened to be ojjcn. He knew, therefore, that his old friend the waiter had not been quite true to him in suggesting that liis master was not as yet down. As Too- good cast a glance of his eye on the man with the red nose he told himself the old story of the apparition under the archway. "Mr. Stringer," said Mr. Toogood to the landlord, " I hope I'm not intruding." " Oh dear, no, Sir," said the forlorn man. "Xobody ever intrudes coming in here. I'm always happy to see gentlemen — only, mostly, I'm so bad with the gout." " Have you got a sharp touch of it just now, Mr. Stringer?" "Not just to-day. Sir. I've been a little easi- er since Saturday. The worst of this burst is over. But Lord bless you, Sir, it don't leave me — not for a fortnight at a time, now ; it don't. And it ain't what I drink, nor it ain't what I cat." "Constitutional, I suppose?" said Toogood. "Look here, Sir;" and Mr. Stringer showed his visitor the chalk stones in all his knuckles. "They say I'm all a mass of chalk. I some- times think they'll break me up to mark the scores behind my own door with. ' And Mr. Stringer laughed at his own wit Mr. Toogood laughed too. He laughed loud and cheerily. And then he asked a sudden question, keeping his eye as he did so upon a j little square open window, which communicated between the landlord's private room and the bar. Through this small aperture he could see ! as he stood a portion of the hat worn by the man with the red nose Since he had been in the room with the landlord the man with the red nose had moved his head twice, on each occasion drawing himself closer into his corner ; but I\Ir. Toogood, by moving also, had still c(5n- trived to keep a morsel of the hat in sight. He laughed cheerily at the landlord's joke, and then he asked a sudden question, looking w ell at the morsel of the hat as he did so. "Mr. Stringer," said he, "how do you pay your rent, and to whom do youjiay it?" There was immediate- ly a jerk in the hat, and then it disai)])earcd. / Toogood, stepjiing to the open door, saw that the red-nosed clerk had taken his hat oft" and was very busy at his accounts. " How do I pay my rent ?" said Mr. Stringer, the landlord. "Well, Sir, since this cursed gout has been so bad it's hard enough to jiay it at all sometimes. You ain't sent here to look for it, Sir, are you ?" "Not I," said Toogood. "It was only a chance question." He felt that he had nothing more to do with ]\Tr. Stringer, the landlord. Mr. Stringer, the landlord, knew nothing about Mr. Soames's check. "What's the name of your clerk?" said he. "The name of my clerk?" said Mr. Stringer. " AVhv do 3'ou want to know the name of my clerk ?" " Does he ever pay your rent for you ?" ' "Well, yes; he does at times. He pays it into the bank for the lady as owns the house. Is there any reason for your asking these ques- tions, Sir ? It isn't usual, you know, for a stran- ger. Sir." Toogood during the whole of this time was standing with his eye upon the red-nosed man, and the red-nosed man could not move. The red-nosed man heard all the questions and the landlord's answers, and could not even pretend that he did not hear them. " I am my cousin's clerk," said he, jnitting on his hat, and coming up to Mr. Toogood with a swagger. " My name is Dan Stringer, and I'm Mr. John Stringer's cousin. I've lived with Mr. John Stringer for' twelve year and more, and I'm a'most as well known in Barchester as himself. Have you any thing to say to me, Sir ?" " Well, yes; I have," said Toogood. " I believe you're one of them attorneys from London?" said Mr. Dan Stringer. "That's true. I am an attorney from Lon- don." "I hope there's nothing wrong," said the gouty man, trying to get off his chair, but not succeeding. " If there is any thing wronger than usual, Dan, do tell me. Is there any thing wrong. Sir?" and the landlord appealed pitcous- ly to Mr. Toogood. "Never you mind, John," said Dan " You keep yourself quiet, and don't answer none of his questions. He's one of them low sort, he is. I know him. I knowed him for what he is directlj' I saw him. Ferreting about — that's his game ; to see if there's any thing to be got," THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 321 "But what is he ferreting here for?" said Mr. John Stringer. "I'm ferreting for Mr. Soames's check for twenty iiounds," said Mr. Toogood. "That's the check that the parson stole," said Dan Stringer. " He's to be tried for it at tiie 'sizes." "You've heard about Mr. Soamcs and his check, and about Mr. Crawley, I dare say," said Toogood. " I've heard a deal about them," said the land- lord. "And so, I dare say, have you," said Toogood, turning to Dan Stringer. But Dan Stringer dul not seem inclined to cany on the conversa- tion any further. When he was hardly ])vessed he declared that he Just had heard that there Avas siMiic. i)ars()n in trouble about a sum of money; but that he knew no more about it than that. He ditln't know whether it was a check or a note that the parson had taken, and had never been sufficiently interested iu the matter to make any inquiry. " But you've just said that Mr. Soames's check was the check the parson stole," said the aston-. ished landlord, turning with open eyes upon his cousin. "You be bIov.ed !" said Dan Stringer, the clerk, to Mr. John Stringer, the landlord ; and then walked out of the room back to the bar. "I understand nothing about it — nothing at all," said the gouty man. " I understand pretty nearly all about it," said IMr. Toogood, following the red -nosed clerk. There was no necessity that he. should trouble the landlord any further. He left the room, and went through the bar, and as he passed out along the hall he found Dan Stringer with his hat on talking to tlie waiter. The waiter im- mediately pulled himself up, and adjusted his dirty najjkin under his arm, after the fashion of waiters, and showed that he intended to be civil to the customers of the house. But he of the red nose cocked his hat, and looked with insolence at Mr. Toogood, and defied him. "There's nothing I do hate so much as them low-bred Old Bailey attorneys," said j\Ir. Dan Stringer to the waiter, in a voice intended to reach Mr. Toogood's ears. Then Mr. Toogood told himself that Dan Stringer was not the thief himself, and tiiat it might be very difficult to prove that Dan had even been the receiver of stolen goods. He had, however, no doubt in his own mind but that such was the case. He first went to the police-office, and there explained his business. Nobody at the police- office ]iretended to forget Mr. Soames's check, or Mr Crawley's position. The constable went so far as to swear tiiat there wasn't a man, wo- man, or child in all Barchester who was not talking of Mr. Crawley at that very moment. Then Mr. Toogood went with the constable to the jirivate house of the mayor, and had a little conversation with the mayor. "Not guilty!" said the mayor, with incredulity, when he first heard the news about Crawley. But when he heard Mr. Toogood's story, or as much of it as it was necessary that he should licar, he yielded reluctantly. "Dear, dear!" he said. "I'd have bet any thing 'twas lie who stole it." And after that the mayor was quite sad. Only let us think what a comfortable excitement it would create throughout England if it was sur- mised that an archbishop had forged a deed ; and how much England would lose when it was discovered that the archbishop was innocent ! As the archbishop and his forgery would be to England, so was Mr. Crawley and the check for twenty pounds to Barcliester and its mayor. Nevertheless, the mayor promised his assist- ance to Mr. Toogood. Mr. Toogood, still neglecting his rcd-noscd friend, Avent next to the deanery, hoping that he might again see Mr. Harding. Mr. Haid- ing was, he was told, too ill to be seen. Mr. Harding, Mrs. Baxter said, could never be seen now by strangers, nor yet by friends, unless they were very (^d friends. "There's been a deal of change since you were here last, Sir. I re- member your coming, Sir. You were talking to Mr. Harding about the poor clergyman as is to be tried." He did not stop to tell Mrs. Baxter the whole story of Mr. Crawley's innocence ; but having learned that a message had been re- ceived to say that Mrs. Arabin would be home on the next Tuesday — this being Friday — he took his leave of Mrs. Baxter. His next visit was to Mr. Soames, who lived three miles out in the country, He found it very difficult to convince Mr. Soames. Jlr. Soames was more stanch in his belief of Mr. Crawley's guilt than any one whom Toogood had yet encountered. " I nev- er took the check out of his house," said Mr. Soames. "But you have not stated that on oath," said Mr. Toogood. " No," rejoined the other ; "and I never will. I can't swear to it ; but yet I'm sure of it." He acknowledged that he had been driven by a nvm named Scuttle, and that Scuttle might have picked up the check if it had been dropped in the gig. But the check had not been dropped in the gig. The cheek had been dropped in Mr. Crawley's house. "Why did he say then that I paid it to him?" said Mr. Soames, when IMr. Toogood spoke con- fidently of Crawley's innocence. "Ah, why indeed?" answered Toogood. "If he had not been fool enough to do that, we should have been saved all this trouble. All the same, he did not steal your money, Mr. Soames ; and Jem Scuttle did steal it. Unfortunately, Jem Scut- tle is in New Zealand by this time." "Of course, it is possible," said j\Ir. Soames, as he bowed Mr. Toogood out. Mr. Soames did not like Mr. Toogood. That evening a gentleman with a red nose asked at the Barchester station for a second-class ticket for London by the up night-mail train. He was well known at the station, and the sta- tion-master made some little inquiry. "All the way to London to-night, Mr. Stringer ?" he said. 322 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. "Yes — all the way," said the red-nosed man, sulkily. " I don't think you'd better go to London to- night, Mr. Stringer," said a tall man, stepping out of the door of the booking-oflicc. " I tliink you'd better come back with me to Earchestcr. I do indeed." There was some little argument on the occasion ; but the stranger, who was a detective policeman, carried his point, and Mr. Dan Stringer did return to Barchester. CHAPTER LXXIIL THKUIC IS COMFORT AT PLUMSTEAD. Henry Graxtlt had written the following short letter to Mrs. Grantly when he made up his mind to pull down the auctioneer's bills : " Di;ar Mother, — I have postponed the sale, not liking to refuse you any tiling. As far as I can sec, I shall still be forced to leave Cosby Lodge, as I certainly shall do all I can to make Grace Crawley my wife. I say this that there may be no misunderstanding with my father. Tlie auctioneer has promised to have the bills removed. Your affectionate son, "Henry Grantly.'' This had been written by the major on the Friday before Mr. Walker had brought up to him the tidings of I\Ir. Toogood and Mrs. Ara- bin's solution of the Crawley difiiculty ; but it did not reacli riumstead till the following morn- ing Mrs. Grantly immediately took the good nc'.v.s about the sale to her husband — not, of course, showing him the letter, being far too wise for that, and giving him credit for being too wise to ask for it. "Henry has arranged with the auctioneer," she said, joyfully ; "and the bills have been all pulled down." " How do you know ?" '• I've just heard from him. He has told me so. Come, my dear, let me have the pleasure of hearing you say that things shall be pleasant again between you and him He has yielded." •' I don't see much yielding in it." " He has done what you wanted. What more can he do?" "I want him to come over here, and take an interest in things, and not treat me as though I were nobody." Within an liour of this the ma- jor had arrived at I'lumstead, lailen with the story of Mrs. Arahin and the check, and of Mr. Crawley's innocence — laden not only with such tidings as he had received from Mr. Walker, but also with further details, which he had re- ceived from Mr. Toogood. For he had come through Barchester, and had seen Mr. Toogood on his way. This was on the Saturday morn- ing, and he had breakfasted with Mr. Toogood at "The Dragon of Wantly." Mr. Toogood had told him of his suspicions — how the red- nosed man had been stopped, and liad been sum- moned as a witness for jNIr. Crawley's trial — and how he was now under the surveillance of the po- lice. Grantly had not cared very much about the red-nosed man, confining his present solici- tude to the question whether Grace Crawley's father would certainly be shown to have been innocent of the theft. " There's not a doubt about it, major," said Mr. Toogood; "not a doubt on earth. But we'd better be a little quiet till your aunt comes home — just a little quiet. She'll be here in a day or two, and I won't budge till she comes." In spite of his de- sire for (luiesccnce Mr. Toogood consented to a revelation being at once made to the archdeacon and Mrs. Grantly. "And I'll tell you what, major ; as soon as ever Mrs. Arabin is here, and has given us her own word to act on, you and I will go over to Hogglestock and astonish them. I should like to go myself, because, you see, Mrs. Crawley is my cousin, and we have taken a little trouble about this matter." To this the major assented ; but he altogether declined to assist in Mr. 'J'oogood's sijcculations respecting the unfortunate Dan Stringer. It was agi-eed between them that for the present no visit should be made to the palace, as it was thought that Mr. Tiuimble had better be allowed to do the Hogglestock duties on the next Sunday. As matters went, however, Mr. Tiuimble did not do so. He had paid his last visit to Hoggle- stock. It may be as well to explain here that the un- fortunate Mr. Snapper was constrained to go out to Hogglestock on the Sunday which was now approaching — which fell out as follows : It might be all very well for Mr. Toogood to ar- range that he would not tell this person or that person of the news which he had brought down from London ; but as he had told various peo- ple in Silverbridge, as he had told Mr. Soames, and as he had told the police at Barchester, of course the tale found its way to the palace. Mr. Thumble heard it, and having come by this time thoroughly to hate Hogglestock and all that -belonged to it, he pleaded to Mr. Snapper that this report afforded ample rea- son why he need not again visit that detest- able parish. Mr. Snapper did not see it in the same light. "You may be sure Mr. Crawley will not get into the pulpit after his resignation, Mr. Thumble," said he. "His resignation means nothing," said Thum- ble. ' ' It means a great deal," said Snapper ; "and the duties must be provided for." "I won't provide for them," said Thumble; "and so you may tell the bishop." In these days Mr. Thumble was very angi-y with the bishop, for the bishop liad not yet seen him since the death of Mrs. Proudie. Mr. Snapper had no alternative but to go to the bishop. The bishop in these days was very mild to those whom he saw, given but to few words, and a little astray — as though he had had one of his limbs cut off — as Mr. Snapper expressed it to Mrs. Snapper. "I shouldn't wonder if he felt as though all his limbs were cut off," said Mrs. Snapper; "you must give him THE LAST CURONICLE OF BARSET. 323 time, and lie'll come round by-and-by." I am imlined to think that Mrs. Snapper's opinion of the bishop's feelings and condition was cor- rect. In his difficulty respecting Ilogglestock and Mr. Tlumible Mr. Snapper went to the bish- op, and spoke perhaps a little harshly of ]\Ir. Tliumble. " I think, upon the whole, Snapper, that you had better go yourself," said tlie bisiiop. " Do you think so, my lord ?" said Snapper. "It will be inconvenient." " Every thing is inconvenient; but you'd bet- ter go. And look here. Snapper, if I were you, I wouldn't say any thing out at Hogglestock about the check. We don't know what it may come to yet." Mr. Snapper, with a heavy heart, left his patron, not at all liking the task that, was before him. But his wife encouraged hint to be obedient. He was the owner of a one- horse carriage, and the work was not, therefore, so hard to him as it would have been and had been to poor Mr. Thumble. And, moreover, his wife promised to go with him. Mr. Snap- per and Mrs. Snapper did go over to Hoggle- stock, and the duty was done. Mrs. Snapper spoke a word or two to Mrs. Crawley, and Mv. Snapper spoke a word or two to ^Ir. Crawlev; but not a word was said about the new news as to Mr. Soames's check, whicli were now almost current in, Barchester. Indeed, no whisper about it had as yet reached Hogglestock. " One word with you, reverend Sir," said Mr. Crawley to tlie chaplain, as the latter was com- ing out of tlie church, " as to tiie parish work, Sir, during the week — I should be glad if you would fovor me with your ojiiiiion." " About what, Mv. Crawley ?" "Whether you think that I may be allowed, witliout scandal, to visit the sick, and to give instruction in the school." " Surely — surely, Mv. Crawley. Why not ?" "Mr. Thumble gave me to understand that the bishop was very urgent that I should inter- fere ill no way in the ministrations of the par- ish. Twice did he enjoin on me that I should not interfere — unnecessarily, as it seemed to me." " Quite unnecessaiy," said Mr. Snapper. "And the bishop will be obliged to you, Mr. Crawley, if you'll just see that the things go on all straight." " I wish it were possible to know with accu- racy what his idea of straightness is," said Mr. Crawley to his wife. " It may be that things are sti'aiglit to him when they are buried as it were out of sight, and put away without trouble. I hope it be not so with the bishop." When he went into his school and remembered — as he did remember through every minute of his teach- ing — tliat he was to receive no portion of the poor stipend which was allotted for the clerical duties of the parish, he told himself that there was gross injustice in the way in which things were being made straight at Hogglestock. But we must go back to the major and to the archdeacon at Plumstead — in which comforta- ble parish things were generally made straight more easily than at Ilogglestock. Henry Grant- ly went over from Barciiester to Plumstead in a gig from the "Dragon," and made his way at once into his father's study. The archdeacon was seated there with sundry manuscrij)ts before him, and with one half-finished manuscript — as was his wont on every Saturday morning. "Hal- loo, Harry!" he said. "I didn't expect you in the least." It was barely an hour since he had told Mrs. Grantly that his complaint against his son was that he wouldn't come and make him- self comfortable at the rectory. " Father," said he, giving the archdeacon his hand, "you have heard nothing yet about Mr. Crawley?" "No," said the archdeacon, jumping up; " nothing new — what is it ?" Many ideas about Mr. Crawley at that moment flitted across the archdeacon's mind. Could it be that the unfor- tunate man had committed suicide, overcome by his troubles? " It has all come out. He got the check from my aunt." "From your aunt Eleanor?" " Yes ; from my aunt Eleanor. She has tel- egraphed over from Venice to say that she gave tlie identical check to Crawley. That is all we know at present — except that she has written an account of the matter to you, and that she will be here herself as quick as she can come." " Who got the message, Henry?" " Crawley's lawyer — a fellow named Toogood, a cousin of his wife's; a very decent fellow," added the major, remembering how necessary it was that he should reconcile his father to all the Crawley belongings. "He's to be over here on Monday, and then will arrange what is to be done." " Done in wliat way, Henry ?" " Tlicre's a great deal to be done yet. Craw- ley does not know himself at this moment how the check got into his hands. He must be told, and something must be settled about the living. They've taken the living away from him among them. And then the indictment must be quash- ed, or somctjiing of that kind done. Toogood has got hold of the scoundrel at Barchester who really stole the check from Soames — or thinks that he has. It's that Dan Stringer." "He's got hold of a regular scamp, then. I never knew any good of Dan Stringer," said the archdeacon. Then Mrs. Grantly was told, and the whole story was repeated again, with many expressions of commiseration in reference to all the Craw- leys. The archdeacon did not join in these at first, being rather shy on that head. It was very hard for him to have to speak to his son about the Crawleys as though they were people in all respects estimable and well-conducted and satisfactory. Mrs. Grantly understood this so well that every now and then she said some half- laughing word respecting Mr. Crawley's pecul- iarities, feeling tliat in tliis way she might ease her husband's difficulties. "He must be the oddest man that ever lived," said Mrs. Grantly, 324 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAKSET. " not to have known where he got tlic check." The archdeacon shook his head and rubbed his hands as he walked about the room. "I sup- pose too much learning has upset him," said the archdeacon. "Tiiey say he's not very good at talking English, but put him on in Greek and he never sto])s." The archdeacon was perfectly aware that he liad to admit Mr. Crawley to his good-will, and tliat as for Grace Crawley, it was essentially nec- essary that she should bo admitted to his lieart of hearts. He had jjroniised as much. It must be acknowledged tliat Archdeacon Grantly al- ways kept his promises, and csi)ecially sucli promises as these. And indeed it was tiie na- ture of the man that when he had been very an- gry with those lie loved he should be nniiap])y until he had found some escai)e from his anger. He could not endure to have to own himself to have been in tlie wrong, but he could be con- tent with a very incomplete recognition of his having been in the right. The posters had been pulled down, and Mr. Crawley, as he was now told, had not stolen the clieck. Tliat was suf- ficient. If his son would only drink a glass or two of wine with him comfortably, and talk du- tifully about the Plumstead foxes, all should be held to be right, and Grace Crawley should be received with lavish paternal embraces. The archdeacon had kissed Grace once, and felt that he could do so again without an unpleasant strain upon his feelings. " Say something to your father about the property after dinner," said Mrs. Grantly to her son when they were alone together. "About what property?" "About this property, or any property; you know what I mean — sometliing to show that you arc interested about his affairs. He is do- ing the best he can to make things right." Aft-/ er dinner, over the claret, Mr. Thome's terrible sin in reference to the trapjjing of foxes was ac- cordingly again brought up, and the archdeacon became beautifully irate, and expressed his ani- mosity — which he did not in tlie least feel — against an old friend witli an energy which would have delighted his wife if she could have heard him. " I shall tell Thorne my mind, certainly. He and I are very old fiiends ; we have known eacli other all our lives ; but I can not ]mt up with this kind of thing — and I will not. It's all because he's afraid of his own game-keeper." And yet the arclideacon had never ridden after a fox in his life, and never meant to do so. Nor had he in truth been al- ways so very anxious that foxes should be found in his covers. That fox which had been so for- tunately trapped just outside the I'lumstead property afforded a most pleasant escape for tlie steam of his anger. When he began to talk to his wife that evening about Mr. Thome's wicked game-keeper she Avas so sure that all was right that she said a word of her extreme desire to see Grace Crawley. " If he is to marry her, we might as well have her over here," said the archdeacon. "That's just what I was thinking,'" said Mrs. Grantly. And thus things at the rectory got themselves arranged. On the Sunday morning the expected letter from Venice came to hand, and was read on that morning very anxiously, not only by Mrs. Grantly and tlie major, but by the archdeacon •hlso, in spite of the sanctity of the day. Indeed the archdeacon had been veiy stoutly anti-sab- batarial when the question of stopping the Sun- day post to Plumstead had been mooted in the village, giving those who on that occasion were the sjiecial friends of the ])Ostman to understand that he considered them to be numbsculls, and little better than idiots. The postman, finding the parson to be against him, had seen that there was no chance for him, and had allowed the matter to drop. Mrs. Arabin's letter was long and eager, and full of repetitions, but it did ex- ]jlain clearly to them the exact manner in which the check had found its way into Mr. Crawley's hand. "Francis came nj) to me," she said in her letter — Francis being her husband, tlie dean — " and asked me for the money, which I had promised to make np in a packet. The packet was not ready, and he would not wait, declar- ing that Mr. Crawley was in such a flurry that he did not like to leave him. I was therefore to bring it down to the door. I went to my desk, and thinking that I could spare the twenty pounds as well as the fifty, I put the check into the envelope, together with the notes, and handed the packet to Francis at the door. I think I told Francis afterward that I put seventy pounds into the envelope, instead of fift}', but of this I will not be sure. At any rate, Mr. Crnwki/ cjot il//-. Soames's check from me." These last words she underscored, and then went on to explain how the check had been paid to her a short time before by Dan Stringer. " Then Toogood has been right about the fel- low," said the archdeacon. " I hope they'll hang him," said Mrs. Grant- ly. "He must have known all the time what dreadful misery he was bringing upon this un- fortunate family." "I don't suppose Dan Stringer cared much about that," said the major. "Not a straw," said the archdeacon, and then all hurried off to churcli ; and the arclideacon preached tlie sermon in the fabrication of which he had been interrupted by his son, and which therefore barely enabled him to turn the quarter of an hour from the giving out of his text. It was his constant practice to pi'each for full twen- ty minutes. As Barchester lay on the direct road from Plumstead to Hogglestock, it was thought well that word should be sent to Mr. Toogood, desir- ing him not to come out to Plumstead on the Monday morning. Major Grantly projioscd to call for him at " The Dragon," and to take him on from thence to Hogglestock. "Ydu had better take your mother's horses all through," said the archdeacon. The distance was very nearly twenty miles, and it was felt both by the THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 325 mother and the son that the archdeacon must be in a good liumor when he made such a i)rop- osition as that. It was not often that the rec- tory carriage-horses were allowed to make long journeys. A run into Barchester and back, which altogether was under ten miles, was gen- erally tlie extent of their work. "I meant to have posted from Barchester," said the major. You may as well take the liorses througli," said the archdeacon. "Your mother will not want them. And I suppose you might as well bring your friend Toogood back to dinner. We'll give him a bed." "He must be a good sort of man," said Mrs. Grantly; "fori suppose he has done all this for love?" "Yes ; and spent a lot of money out of his own pocket too !" said the major, enthusiastical- ly. "And the joke of it is, that he has been defending Crawley in Crawley's teeth. Mr. Crawley had refused to employ counsel ; but Toogood had made up his mind to have a bai'- rister, on purpose that there miglit be a fuss about it in court. He thought that it would tell with til e jury in Crawley's favor." "Bring him here, and we'll hear all about that from iiimself," said the archdeacon. The major, before he started, told his mother tiiat he should call at Framley Parsonage on his way back ; but he said nothing on this subject to his father. " I'll write to her in a day or two," said Mrs. Grantly, " and we'll have things settled pleas- antly." CHAPTER LXXIV. THE CRAAVLETS ARE INFORMED. Major Grantly made an early start, know- ing that he had a long day's work before him. He had written overnight to Mr. Toogood, nam- ing the hour at which he would reach "The Dragon," and was thoi-e punctual to the moment. When the attorney came out and got into the open carriage, while the groom held the steps for him, it was plain to be seen that the respect in whicli lie was held at "The Dragon" was greatly increased. It was already known that he was going to Plumstead that night, and it was partly understood that he was engaged with the Grantly and Arabin faction in defending Mr./ Crawley the clergyman against the Proudie fac- tion. Dan Stringer, who was still at the inn, as he saw his enemy get into the Plumstead carriage, felt himself to be one of tlie palace party, and felt that if Mrs. Proudie had only lived till after the assizes all this heavy trouble would not liave befallen him. The waiter with the dirty napkin stood at the door and bowed, thinking perhaps that as the Proudie party was going down in Barchester, it might be as well to be civil to Mr. Toogood. The days of the String- ers were probably drawing to a close at "The Dragon of Wantly," and there was no knowing who might be the new landlord. Henry Grantly and the lawyer found very little to say to each other on tlicir long way out to Ilogglestock. They were thinking, probably, much of the coming interview, and hardly knew how to express their thoughts to each other. "I will not take tlie carriage up to the hou.se," said the major, as they were entering the parisli of Ilogglestock ; " particularly as the man must feed the horses." So they got out at a farm- house about half a mile from the church, wliere the oft'cnse of the carriage and livery-servant would be well out of Mr. Crawley's sight, and from thence walked toward the jiarsonage. The ciuirch, and the school close to it, lay on their way, and as they passed by the school door they heard voices within. "I'll bet twopence he's there," said Toogood. "Tliey tell me he's always either in one shop or the otlier. I'll slip in and bring him out." Mr. Toogood had as- sumed a comfortable air, as though the day's work was to be good pastime, and even made occasional attempts at drollery. He had had his jokes about Dan Stringer, and had attempted to describe the absurdities of Mr. Crawley's visit to Bedford Row. All this would have an- gered the major, had he not seen that it was as- sumed to cover something below of which Mr. Toogood was a little ashamed, but of which, as the major tiiought, Mr. Toogood had no cause to be ashamed. When, therefore, Toogood pro- posed to go into the school and bring IMr. Craw- ley out, as though the telling of their story would be the easiest thing in the world, the major did not stop him. Indeed he had no plan of his own ready. His mind was too intent on the tragedy which had occurred, and whicli was now to be brought to a close, to enable him to form any plan as to the best way of getting up the last scene. So Mr. Toogood, with quick and easy steps, entered the school, leaving the ma- jor still standing in the road. Mr. Crawley was in the school — as was also Jane Crawley. "So here yon are," said Toogood. "That's fortunate. I hope I find yon pretty well ?" "If I am not mistaken in the identity, my wife's relative, Mr. Toogood ?" said Mr. Craw- ley, stepping down from his humble desk. "Just so, my friend," said Toogood, with his hand extended, "just so; and there's another gentleman outside wlio wants to have a word witli you also. Perhaps you won't mind step- ping out. These are the young Hogglestockians, are they ?" The young Hogglestockians stared at him, and so did Jane. Jane, who had before heard of him, did not like him at first sight, seeing that her father was clearly displeased by the tone of the visitor's address. Mr. Crawley was dis])leased. There was a familiarity about Mr. Toogood which made him sore, as having been exhibited before his pupils. " If you will be pleased to step out. Sir, I will follow yon," he said, waving his hand toward the door. " Jane, my dear, if you will remain with the children, I will return to you presently. Bobby Studge has failed in saving his Belief. You had bet- 326 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. ter set him on again from the beginning. Now, Mr. Toogood." And again he waved with his hand toward the door. " So that's my young cousin, is it ?" said Too- good, stretcliingover and just managing to touch Jane's fingers — of which act of touching Jane was very diary. Tiien lie went forth, and Jlr. Crawley followed him. There was the major standing in the road, and Toogood was anxious to be the first to communicate the good news. It was the only reward he had projiosed to him- self for the money he had expended and the time he had lost and the trouble he had taken. "It's all right, old fellow!" he said, clapping his hand on Crawley's shoulder. "We've got the right sow by the ear at last. We know all about it." Mr. Crawley could hardly remember the time when he had been called an old fellow last, and now he did not like it ; nor, in the confusion of his mind, could he understand the allusion to the right sow. He sujjposed that Mr. Toogood had come to him about his trial, but it did not occur to him that the lawyer might be bringing him news which might make the trial altogether unnecessary. "If my eyes are not mistaken, there is my friend, Major Grantly," said Mr. Crawley. "There he is, as large as life," said Toogood. "But stop a moment before you go to him, and give me your hand. I must have the first shake of it." Hereupon Crawley extended his hand. "That's right. And now let me tell you we know all about the check — Soamcs's check. We know where you got it. We know who stole it. We know how it came to the per- son who gave it to you. It's all very well talk- ing, but when you're in trouble always go to a lawyer." By this time Mr. Crawley Avas looking full into Mr. Toogood's face, and seeing that his cousin's eyes were streaming with tears, began to get some insight into the man's character, and also some very dim insight into the facts which the man intended to communicate to himself. "I do not as yet fully understand you, Sir," said he, " being perhaps in such matters some- what dull of intellect, but it seemeth to me that you are a messenger of glad tidings, whose feet are beautiful upon the mountains." "Beautiful!" said Toogood. "By George, I should tiiink they are beautiful! Don't you hear me tell you that we have found out all about the check, and that you're as right as a trivet?" They were still on the little causeway leading from the school up to the road, and Henry Grantly was waiting for them at the small wicket-gate. "Mr. Crawley," said the major, "I congratulate you with all my heart. I could not but accompany my friend, Mr. Too- good, wlien he brought you this good news." "I do not even yet altogether comprehend what has been told to me," said Crawley, now standing out on the road between the other two men. " I am doubtless dull — very dull. May I beg some clearer word of explanation before I ask you to go with me to my wife ?" I "The check was given to. you by my aunt Eleanor." "Your aunt Eleanor!" said Crawley, now altogether in the clouds. Who was the major's aunt Eleanor? Though he had, no doubt, at different times heard all the circumstances of the connection, he had never realized the fact that his daughter's lover was the nephew of his old friend, Arabin. "Yes; by my aunt, Mrs. Arabin." ■ "She put it into the envelope with the notes," I said Toogood — "slipped it in without saying a word to any one. I never heard of a woman doing such a mad thing in my life before. If she had died, or if we hadn't caught her, where should we all have been ? Not but what I think I should have run Dan Stringer to ground too, and worked it out of him." / " Then, after all, it was given to me by the dean?" said Crawley, drawing himself up. " It was in the envelope, but the dean did not know it," said the major. " Gentlemen," said Mr. Crawley, " I was sure of it. I knew it. Weak as my mind may be — and at times it is very weak — I was certain that I could not have erred in such a matter. The more I struggled with my memory, the more fixed with me became the fact — which I had forgotten but for a moment — that the doc- ument had formed a part of that small packet handed to me by the dean. But look you, Sirs — bear with me yet for a moment. I said that it was so, and the dean denied it." "The dean did not know it, man," said Too-, good, almost in a passion. "Bear with me yet a while. So far have I been from misdoubting the dean — whom I have long known to be in all things a true and honest gentleman — that I postponed the elaborated re- sult of my own memory to his word. And I felt myself the more constrained to do this, because, in a moment of forgetfulness, in the wantonness of inconsiderate haste, with wicked thoughtless- ness, I had allowed myself to make a false state- ment, unwittingly false, indeed, nathless very false, unpardonably false. I had declared, with- out thinking, that the money had come to me from the hands of Mr. Soames, thereby seeming to cast a reflection upon that gentleman. When I had been guilty of so great a blunder, of so gross a violation of that ordinary care which should govern all words between man and man, especially when any question of money may be in doubt — how could I expect that any one should accept my statement when contravened by that made by the dean? How, in such an embarrassment, could I believe my own memory? Gentlemen, I did not believe my own memory. Though all the little circumstances of that en- velope, with its rich but perilous freightage, came back upon me from time to time with an exactness that has appeared to me to be almost marvelous, yet I have told myself that it was not so ! Gentlemen, if you please, we will go into the house ; my wife is there, and should no longer be left in suspense." They passed on in THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 327 silence for a few steps, till Crawley spoke again : *' Perhaps you will allow nie the privilege to be alone with her for one minute — but for a min- ute. Her thanks shall not be delayed, where thanks are so richly due." "Of course," said Toogood, wiping his eyes with a large red bandana handkerchief. " By all means. We'll take a little walk. Come along, major." The major had turned his foce away, and he also was weeping. " By George ! I never heard such a thing in all my life," said Toogood, "I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it. I wouldn't, indeed. If I were to tell that up in London nobody would believe me." " I call that man a hero," said Grantly. *'I don't know about being a hero. I never quite knew what makes a hero if it isn't having three or four girls dying in love for you at once. But to find a man who was going to let every thing in the world go against him because he believed another fellow better than himself! There's many a chap thinks another man is wool-gathering; but this man has thought he was wool-gathering himself! It's not natural; and the world wouldn't go on if there were many like that. He's beckoning, and we had better go in." Mr. Toogood went first, and the major fol- lowed him. When they entered the front door they saw the skirt of a woman's dress flitting away through the door at the end of the passage, and on entering the room to the left they found Mr. Crawley alone. "She has fled, as though from an enemy," he said, with a little attempt at a laugh; "but I will pursue her and bring her back." " No, Crawley, no," said the lawyer. " She's a little upset, and all that kind of thing. We know what women are. Let her alone." " Nay, Mr. Toogood ; but then she would be angered with herself afterward, and would lack the comfort of having spoken a word of gratitude. Pardon me. Major Grantly : but I would not have you leave us till she has seen you. It is as her cousin says. She is somewhat overex- cited. But still it will be best that she should see yon. Gentlemen, you will excuse me." Then he went out to fetch his wife, and while he was away not a word was spoken. Tiie ma- jor looked out of one window and Mr. Toogood out of tlie other, and they waited patiently till they heard the coming steps of the husband and wife. When the door was opened Mr. Crawley appeared, leading his wife by the hand. " My dear," he said, "you know Major Grantly. This is your cousin, Mr. Toogood. It is welli that you know him too, and remember his greati kindness to us." But Mrs. Crawley could not speak. She could only sink on the sofa and hide her face, while she strove in vain to repress her sobs. She had been very strong through all her husband's troubles — very strong in bear- ing for him what he could not bear for himself, and in fighting on his belialf battles in which he was altogether unable to couch a lance ; but the endurance of so many troubles, and the great ovei'whelming sorrow at last, had so nearly over- powered her that she could not sustain the shock of this turn in their fortunes. " Slie was never like this. Sirs, when ill news came to us," said Mr, Crawley, standing somewhat apart from her. The major sat himself by her side, and put his hand upon hers, and whispered some word to her about her daughter. Upon this she threw her arms around him, and kissed his face, and tlien his hands, and tlien looked up into his face tlirough her tears. She murmured some few words, or attempted to do so. I doubt whether the major understood their meaning, but he knew very well what was in her heart. " And now I think we might as well be mov- ing," said Mr. Toogood. "I'll see about hav- ing the indictment quashed. I'll arrange all that with Walker. It may be necessary that you should go into Barchester the first day the judges sit ; and if so I'll come and fetch you. You may be sure I won't leave the place till it's all square." As they were going, Grantly — speaking now altogether with indifference as to Toogood's pres- ence — asked Mr. Crawley's leave to be the bear- er of these tidings to his daughter. " She can hear it in no tones that can be more grateful to her," said Mr. Crawley. ' ' I shall ask her for nothing for myself now," said Grantly. "It would be ungenerous. But hereafter— in a few days — when she shall be more at ease, may I then use your permis- sion — ?" " Major Grantly, " said Mr. Crawley, solemn- ly, "I respect you so highly, and esteem you so thoroughly, that I give willingly that which you ask. If my daughter can bring herself to regard you as a woman should regard her husband, with the love that can worship and cling and l)e constant, she will, I think, have a fair promise of worldly happiness. And for you. Sir, in giv- ing to you my girl — if so it be that she is given to you — I shall bestow upon you a great treas- ure." Had Grace been a king's daughter, with a queen's dowry, the permission to address her could not have been imparted to her lover with a more thorough appreciation of the value of the privilege conferred. " He is a rum 'un," said Mr. Toogood, as they got into the carriage together; "but they say he's a very good 'un to go." After their departure Jane was sent for, tliat she might hear the family news ; and when she expressed some feeling not altogether in favor of Mr. Toogood Mr. Crawley thus strove to cor- rect her views: "He is a man, my dear, who conceals a warm heart, and an active spirit, and healthy sympathies under an aff'ected jocu- larity of manner, and almost with a touch of as- sumed vulgarity. But when the jewel itself is good, any fault in the casket may bo forgiven." "Then, papa, the next time I see him I'll like him — if I cnn," said Jane. The village of Framlcy lies slightly off" the 328 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAKSET. road from Ilogglcstock to Barchestcr — so much so as to add ])crh:ips a mile to tlie journey if the traveler goes by tiic par.sonaj;e gate. On their route to Ilogglcstock our two travelers had passed Framley without visiting; the village, hut on the return journey tlie major asked Mr. Too- good's penuission to make the deviation. "I'm not in a hurry," said Toogood. "I never was more comfortable in my life. I'll just light a cigar while you go in and see your friends." Toogood lit his cigar, and the major, getting down from the carriage, entered the parsonage. It was his fortune to lind Grace alone. Kobarts was in Barchester, and Mrs. Kobarts was across the road, at Lufton Court. "Miss Crawley was certainly in," the servant told him, and he soon found himself in jMiss Crawley's presence. " I have only called to tell you the news about your father," said he. "What news?" " We have just come from Hogglcstock — j'our cousin, Mr. Toogood, that is, and myself. They h.ave found out all about the check. My aunt, Mrs. Arabin, the dean's wife, you know — she gave it to your father." "Oil, Major Grantly!" " It seems so easily settled, does it not?" "And is it settled?" "Yes; everything. Every thing about that." Now he had hold of her hand as if he were go- ing. " Good-by. I told your father that I would just call and tell you." "It seems almost more than I can believe." " You may believe it ; indeed you may. He still held her hand. " You will write to your mother I dare say to-night. Tell her I was here. Good-by now." "Good-by," slie said. Her hand was still in his as she looked up into his face. " Dear, dear, dearest Grace ! My darling Grace !" Then he took her into his arms and kissed her, and went his way without another word, feeling that he had kept his word to her father like a gentleman. Grace, when she was left alone, thought that she was tlie happiest gii 1 in Christendom. If she could only get to her mother, and tell every thing, and be told every tiling I She had no idea of any promise that her lover might have made to her father, nor did she make inquiry of her own thoughts as to his reasons for staying with her so short a time ; but looking back at it all she thought his con- duct had been perfect. In the mean time the major, with Mr. Too- good, was driven home to dinner at Barchester. CHAPTER LXXV. siadalina's ueakt is bleeding. John Eames, as soon as he had left Mrs. Arabin at the liotel and had taken his traveling- bag to his own lodgings, started off for his uncle Toogood's house. There he found Mrs. Too- good, not in the most serene state of mind as to her husband's absence. Mr. Toogood had now been at Barchester for the best part of a week, spending a good deal of money at the inn. Mrs. Toogood was quite sure that he must be doing that. Indeed, how could he help him- self? Johnny remarked that he did not see how in such circumstances his uncle was to help hiniself. And then Mr. Toogood had only writ- ten one short sera]) of a letter — just three words, and they were written in triumiih. " Crawley is all right, and I think I've got the real Simon Ture by the heels." " It's all very well, John," Mrs. Toogood said; "and of course it would be a terrible thing to the family if any body con- nected with it were made out to be a thief." " It would be (juite dreadful," said Johnny. "Not that I ever looked upon the Crawleys as con- nections of ours. But, however, let that pass. I'm sure I'm very glad that your uncle should have been able to be of service to them. But there's reason in the roasting of eggs, and I can tell you that money is not so plenty in this house that your uncle can afford to throw it into the Barchester gutters. Think what twelve children are, John. It might be all very well if Toogood were a bachelor, and if some lord had left him a fortune." John Eames did not stay very long in Tavistock Square. His cousins Polly and Lucy were gone to the jday with Mr. Summerkin, and liis aunt was not in one of her best humors. He took his uncle's part as well as he could, and then left Mrs. Toogood. The little allusion to Lord De Guest's generosity had not been pleasant to him. It seemed to rob him of all his own merit. lie had been rather prood of his journey to Italy, having contrived to spend nearly forty pounds in ten days. He had done every thing in the most expensive way, feeling that every napoleon wasted had been laid out on behalf of Mr. Crawley. But, as Mrs. Toogood had just told him, all this was no- thing to what Toogood was doing. Toogood with twelve children was livingat his own charges at Barchester, and was neglecting his business besides. " There's Mr. Crump," said Mrs. Too- good. " Of course he doesn't like it, and what can I say to him when he comes to me?" This was not quite fair on the part of Mrs. Toogood, as Mr. Criim]i had not troubled her even once as yet since her husband's departure. What was Johnny to do when he left Tavis- tock Square? His club was open to him. Should he go to his club, play a game of billiards, and have some sujiper? When he asked him- self the question he knew that he would not go to his club, and yet he pretended to doubt about it as he made his way to a cab-stand in Totten- ham Court Road. It would be slow, he told himself, to go to his club. He would have gone to see Lily Dale, only that his intimacy with Mrs. Tliorne was not sufficient to justify his call- ing at her house between nine and ten o'clock at niglit. But, as he must go somewhere — and as his intimacy with Lady Demolines was, he thought, sufficient to justifj' almost any thing — he would go to Bayswater. I regret to say that THE LAST CHRONICLE OB^ BARSET. 329 he had written a mysterious note from Paris to Madalina Demolincs, saying tliat he should be in London on this very night, and that it was just on the cards tliat lie miglit make liis way up to I'orchcster Terrace before he went to bed. The note was mysterious, because it had neither be- ginning nor ending. It did not contain even initials. It was written like a telegraph mcs- .^age, and was about as long. It was the kind of thing Miss Demolines liked, Johnny thought ; and there could be no reason wliy he should not gratify her. It was her favorite game. Some peojile like whist, some like croquet, and some like intrigue. Madalina would probably have called it romance, because by nature she was romantic. John, who was made of sterner stuff, laughed at this. He knew that there was no romance in it. He knew that he was only amusing himself, and gratifying her at the same time, by a little innocent pretense. He told himself that it was his nature to prefer the so- ciety of women to that of men. He would have liked the society of Lily Dale, no doubt, much better than that of Miss Demolines ; but as the society of Lily Dale was not to be had at that moment, tlie society of Miss Demolines was the best substitute within his reach. So he got into a cab and had himself driven to Porchester Ter- race. " Is Lady Demolines at home ?" he said to the servant. He always asked for Lady Demolines. But the page who was accustomed to open the door for him was less false, being young, and would now tell him, without any further fiction, that Miss Madalina was in the drawing-room. Sucli was the answer he got from the page on this evening. What Mada- lina did with her mother on these occasions he had never yet discovered. There used to be some little excuses given about Lady Demolines's state of health, but latterly Madalina had discon- tinued her references to her mother's headaches. She was standing in the centre of the drawing- room when he entered it, with both her hands raised, and an almost terrible expression of mys- tery in her face. Her hair, however, had been very carefully arranged so as to fall with copious carelessness down her shoulders, and altogether she was looking her best. " Oh, John !" she said. She called him John by accident in the tumult of the moment. "Have you heard what has happened? But of course you have heard it." ' ' Heard what ? I have heard nothing, " said Johnny, arrested almost in the doorway by the nature of the question — and partly also, no doubt, by the tumult of the moment. He had no idea how terrible a tragedy was in truth in store for him ; but he perceived that the mo- ment was to be tumultuous, and that he must carry himself accordingly. "Come in, and close the door," she said. He came in and closed the door. "Do you/ mean to say that you haven't heard what has happened in Hook Court?" "No; what lias happened in Hook Court?" Miss Demolines tlirew herself back into an arm- X chair, dosed her eyes, and clasped both her hands upon her forehead. "What has hiip- j)ened in Hook Court?" said Johnny, walking up to her. " I do not think I can bring myself to tell you," she answered. Then he took one of her hands down from her forehead and held it in his — which she al- lowed passively. She was thinking, no doubt, of something far different from that. "I never saw you looking better in my life," said Johnny. "Don't," said she. "How can you talk in that way, when my heart is bleeding — bleeding?" Then she pulled away her hand, and again clasped it with the other upon her forehead. "But why is your heart bleeding? What has happened in Hook Court?" Still she an- swered nothing, but she sobbed violently, and the heaving of her bosom showed how tumultu- ous was the tumult within it. " You don't mean to say that Dobbs Broughton has come to grief — that he's to be sold out ?" "Man," said Madalina, jumping from her chair, standing at her full height, and stretching out both her arms, "he has destroyed himself!" The revelation was at last made with so much tragic propriety, in so excellent a tone, and with such an absence of all the customary redun- dances of commonplace relation, that I think that she must have rehearsed the scene — either with her mother or with the page. Then there was a minute's silence, during which she did not move even an eyelid. She held her out- stretched hands without dropping a finger half an inch. Her face was thrust forward, her chin ])rojecting, with tragic horror ; but there was no vacillation even in her cliin. She did not wink an eye, or alter to the breadth of a hair the aperture of her lips. Surely she was a great genius if she did it all without previous rehearsal. Then, before he had thought of words in which to answer her, she let her hands fall by her side, she closed her eyes, and shook her head, and fell back again into her chair. " It is too hor- rible to be spoken of — to be thought about," she said. " I could not have brought myself to tell the tale to a living being — except to you." This would naturally have been flattering to Johnny had it not been that he was in truth ab- sorbed by the story which he had heard. "Do you mean to tell me," he said, "that Broughton has — committed suicide ?" She could not speak of it again, but nodded her head at him thrice, while her eyes were still closed. "And how was the manner of it?" said he, asking the question in a low voice. He could not even as yet quite bring himself to be- lieve it. Madalina was so fond of a little play- ful intrigue that even this story might have something in it of the nature of fiction. He was not quite sure of the facts, and yet he was shocked by what he had heard. "Would you have me repeat to you all the bloody details of that terrible scene?" she said. "It is impossible. Go to your friend Dalryra- 330 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. pie. He will tell yon. He knows it all. He has been with Alalia all thronj^h. I wish — I wish it had not been so." But nevertheless she did bring herself to narrate all the details witli something more of circnmstancc than Eames desired. She soon sncceedcd in making him understand that the tragedy of Hook Court was a reality, and that poor Dobbs Broughton had brought his career to an nntimely end. SIic had heard every thing — having indeed gone to Musselboro in the City, and having penetrated even to the sanctum of Mr. Bangles. To Mr. Bangles she had explained that she was bosom- friend of the widow of the unfortunate man, and that it was her miserable duty to make herself the mistress of all the circumstances. Mv. Ban- gles — the reader may remember him. Burton and Bangles, who kept the stores for Himalaya wines at 22s. 6d. the dozen, in Hook Court — was a bachelor, and rather liked the visit, and told Miss Demolines very freely all he had seen. And when she suggested that it might be expe- dient for the sake of the family that she should come back to Mr. Bangles for further informa- tion at a subsequent period, he very politely as- sured her tliat she would " do iiim proud" when- ever she might ])lease to call in Hook Court. And then he saw her into Lombard Street, and put her into an omnibus. She was therefore well qualified to tell Johnny all the particulars of the tragedy, and she did so far overcome her horror as to tell them all. She told her tale somewhat after the manner of ^Eneas, not for- getting "the quorum pars magna fui." "I feel that it almost makes an old woman of me," said she, when she had finished. "No," said Johnny, remonstrating — "not that." "But it does. To have been concerned in so terrible a tragedy takes more of life out of one than years of tranquil e.\istence." As she had told him nothing of her intercourse with Bangles — with Bangles who had literally picked the poor wretch up — he did not see how she her- self had been concerned in the matter ; but he said nothing about that, knowing the character of his Madalina. "I shall see — that — body, floating before my eyes wliile I live," she said, "and the gory wound, and — and — " " Don't," said Johnny, recoiling in truth from the picture, by whicli he was revolted. " Never again," slie said; "never again! But you forced it from me, and now I shall not close my eyes for a week." She then became verj- comfortably confiden- tial, and discussed the affairs of poor Mrs. Dobbs Broughton with a great deal of satisfac- tion. "I went to see her, of course, but she sent me down Avord to say that the shock would be too much for her. I do not wonder that she should not see me. Poor j\Laria ! She came to me for advice, you know, when Dobbs Broughton first proposed to her ; and I was obliged to tell her what I really thought. I knew her character so well! 'Dear jMaria,' I said, ' if you tliink tliat you can love him, take him I' 'I think I can,' she replied. 'But,' said I, ' make yourself quite sure about the business.' And how has it turned out? She never loved him. "What heart she has she has-_ given to that wretched Dalrymple." " I don't see that he is particularly wretched," said Johnny, pleading for his friend. "He is wretched, and so you'll find. She gave him her heart after giving her hand to poor Dobbs ; and as for the business, there isn't as mucli left as will pay for her mourning. I don't wonder that she could not bring herself to see me." "And what has become of the business ?" "It belongs to Mrs. Van Siever — to her and Musselboro. Poor Broughton had some little money, and it has gone among them. Mussel- boro, who never had a penny, will be a rich m.an. Of course you know that he is going to marry Clara?" "Nonsense !" "I always told you that it would be so. And now yon may perhaps acknowledge that Conway Dalrymple's prospects are not very brilliant. I hope he likes being cut out by Mr. Musselboro! Of course he will have to marry Maria. I do not see how he can escape. Indeed, she is too good for him — only after such a mar- riage as that there would be an end to all his prospects as an artist. The best thing for them would be to go to New Zealand." John Eames certainly liked these evenings with Miss Demolines. He sat at his ease in a comfortable chair, and amused himself by watch- ing her different little plots. And then she had bright eyes, and she flattered him, and allowed him to scold her occasionally. And now and again there might be some more potent attrac- tion, when she would admit him to take her hand — or the like. It was better than to sit smoking with men at the club. But he could not sit all night even with Madalina Demolines, and at eleven he got up to take his leave. "When shall you see Miss Dale?" she asked him, suddenly. "I do not know," he answered, frowning at her. He always frowned at her when she spoke to him of Miss Dale. "I do not in the least care for your frowns," she said, playfully, putting up her hands to smooth his brows. "I think I know you inti- mately enough to name your goddess to you." " She isn't my goddess." "A very cold goddess, I should think, from what I hear. I wish to ask you for a promise respecting her." "What promise?" " Will you grant it me ?" "How "can I tell till I hear?" "You must promise me not to speak of me to her when you see her." "But why must I promise that?" " Promise me." "Not unless you tell me why." Johnny had already assured himself that nothing could be more improbable than that he should mention the name of Miss Demolines to Lily Dale. THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 331 "Very well, Sir. Then you may go. And I must s:iy that unless you can comply with so slight a request as that I shall not care to see you here again. Mr. Eames, why should you want to speak evil of me to Miss Dale?" "I do not want to speak evil of you." "I know that you could not speak of mc to her without at least ridicule. Come, promise me. You shall come here on Thursday even- ing, and I will tell you why I have asked you." "Tell me now." She hesitated a moment, and then shook her head. "No. I can not tell you now. My heart is still bleeding with the memory of that poor man's fate. I will not tell you now. And yet it is now that you must give me the promise. Will you not trust me so far as that ?" "I will not speak of you to Miss Dale." "There is my own friend ! And now, John, mind you are here at half past eight on Thurs- day. Punctually at half past eight. There is a thing I have to tell you, which I will tell you then if you will come. I had thought to hav^ told you to-day." ' "And why not now?" "I can not. 5Iy feelings are too many for me. I should never go through with it after all that has passed between us about poor Broughton. I should break down ; indeed I should. Go now, for I am tired." Then, hav- ing probably taken a momentary advantage of that more potent attraction to which we have before alluded, he left the room very suddenly. He left the room very suddenly, because Mad- alina's movements had been so sudden, and her words so full of impulse. He had become aware that in this little game which he was playing in Porchester Terrace every thing ought to be done after some ixnaccustomed and special fashion. So — having clasped Madalina for one moment in his arms — he made a rush at the room door, and was out on the landing in a second. He was a little too quick for old Lady Demolines, the skirt of whose night-dress — as it seemed to Johnny — he saw whisking away, in at another door. It was nothing, however, to him if old Lady Demolines, who was always too ill to be seen, chose to roam about her own house in her night-dress. When he found himself alone in the street his mind reverted to Dobbs Broughton and the fate of the wretched man, and he sauntered slowly down Palace Gardens, that he might look at tlie house in which he had dined with a man who had destroyed himself by his own hands. lie stood for a moment looking up at the win- dows, in which there was now no light, tliink- ing of the poor woman whom he had seen in the midst of luxury, and who was now left a widow in such miserable circumstances ! As for the suggestion that his friend Conway would marry her, he did not believe it for a moment. He knew too well what the suggestions of his Madalina were worth, and the motives from which they sprung. But he thought it might be true that Mrs. Van Siever had absorbed all there was of property, and possibly, also, that Musselboro was to marry her daughter. At any rate, he would go to Dalrymple's rooms, and if he could find him would learn the truth. He knew enough of Dalrymple's ways of life, and of the ways of his friend's chambers and studio, to care no- thing for the lateness of the hour, and in a very few minutes he was sitting in Dalrymple's arm- chair. He found Siph Dunn there, smoking in unperturbed tranquillity, and as long as that lasted he could ask no questions about Mrs. Broughton. He told them, therefore, of his ad- ventures abroad, and of Crawley's escape. But at last, having finished his third pipe, Siph Dunn took his leave. " Tell me," said John, as soon as Dunn had closed the door, "what is this I hear about Dobbs Broughton?" " He has blown his brains out. That is all." * ' How terribly shocking ! " "Yes; it shocked us all at first. We are used to it now." "And the business?" "That had gone to the dogs. They say at least that his share of it had done so." "And he was ruined?" " They say so. That is, Musselboro says so, and Mrs. Van Siever." "And what do you say, Conway?" " The less I say the better. I have my hopes — only you're such a talkative fellow, one can't trust you." " I never told any secret of yours, old fel- low." " Well ; the fact is, I have an idea that some- thing may be saved for the poor woman. I think that they are wronging her. Of course all I can do is to put the matter into a lawyer's hands, and pay the lawyer's bill. So I went to your cousin, and he has taken the case up. I hope he won't ruin me." " Then I suppose you are quarreling with Mrs. Van?" "That doesn't matter. She has quarreled with me." "And what about Jael, Conway? They tell me that Jael is going to become Mrs. Mussel- boro." "Who has told you that ?" "A bird." "Yes; I know who the bird is. I don't think that Jael will become Mrs. Musselboro. I don't think that Jael would become Mrs. Mus- selboro if Jael were the only woman and Mus- selboro the only man in London. To tell you a little bit of secret, Johnny, I think that Jael will become the wife of one Conway Dalrymple. Tliat is my opinion ; and as far as I can judge, it is the opinion of Jael also." "But not the opinion of Mrs. Van. The bird told me another thing, Conway." » "What was the other thing?" "The bird hinted that all this would end in your marrying the widow of that poor M'retch who destroyed himself." "Johnny, my boy," said the artist, after a 332 THE LAST CliKONlCLE OF J3ARSET. moment's silence, " if I give you a bit of advice, will you prolit by it?" " I'll try, if it's not disagreeable." "Whether you profit by it, or whether you do not, keep it to yourself. I know the bird better than you do, and I strongly caution you to beware of the bird. The bird is a bird of prey, and altogether an unclean bird. The bird wants a mate, and doesn't much care how she finds one. And the bird wants money, and doesn't much care how she gets it. The bird is a decidedly bad bird, and not at all fit to take the place of domestic hen in a decent farm-yard. In plain English, Johnny, you'll lind some day, if you go over too often to I'orchester Terrace, either tliat you arc going to marry the bird, or else that you are employing your cousin Too- good for your defense in an action for breach of promise, brought against you by that venerable old bird, the bird's mamma." "If it's to be either it will be the latter," said Johnny, as he took up his hat to go away. CHAPTER LXXVI. I THINK HE IS LIGHT OF IIEAKT. Mks. Arabin remained one day in town. Mr. Toogood, in spite of his asseveration that he would not budge from Barchester till he had seen Mr. Crawley through all his troubles, did run up to London as soon as the news reached him that John Eames had returned. He came up and took Mrs. Arabin's deposition, which he sent down to Mr. Walker. It might still be necessary, Mrs. Arabin was told, that she should go into court, and there state on oath that she had given the check to Mr. Crawley ; but Mr. Walker was of opinion that the circumstances would enable the judge to call upon the grand jury not to find a true bill against Mr. Crawley, and that the whole affair, as far as Mr. Crawley was concerned, would thus be brought to an end. Toogood was still very anxious to place Dan Stringer in the dock, but Mr. Walker de- clared that they would fail if they made the at- tempt. Dan had been examined before the magistrates at Barchester, and had persisted in his statement tliat he had heard nothing aljout Mr. Crawley and tlie check. This he said in tiie teeth of the words which had fallen from .him unawares in the presence of Mr. Toogood. But they could not punish him for a lie — not even for such a lie as that ! He was not upon oath, and tliey could not make him responsible to the law because he had held his tongue upon a matter as to which it was manifest to them all that he had known the whole history during the entire period of Mr. Crawley's persecution. They could only call upon him to account for his possession of the check, and this he did by saying it had been paid to him by Jem Scuttle, who received all moneys appertaining to the ho- tel stables, and accounted for them once a week. Jem Scuttle had simply told him that he had taken the check from Mr. Soames, and Jem had since gone to New Zealand. It was quite true that Jem's departure had followed suspiciously close upon the jjayment of the rent to Mrs. Ara- bin, and that Jem had been in close amity with Dan Stringer up to the moment of his departure. That Dan Stringer had not become honestly possessed of the check every body knew ; but, nevertheless, the magistrates were of opinion, Mr. Walker coinciding with them, that there was no evidence against him sufficient to secure a conviction. The story, however, of Mr. Craw- ley's injuries was so well known in Barchester, and the feeling against the man who had per- mitted him to be thus injured was so strong, that Dan Stringer did not altogether escape without ])unishmcnt. Some rough spirits in Barches- ter called one night at "The Dragon of Want- ly,"and begged that Mr. Dan Stringer would be kind enough to come out and take a walk with them that evening ; and when it was intimated to them that Dan Stringer had not just then any desire for such exercise, they requested to be allowed to go into the back parlor and make an evening with Dan Stringer in that recess. There was a terrible row at the "Dragon of Wantly"that night, and Dan with difficulty was rescued by the police. On the following morn- ing he was smuggled out of Barchester by an [early train, and has never more been seen in that city. Humors of him, however, were soon heard, from which it aj^peared that he had made himself acquainted with the casual ward of more than one work-house in London. His cousin John left the inn almost immediately — as, in- deed, he must have done had there been no question of Mr. Soames's check ; and then there was nothing more heard of the Stringers in Bar- chester. Mrs. Arabin remained in town one day, and would have remained longer, waiting for her husband, had not a letter from her sister im- pressed upon her that it might be as well that she sliould be with their father as soon as possi- ble. " I don't mean to make you think that there is any immediate danger," Mrs. Grantly said, "and, indeed, we can not say that he is ill; but it seems that tlie extremity of old age has come upon liim almost suddenly, and that he is as weak as a child. His only delight is with the children, esj)ecially with Posy, whose gravity in her management of him is wonderful. He has not left his room now for more than a week, and he eats very little. It may be that he will live yet for years ; but I should be de- ceiving you if I did not let you know that both the archdeacon and I think that the time of his departure from us is near at hand." After read- ing this letter Mrs. Arabin could not wait in town for her husband, even thougii he was ex- pected in two days, and though she had been told that her presence at Barchester was not im- mediately required on behalf of Mr. Crawley. But during that one day she kei)t her prom- ise to John Eames by going to Lily Dale. Mrs. Arabin had become ver3' fond of Johnny, and THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 333 felt that he deserved the prize which he had been so long trying to win. The reader, per- haps, may not agree with Mrs. Arabin. The reader, who may have cauf^ht a closer insigiit into Johnny's character than Mrs. Arabin had obtained, maj', perhaps, think that ayonng man who could amuse himself with Miss Demolines was unworthy of Lily Dale. If so, I may de- clare for myself that I and the reader are not in accord about John Eames. It is hard to measure worth and worthlessncss in such mat- ters, as there is no standard for such measure- ment. My old friend John was certainly no hero — was very unheroic in many phases of his life ; but then if all the girls arc to wait for he- roes, I fear that the difficulties in the way of matrimonial arrangements, great as thej' are at present, will be very seriously enhanced. John- ny was not ecstatic, nor heroic, nor transcend- ental, nor very beautiful in his manliness ; he was not a man to break his heart for love, or to have his story written in an epic ; but he was an affectionate, kindly, honest young man ; and I think most girls might have done worse than take him. Whether he was wise to ask assist- ance in his love-making so often as he had done, that may be another question. Mrs. Arabin was intimately acquainted with Mrs. Thome, and therefore there was nothing odd ill her going to Mrs. Thome's house. Mrs. Thorne was very glad to see her, and told her all the Barsetshire news— much more than Mrs. Arabin would have learned in a week at the deanery; for Mrs. Thome had a marvelous gift of picking up news. She had already heard the whole story of ]Mr. Soames's check, and ex- pressed her conviction that the least tliat could be done in amends to Mr. Crawley was to make him a bishop. "And you see the palace is va- cant," said Mrs Thorne. " The palace vacant !" said Mi-s. Arabin. " It is just as good. Now- that Mrs. Proudie has gone I don't suppose the poor bishop will count for much. I can assure you, Mrs. Ara- bin, I felt that poor woman's death so much! She used to regard me as one of the stanchest of the Proudieites ! She once whispered to me such a delightfully wicked story about the dean and the archdeacon. When I told her that they were my particular friends she put on a look of horror. But I don't think she believed me " Then Emily Dunstable entered the room, and with her came Lily Dale. Mrs. Arabin had never before seen Lily, and of course they were introduced. "I am sorry to say Miss Dale is going home to Allington to-morrow," said Emily. " But she is coming to Chaldicotes in May," said Mrs. Thorne. " Of course, Mrs. Arabin, you know what gala doings we are go- ing to have in May?" Then there were vari- ous civil little speeches made on each side, and Mrs. Arabin expressed a wish that she might meet Miss Dale again in Barsetshire. But all this did not bring her at all nearer to her ob- ject. "I particularly wish to say a word to Miss Dale — here to-day, if she will allow me," said Mrs. Arabin. "I'm sure .'^ho will — twenty words; won't you, Lily?" said Mrs. Thorne, prejjaring to leave the room. Then Mrs. Arabin ajjologized, and Mrs. Thorne, bustling up, said that it did not signify, and Lily, remaining quite still on the sofa, wondered what it was all about — and in two minutes Lily and Mrs. Arabin were alone together. Lily had just time to surmise that Mrs. Arabin's visit must have some reference to Mr. Crosbie — remembering that Crosbie had married his wife out of Barsetshire, and forget- ting altogether that Mrs. Arabin had been just brought home from Italy by John Eames. "I am afraid. Miss Dale, you will think me very impertinent," said Mrs. Arabin. " I am sure I shall not think that," said Lily. " I believe you knew, before Mr. Eames start- ed, that he was going to Italy to find me and my husband," said Mrs. Arabin. Then Lily put Mr. Crosbie altogether out of her head, and became aware that he was not to be the subject of the coming conversation. She was almost Sony that it was so. There was no doubt in her mind as to what she would have said to any one who might have taken up Crosbie's cause. On that matter she could now have given a very decisive answer in a few words. But on that other matter she was much more in doubt. She remembered, however, every word of the note she had received from M. D. She remembered also the words of John's note to that young wo- man. And her heart was still hard against him. "Yes," she said; "Mr. Eames came here one night and told us why he was going. I was very glad that ho was going, because I thought it was right." "You know, of course, how successful he has been ? It was I who gave the check to Mr. Crawley." "So Mrs. Thorne has heard. Dr. Thorne has written to tell her the whole story." " And now I've come to look for Mr. Eames's reward." " His reward, Mrs. Arabin ?" "Yes ; or rather to j)lead for him. You will not, I hope, be angry with him because he has told me much of his history while we were trav- eling home alone together." "Oh no," said Lily, smiling. "How could he have chosen a better friend in whom to trust ?" "He could certainly have chosen none who would take his part more sincerely. He is so good and so amiable ! He is so pleasant in his ways, and so fitted to make a woman happy ! And then. Miss Dale, he is also so devoted !" " He is an old friend of ours, Mrs. Arabin." " So he has told me." "And we all of us love him dearly. Mam- ma is very much attached to him." " Unless he flatters himself, there is no one belonging to you who would not wish that he should be nearer and dearer still." "It mav be eo. I do not sav that it is not 334 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. so. Mamma and my uncle are both fond of him." "And 'does not that go a long way?" said Mrs. Arabin. "It ought not to do so," said Lily. "It ought not to go any way at all." " Ought it not? It seems to me that I could never liavo brouglit myself to marry any one whom my old friends had not liked." "Ah ! that is another thing." "But is it not a recommendation to a man that ho has been so successful witli your friends as to make them all feel that you might trust yourself to him with perfect safety ?" To this Lily made no answer, and IMrs. Arabin went on to plead iier friend's cause witli all the eloquence she could use, insisting on all his virtues, his good temper, his kindness, his constancy — and not forgetting the fact tliat the world was in- clined to use him very well. Still Lily made no answer. She had promised Mrs. Arabin that she would not regard her interference as imper- tinent, and tlicrefore she refrained from any word that might seem to show offense. Nor did she feel olfense. It was something gained by John Eames in Lily's estimation that he should have such a friend as j\Irs. Arabin to take an interest in his welfare. But there was a self-dependence, perhaps one may call it an obstinacy about Lily Dale, which made her de- termined tiiat she would not be driven hither or tliither by any pressure from without. Why had John Eames, at the very moment when he sliould have been doing his best to drive from her breast the memory of past follies — when lie would have striven to do so had he really been earnest in his suit — why at such a moment had he allowed himself to correspond in terms of attection with such a woman as this M. D. ? While Mrs. Arabin was pleading for John Eames, Lily Avas repeating to herself certain words which John had written to the woman : "Ever and always yours unalterably." Such were not the exact words, but such was the form in which Lily, dislionestly, chose to re- peat them to herself. And why was it so with her? In the old days she would have forgiven Crosbie any offense at a word or a look — any possible letter to any M. D., let her have been ever so abominable! Nay, had she not even forgiven him the ofiense of deserting herself al- together on behalf of a woman as detestable as could bo any M. D. of Johnny's choosing — a woman whose only recommendation had been her title ? And yet she would not forgive John Eames, though the evidence against him was of so flimsy a nature, but rather strove to turn the flimsiness of that evidence into strength ! Why was it so? Unheroic as he might be, John Eames was s^irely a better man and a bigger man than Adolphus Crosbie. It was simply this : she had fallen in love with the one, and had never fallen in lovo with the other ! She had fallen in lovo with the one man, though in her simple way she had made a struggle against such feeling ; and she had not come to lovo the other man, though she had told herself that it would be well that she should do so if it were possible. Again and again she had half de- clared to herself that she would take him as her husband and leave the love to come after- ward ; but when the moment came for doing so she could not do it. "May I not say a word of comfort to him?" said Mrs. Arabin. " lie will be very comfortable without any such word," said Lily, laughing. " But he is not comfortable ; of that you may be very sure." "Yours ever and unalterably, J. E.," said Lily to herself. "You do not doubt his affection ?" continued Mrs. Arabin. " I neither doubt it nor credit it." "Then I think you wrong him. And the reason why I have ventured to come to you is that you may know the impression which he has made uj)on one who was but the other day a stranger to him. I am sure that he loves you." "I think he is light of heart." "Oh no. Miss Dale." "And how am I to become his wife unless I love him well enough myself? Mrs. Arabin, ,1 have made up my mind about it. I shall never become any man's wife. Mamma and I are all in all together, and we shall remain to- gether." As soon as these words were out of her mouth she hated herself for having spoken them. There was a maudlin, missish, namby- mamby sentimentality about them which dis- gusted her. She si)ecially desired to be straight- forward, resolute of purpose, honest-spoken, and free fi"t)m all toucJi of affectation. And yet she had excused herself from marrying John Eames after the fashion of a sick school-girl. "It is no good talking about it any more," she said, getting up from her chair quickly. "You are not angry with me — or at any rate you will forgive me ?" "I'm quite sure you have meant to be veiy good, and I am not a bit angry." "And you will see him before you go?" " Oh yes ; that is if he likes to come to-day, or early to-morrow. I go home to-morrow. I can not refuse him, because he is such an old friend — -almost like a brother. But it is of no use, Mrs. Arabin." Then Mrs. Arabin kissed her and left her, telling her that Mr. Eames would come to her that afternoon at half past five. Lily promised that she would be at home to receive him. "Won't you ride with us for the last time?" said Emily Dunstable, when Lily gave notice that she would not want the horse on that after- noon. "No; not to-day." "You'll never have another o]ii)ortunity of riding with Emily Dunstable," said the bride :^ elect — "at least I hope not." " Even under those circumstances I must rc- fuse, though I would give a guinea to be with vou. John Eames is coming here to say good- by." THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 33; "Oh! then indeed you must not come with Tis. Lily, what will you say to him?" "Notliing." "Oh, Lily! think of it." "I have thought of it. I have thought of nothing else. I am tired of thinking of it. It is not good to think of any thing so much. "What does it matter?" " It is very good to have some one to love one better than all the world besides." "I have some one," said Lily, thinking of her mother, but not caring to descend again to the mawkish weakness of talidng about her. " Yes ; but some one to be always with you, to do every thing for you, to be your very own." " It is all very well for you," said Lily, "and I think that Bernard is the luckiest fellow in the world ; but it ^\^ll not do for me. I know in what college I'll take my degree, and I wish they'd let me write the letters after my name as the men do." " What letters, Lily?" "O.M., for Old Maid. I don't see why it shouldn't be as good as B.A. for Bachelor of Arts. It would mean a great deal more." CHAPTER LXXVII. THE SHATTERED TREE. When Mrs. Arabin saw Johnny in the mid- dle of that day she could hardly give him much encouragement. And yet she felt by no means, sure that lie might not succeed even yet. Lily had been very positive in her answers, and yet there, had been something, either in her words or in the tone of lier voice, which had made Mrs. Arabin feel that even Lily was not quite sui'e of herself. There was still room for relent- ing. Nothing, however, had been said which could justify her in bidding John Eames simply "to go in and win." "I think he is light of heart," Lily had said. Those were the words which, of all that had been spoken, most im- pressed themselves on Mrs. Arabin's memory. She would not repeat them to her friend, but she would graft upon them such advice as she had to give him. And this she did, telling him that she thought that perhaps Lily doubted his actual earnestness. "I would marry her this moment," said John- ny. But that was not enough, as Mrs. Arabin knew, to prove his earnestness. Many men, fickle as weather-cocks, are ready to marry at the moment — are ready to marry at the mo- ment, because they are fickle, and think so lit- tle about it. "But she hears, perhaps, of your liking other people," said Mrs. Arabin. "I don't care a straw for any other person," said Johnny. "I wonder whether if I was to shut myself up in a cage for six months it would do any good?" "If she had the keeping of the cage, perhaps it might," said Mrs. Arabin. She had nothing more to say to him on that subject but to tell him that Miss Dale would expect him that afternoon at half past five. "I told her that you would come to wish her good-by, and she promised to see you." " I wisli she'd say she wouldn't see me. Then there would be some chance," said Johnny. Between him and Mrs. Arabin the parting was very afi'ectionate. She told him how thank- ful she was for his kindness in coming to hei-, and how grateful she would ever be — and the dean also — for his attention to her. "Remem- ber, Mr. Eames, that you will always be most welcome at tlie deanery of Barcliestcr. And I do hope that before long you may he there with your wife." And so they parted. He left her at about two, and went to Mr. Toogood's office in Bedford Row. He found his uncle, and the two went out to lunch together in Ilolborn. Between them there. was no word said about Lily Dale, and Jolin was glad to have some other subject in his mind fur half an hour. Toogood was full of liis triumph about Mr. Crawley and of his successes in Barsctshire. He gave John a long account of his visit to Plum- stead, and expressed his opinion that if all cler- gymen were like the archdeacon there would not be so much room for Dissenters. " I've seen a good many parsons in my time," said Too- good ; " but I don't think I ever saw such a one as him. You know he is a clergyman somehow, and he never lets you forget it ; but that's about all. Most of 'em are never contented without choking you with their white cravats all the time you're with 'em. As for Crawley himself," Mr. Toogood continued, "he's not like any body else that ever was born, saint or sinner, parson or layman. I never heard of such a man in all my ex])erience. Though he knew where he got the check as well as I know it now, ho wouldn't say so, because the dean had said it wasn't so. Somebody ought to write a book about it — in- deed they ought." Then he told the whole story of Dan Stringer, and how he had found Dan out, looking at the top of Dan's hat through tiie little aperture in the wall of the inn parlor. " When I saw the twitch in his hat, John, I knew he had handled the check himself. I don't mean to say that I'm sharper than another man, and I don't think so ; but I do mean to say that when you are in any difficulty of that sort you ought to go to a lawyer. It's his business, and a man does what is his business with patience and persever- ance. It's a pity, though, that that scoundrel should get oif." Then Eames gave his uncle an account of his Italian trip, to and fro, and was congratulated also upon his success. John's great triumph lay in the fact that he had been only two nights in 'bed, and that he would not have so far condescended on those occasions but for the feminine weakness of his fellow-trav- eler. " We sha'n't forget it all in a hurry ^-shall we, John ?" said Mr. Toogood, in a pleasant voice, as they parted at the door of the lunchecn house in Holborn. Toogood was returning to his office, and John Eames was to prepare him- self for his last attemjit. He went home to his lodgings, intending at 336 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAKSET. first to change his dress — to make himself smart for the work before him — but after standing for a moment or two loaning on the chest of drawers in Ills bedroom he gave up this idea. "After all tliat's come and gone," he said to himself,' "if I can not win her as I am now, I can not win her at all." And then he swore to himself a solemn oath, resolving that he would repeat the puq)ort of it to Lily herself — that this should be tlic last attempt. "What's the use of it? Every body ridicules me. And lam ridiculous. I am an ass. It's all very well wanting to be prime minister; but if you can't be i)rime min- ister you must do without being jirime minister." Tiicn he attempted to sing the old song — " Siiall I, sighing in des])air, die because a woman's fair? If she be not fair for me, what care I how fair she be?" But he did care, and he told himself that the song did him no good. As it was not time for him as yet to go to Lily, he threw himself on tlie sofa, and strove to read a book. Tlien all the weary nights of his journey prevailed over him, and he fell asleep. When he awoke it wanted a quarter to six. lie sprang up, and rushing out, jumped into a cab. " Berkeley Square — as hard as you can go," he said. " Number — ." He tliought of Rosalind, and her counsels to lovers as to the keeping of time, and reflected tliat in such an emergency as his he might really have ruined himself by that unfortunate slumber. When he got to Mrs. Thome's door he knocked hurriedly, and bustled up to the drawing-room as thougli every thing depended on his saving a minute. " I'm afraid I'm ever so much behind my time," he said. "It does not matter in tlie least," said Lily. "As MrS'. Arabin said that perhaps you might call, I would not be out of the way. I supposed that Sir RatHe was keeping you and that you wouldn't come." " Sir Rattie was not keeping me. I fell asleep. That is the truth of it." " I am so sorry tliat you should have been disturbed !" " Do not laugh at me, Lily — to-day. I had been traveling a good deal, and I suppose I was tired." "I won't laugh at you," she said, and of a sudden her eyes became full of tears — she did not know why. But there tliey were, and she was ashamed to put up her handkerchief, and slie could not bring herself to turn away her face, and she had no resource but tliat he should see them. "Lily !" he said. "What a paladin you have been, John, rush- ing all about Europe on your friend's behalf!" "Don't talk about that." "And such a successful paladin too! Why am I not to talk about it? I am going home to-morrow, and I mean to talk about nothing else for a week. I am so very, very, very glad that you have saved your cousin." Then she did put up her handkerchief, making believe that her tears had been due to Mr. Crawley. But John Eames knev/ better than that. " Lily," he said, " I've come for tlie last time. It sounds as though I meant to threaten you ; but you won't take it in that way. I think you will know what 1 mean. I have come for the last time — to ask you to be my wife." She had got up to greet him when he entered, and they were both still standing. She did not answer him at once, but turning away from him walked toward the window. "You knew why I was coming to-day, Lily?" " Mrs. Arabin told me. I could not be away when you were coming, but perhaps it would have been better." "Is it so? Must it be so? Must you say that to me, Lily? Tiiink of it for a moment, dear." "I have thought of it." "One word from you, yes or no, spoken now is to be every thing to me for always. Lily, can not you say yes ?" She did not answer him, but w^alked further away from him to another window. "Try to say yes. Look round at me with one look that may only half mean it — that may tell me that it shall not posiiivejy be no forever." I think that she almost tried to turn her face to him ; but be that as it may, she kept her eyes steadily fixed ujion tlie win- dow-pane. "Lily," he said, "it is not that you are hard-hearted ; perhaps not altogetlier tliat you do not like me. I think that you be- lieve things against me that are not true." As she heard this she moved her foot angrily u])on the carpet. She had almost forgotten M. D., but now he had reminded her of the note. She as- sured herself that she had never believed any thing against him except on evidence that was incontrovertible. But she was not going to speak to him on such a matter as that ! It would not become her to accuse him. " Mrs. Arabin tells me tliat you doubt whether I am in earnest," he said. Upon hearing this she flashed round upon him almost angrily. " I never said that." " If you will ask me for any token of earnest- ness I will give it you." "I want no token." "The best sign of earnestness a man can give generally in such a matter is to show how ready he is to be married." "I never said any thing about earnestness." "At the risk of making you angry I will go on, Lily. Of course when you tell me that you will have nothing to say to me, I try to amuse myself." — "Yes; by writing love-letters to M. D.," said Lily to herself. — " What is a poor fel- low to do ? I tell you fairly that when I leave you I swear to myself that I will make love to the first girl I can see who w ill listen to me — to twenty, if twenty will let me. I feel I have failed, and it is so I punish myself for my fail- ure." There was something in this which soft- ened her brow, though she did not intend that it should be so; and she turned away again, that he might not see that her brow was soft- ened. "But, Lily, the hope ever comes back again, and then neither the one nor the twenty THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 337 are of avail — even to punish me. When I look forward and see what it nii^ht be if you were with me, how green it all looks and how lovely, in spite of all the vows I have made I can not help coming back again." She was now again near the window, and he had not followed her. As she neither turned toward him nor answered him, he moved from the table near which he was standing on to the rug before the fire, and leaned with both his elbows on the mantle-i)icce. He could still watch her in tlie mirror over tlie fire-place, and could see that she was still seem- ing to gaze out upon the street. And had he not moved her ? I think he had so far moved her now that she had ceased to think of the woman who had written to lier — tbat slic had ceased to reject him in her lieart on the score of such levities as that. If tbere were M. D.s, like sunken rocks, in his course, whose fault was it ? He was ready cnougli to steer liis bark into the tranquil blue waters, if only slie would aid him. I think that all his sins on that score were at this moment forgiven him. He had told her now what to him would be green and beautiful, and she did not find herself able to disbelieve him. She had banished M. D. out of her mind, but in doing so she admitted other reminiscences into it. And then — was she in a moment to be talked out of the resolution of years? and was she to give up herself, not be- cause she loved, but because tlie man who talked to her talked so well that he deserved a reward ? Was she now to be as light, as foolish, as easy, as in those former days from which she had learned her wisdom ? A picture of green lovely things could be delicious to her eyes as to his ; but even for such a picture as that the price might be too dear ! Of all living men — of all men living in their present lives — she loved best this man who was now waiting for some word of answer to his words; and she did love him dearly ; she would have tended him if sick, have supplied him if in want, have mourned for him if dead with the bitter grief of true affection ; but she could not say to herself that he should be her lord and master, the head of her house, the owner of herself, the ruler of Iier life. The shipwreck to which she had once come, and the fierce regrets which had tlience arisen, had forced her to think too much of these things. "Lily," he said, still facing toward the mirror, "will you not come to me and speak to me?" She turned round, and stood a moment looking at him, and then, having again resolved that it could not be as he wislied, she drew near to him. "Certainly I will speak to you, John. Here I am." And she came close to him. He took both her hands and looked into her eyes. "Lily, will you be mine?" "No, dear ; it can not be so." "Why not, Lily?" | "Because of tliat other man." " And is that to be a bar forever?" "Yes ; forever." "Do you still love him?" "No ; no, no!" "Tlicn wliy should this be so?" " I can not tell, dear. It is so. If you take a young tree and split it, it still lives, i)crhaps. But it isn't a tree. It is only a fragment." "Then be my fragment." " So I will, if it can serve you to give stand- ing ground to such a fragment in some corner of your garden. But I will not have myself planted out in the middle, for people to look at. What there is left would die soon." lie still held her hands, and she did not attempt to draw them away. " John," she said, "next to mam- ma, I love you better than all the world. In- deed I do. I can't be your wife, but. you need never be afraid that I shall be more to another than I am to you." "That will not serve me," he said, grasping both her hands till he almost hurt them, but not knowing that he did so. "That is no good." "It is all the good that I can do you. In- deed I can do you — can do no one, any good. The trees that tlie storms have splintered are never of use." "And is this to be the end of all, Lily?" "Not of our loving friendshijx" "Friendship! I hate the word. I hear some one's step, and I had better leave you. Good -by." " Good-by, John. Be kinder than that to me as you are going." He turned back for a moment, took her hand, and held it tight against his heart, and then he left her. In the hall he met Mrs. Thorne, but, as she said after- ward, he had been too much knocked about to be able to throw a word to a dog. To Mrs. Thorne Lily said hardly a word about John Fames, and when her cousin Ber- nard questioned her about him she was dumb. And in these days she could assume a manner, and express herself with her eyes as well as with her voice, after a fasliion which Mas apt to si- lence unwelcome questioners, even though they were as intimate with her as was her cousin Bernard. She had described her feelings more plainly to her lover than she had ever done to any one — even to her mother ; and having done so she meant to be silent on that subject for evermore. But of her settled purpose she did say some word to Emily Dunstable that night. "I do feel," she said, "that I have got the thing settled at last." "And you have settled it, as you call it, in opposition to the wishes of all your friends." "Tliat is true ; and yet I have settled it right- ly, and I would not for worlds have it unsettled again. There are matters on whicli friends should not have wishes, or at any rate should not express them." " Is that meant to be severe to me?" "No; not to you. I was thinking about mamma, and Bell, and my uncle, and Bernard, who all seem to think that I am to be looked upon as a regular castaway because I am not likely to have a husband of my own. Of course you, in your position, must think a girl a cast- away who isn't going to be married ?" 338 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. "I think that a girl who is going to he mar- ried has the hest of it." "And I think a girl who isn't going to he married has the hest of it — that's all. But I feel that the thing is done now, and I am con- tented. For the last six or eight months there has come up, I know not how, a state of douht wiiidi has made me so wretched that I have done literally nothing. I haven't hecn able to finish old Mrs. Heard's tippet, literally because people would talk to me about tiiat dearest of all dear fellows, Jolin Eames. And yet all along I have known how it would be — as well as I do now." " I can not nnderstand you, Lily ; I can't in- deed." "I can understand myself. I love him so well — with that intimate, close, familiar aflfec- tiiin— tiiat I could wasli his clothes for him to- morrow, out of pure personal regard, and tliink it no sliame. He could not ask me to do a sin- gle thing for him — except the one thing — that I would refuse. And I'll go further. I would sooner marry him than any man in the world I ever saw, or, as I believe, that I ever shall see. And yet I am very glad that it is set- tled." On the next day Lily Dale went down to the Small House of Allington, and so she passes out of our siglit. I can only ask the reader to believe tliat she was in earnest, and express my own opinion, in this last word that I shall ever write respecting her, that she will live and die as Lilv Dale. CHAPTER LXXVIII. THE ARAI5INS RETURN TO BARCHESTER. In these days Mr. Harding was keeping his bed at the deanery, and most of those who saw him declared that he would never again leave it. Tiie archdeacon had been slow to believe so, because he had still found his father-in-law able to talk to him — not indeed with energy, but then Mr. Harding had never been energetic on ordinary matters — but with tiie same soft cordial interest in things wliich had ever been custom- ary with him. He had latterly been much in- terested about Mr. Crawley, and would make both the archdeacon and Mrs. Grantly tell him all that they heard, and what they thought of tlie case. This of course had been before the all-important news had been received from Mrs. Arabin. Mr. Harding was very anxious, "First- ly," as he said, "for the welfare of the poor man, of whom I can not bring myself to tliink ill ; and then for the honor of the cloth in Bar- chester." "We are as liable to have black sheep here as elsewhere," the archdeacon replied. "But, my dear, I do not think that the sheep is black ; and we never have had black sheep in Barchester." " Haven't we though?" said the archdeacon, tliiiiking, however, of sheep who were black with a different kind of blackness from this which was now attributed to poor Mr. Crawley — of a blackness which was not absolute blackness to Mr. Harding's milder eyes. The archdeacon, when he heard his father-in-law talk after this fashion, expressed his opinion that he might live yet for years. He was just the man to linger on, living in bed — as indeed he had lingered all his life out of bed. But the doctor who attended him thought otherwise, as did also Mrs. Grantly, and as did Mrs. Baxter, and as also did Posy. "Grandpa won't get up any more, will he ?" Posy said to Mrs. Baxter. " I hoi)e he will, my dear ; and that very soon." "1 don't think he will," said Posy, "because he said he would never see the big fiddle again." " Tiiat comes of his being a little melancholy like, my dear," said Mrs. Baxter. Mrs. Grantly at this time went into Barches- ter almost every day, and the arciideacon, wlio was very often in the city, never went there with- out passing half an hour with the old man. These two clergymen, essentially diflercnt in their characters and in every detail of conduct, had been so much thrown together by circum- stances that the life of each had almost become a part of the life of the other. Altiiough the fact of Mr. Harding's residence at tlie deanery had of late years thrown him oftener into the society of the dean than that of his other son- in-law, yet his intimacy with the arciideacon | had been so much earlier, and his memories of the archdeacon were so much clearer, that he depended almost more upon the rector of Plum- stead, who was absent, than he did upon the dean, whom he customarily saw every day. It was not so with his daughters. His Nelly, as he had used to call her, had ever been his favorite, and tlie circumstances of their joint lives bad been such that they had never been further sep. arated than from one street of Barchester to an- other — and that only for the very short period of the married life of flirs. Arabin's first husband. For all that was soft and tender therefore — wliich with Mr. Harding was all in the Avorld that was charming to him — he looked to his youngest daughter ; but for authority and guid- ance and wisdom, and for information as to what was going on in the world, he had still turned to his son-in-law the archdeacon — as he had done for nearly forty years. For so long had the archdeacon been potent as a clergyman in the diocese, and throughout the whole duration of such potency his word had been law to Mr. Harding in most of tlie affairs of life — a law generally to be obeyed, and if sometimes to be broken, still a law. And now, when all was so nearly over, he would become unhappy if the archdeacon's visits were far between. Dr. Grantly, when he found that tliis was so, would not allow that they should be far between. " He puts me so much in mind of my father," the archdeacon said to his wife one day. "He is not so old as your father was when he died, by many years," said Mrs. Grantly, "and I think one sees that difference." " Yes ; and therefore I say that he may still live for years. My father, when he took to his THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAKSET. 339 bed at last, was manifestly near his death. The wonder with him was that he continued to live so long. Do you not remember how the London doctor was put out because his prophecies were not fulfilled?" " I remember it well — as if it were yester- day." "And in that way there is a great difference. ]My fatiier, who was physically a much stronger man, did not succumb so easily. But the like- ness is in their characters. There is the same mild sweetness, becoming milder and sweeter as they increased in age — a sweetness that nev- er could believe much evil, but that could be- lieve less, and still less, as the weakness of age came on them. No amount of evidence would induce your father to think that Mr. Crawley stole that money." Tliis was said, of course, before the telegram had come from Venice. "As far as that goes I agree with him," said Mrs. Grantly, who had her own reasons for choosing to believe Mr. Crawley to be innocent. "If your son, my dear, is to marry a man's daugliter, it will be as well tliat you should at least be able to say that you do not believe that man to be a thief." "That is neither here nor there," said the arciuleacon. " A jury must decide it." " No jury in Barsetshire shall decide it for me," said Mrs. Grantly. "I'm sick of Mr. Crawley, and I'm sorry I spoke of him," said the archdeacon. " But look at Mrs. I'roudie. You'll agree that she was not the most charming woman in the world." " She certainly was not," said Mrs. Grantly, who was anxious to encourage her husband, if slie could do so without admitting any thing which might injure herself afterward. "And slie was at one time violently insolent to your father. And even the bishop thought to trample upon him. Do you remember the bishop's preaching against your father's chant- ing ? If I ever forget it !" And the archdea- con slapped his closed fist against his open hand. "Don't, dear; don't. Wiiat is the good of being violent now?" "Paltry little fool! It will be long enough before such a chant as that is heard in any En- glish cathedral again." Then Mrs. Grantly got up and kissed her husband, but he, somewhat negligent of the kiss, went on with his speech. "But your father remembers nothing of it, and if there was a single human being who shed a tear in Barchester for tliat woman, I believe it was your father. And it was tiie same with mine. It came to that at last that I could not bear to speak to him of any shortcoming as to one of his own clergymen. I might as well have pricked him with a jicnknife. And yet they say men become heartless and unfeeling as they grow old!" " Some do, I suppose." " Yes ; the heartless and unfeeling do. As the bodily strength fails and the power of con- trol becomes lessened the natural a])titude of the man pronounces itself more clearly. I take it that that is it. Had Mrs. Proudie lived to be a hundred and fifty, she would have sjjoken spite- ful lies on her death-bed." Then Mrs. Grantly told herself tliat her husband, should he live to be a hundred and fifty, would still be cxjjressing his horror of Mrs. Proudie — even on iiis death- bed. As soon as the letter from Mrs. Arabin had reached I'lumstead the archdeacon and iiis wife arranged that they would botii go together to the • deanery. There were the double tidings to be told — tiiose of Mr. Crawley's assured innocence, and those also of Mrs. Arabin's instant return. And as they went together various ideas were passing through their minds in reference to the marriage of their son with Grace Crawley. They were both now reconciled to it. -Mrs. Grantly had long ceased to feel any ojtposition to it, even though she had not seen Grace ; and the arch- deacon was prepared to give way. Had he not promised tiiat in a certain case he would give way, and had not that case now come to pass ? He had no wish to go back from his word. But lie had a difficulty in this — that he liked to make all the aft'airs of liis life matter for enjoyment, al- most for triumpli ; but how was he to be triumph- ant over this marriage, or how even was he to enjoy it, seeing that he had opposed it so bitter- ly ? Tiiosc posters, though they were now pulled down, had been up on all barn ends and walls, patent — alas, too patent — to all the world of Bar- setshire ! " What will JMr. Crawley do now^, do you suppose?" said Mrs. Grantly. "What will he do?" "Yes; must he go on at Hogglestock?" "What else?" said the archdeacon. "It is a pity somethmg could not be done for him after all he has undergone. How on earth can he be expected to live there with a wife and family, and no private means?" To this the archdeacon made no answer. Mrs. Grantly had spoken almost immediately upon their quitting Plumstead, and the silence was continued till the carriage had entered the suburbs of the city. Then Mrs. Grantly spoke again, asking a ques- tion, with some internal trepidation, wliich, how- ever, she managed to hide from her husband. "When poor papa does go, what shall you do about St. Ewold's ?" Now St. Ewold's was a ru- i"al parish lying about two miles out of Barches- ter, the living of which was in the gift of the archdeacon, and to which the archdeacon had presented his father-in-law, under certain cir- cumstances which need not be repeated in this last chronicle of Barsetshii:e. Have they not been written in other chronicles ? "When poor papa does go, what will you do about St. Ewold's?" said Mrs. Grantly, trembling inward- ly. A word too much might, as she well knew, settle the question against Mr. Crawley forever. But were she to postpone the word till too late, the question would be settled as fatally. *'I haven't thought about it," he said, sharp- ly. " I don't like thinking of such things while the incumbent is still living." Oh, archdeacon, archdeacon I unless that other chronicle be a 340 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. false chronicle, how hast thou forgotten thyself and thy past life ! " Particularly not when that incumbent is your father," said the arch- deacon. Mrs. Grantly said nothing more about St. Ewold's. She would have said as much as she had intended to s.ay if she had succeeded in niakinj^ the archdeacon understand that St. Ewuld's would be a very nice refuge for Mr. Crawley after all the miseries which he had en- dured at Hopglcstock. They learned as they entered the deanery that ^Irs. Haxtcr had already heard of Mrs. Arabin's return. " Oh yes, ma'am. Mr. Harding got a letter Iiisself, and I got another — separate ; botli from Venice, ma'am. But when master is to come nobody seems to know." Mrs. Baxter knew that the dean had gone to Jerusalem, and was inclined to think that from such distant bournes there was no return for any traveler. The East is always further than the West in the estimation of the Mrs. Baxters of the world. Had the dean gone to Canada she would have thought that he might come back to-morrow. But still there was the news to be told of Mr. Crawley, and there was also joy to be expressed at the sudden coming back of the much-wished- for mistress of the deanery. "It's so good of you to come both together," said Mr. Harding. " We thought we should be too many for you," said the archdeacon. " Too many ! Oh dear, no. I like to have people by me; and as for voices, and noise, and all that, the more the better. But I am weak. I'm weak in my legs. I don't think I shall ever stand again." "Yes, you will," said the archdeacon. " We have brouglit you good news, " said Mrs. Grantly. " Is it not good news that Nelly will be home this week ? You can't understand what a joy it is to me. I used to think sometimes, at night, that I should never see her again. That she would come back in time was all I have had to wish for." He was lying on his back, and as he spoke he pressed his withered hands together above the bedclothes. They could not begin immediately to tell him of Mr. Crawley, but as soon as his mind had turned itself away from the thoughts of his absent daughter Mrs. Grantly again reverted to her news. " We have come to tell you about Mr. Craw- ley, papa." '"What about him?" "He is quite innocent." " I knew it, my dear. I always said so. Did I not always say so, archdeacon ?" "Indeed you did. I'll give you that credit." "And is it all found out?" asked Mr. Hard- ing. "As far as he is concerned, every thing is found out," said Mrs. Grantly. "Eleanor gave him the cheek herself." "Nelly gave it to him ?" "Yes, papa. The dean meant her to give him fifty pounds. But it seems she got to be soft of heart and made it seventy. She had the check by her, and put it into the envelope with the notes." " Some of Stringer's people seem to have , stolen the check from Mr. Soames," said the archdeacon. "Oh dear ; I hope not." " Somebody must have stolen it, papa." " I had ho])ed not, Susan," said Mr. Harding. Both the archdeacon and Mrs. Grantly knew that it was useless to argue with him on such a point, and so they let that go. Then they came to discuss Mr. Crawley's pres- ent ])osition, and Mr. Harding ventured to ask a question or two as to Grace's chance of mar- riage. He did not often interfere in the family arrangements of his son-in-law, and never did so when those family arrangements were con- cerned with high matters. He had hardly open- ed his mouth in reference to the marriage of that august lady who was now the Marchioness of Ilartletop. And of the Lady Anne, the wife of the Ilcv. Charles Grantl}', who was always prodigiously civil to him, speaking to him very loud, as though he were deaf because he was old, and bringing him cheap presents from London of which he did not take much heed — of her he rarely said a word, or of her children, to either of his daughters. But now his grandson, Hen- ry Grantly, was going to marry a girl of whom he felt that he might sjieak without impropri- ety. " I suppose it will be a match ; won't it, my dears?" "Not a doubt about it," said Mrs. Grantly. Mr. Harding looked at his son-in-law, but his son-in-law said nothing. The archdeacon did not even frown, but only moved himself a little uneasily in bis chair. "Dear, dear! What a comfort that must be !" said the old man. "I have not seen her yet," said Mrs. Grant- ly ; " but the archdeacon declares that she is all the graces rolled into one." "I never said any thing half so absurd," re- plied the archdeacon. "But he really is quite in love with her, pa])a," said Mrs. Grantly. "He confessed to me that he gave her a kiss, and he only saw her once for five minutes." "I should like to give her a kiss," said Mr. Harding. " So you shall, papa, and I'll bring her here on purpose. As soon as ever the thing is set- tled Ave mean to ask her to Plumstead." ' ' Do you, though ? How nice ! How happy Henry will be !" "And if she comes — and of course she will — I'll lose no time in bringing her over to you. Nelly must see her, of course." As they were leaving the room Mr. Harding called the arelideacon back, and taking him by the hand spoke one word to him in a whisper. ^' I don't like to interfere," he said ; " but might not Mr. Crawley have St. Ewold's ?" The arch- deacon took up the old man's hand and kissed it. Then he followed his wife out of the room THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 841 Avjtlioiit making any answer to Mr. Harding's question. Three days after this Mrs. Arabin reached the deanery, and tlie joy at her return was very great. "My dear, I liavc been sick for you,') said Mr. Harding. " Oh, papa, I ought not to have gone." " Nay, my dear ; do not say tliat. Wouhl it make me happy that you should be a prisoner here foi'ever ? It was only when 1 seemed to get so weak that I thought about it. I felt that it must be near wlien they bade mc not to go to the cathedral any more." "If I had been here I could have gone with you, papa." "It is better as it is. I know now that I was not fit for it. When your sister came to me I never thought of remonstrating. I knew then that I had seen it for the last time." " We need not say that yet, papa." "I did think that when you came home we might crawl tliere together some warm morning. I did tliink of that for a time. But it will never be so, dear. I shall never see any thing now that I do not see from here — and not that for long. Do not cry, Nelly. I have nothing to regret, nothing to make mc unliapi>y. I know how poor and weak has been my life ; but I know how rich and strong is that other life. Do not cry, Nelly — not till I am gone ; and then not beyond measure. Why should any one weep for those who go away full of years — and full of hope ?" On the day but one following the dean also reached his home. The final arrangements of his tour, as well as those of his wife, had been made to depend on Mr. Crawley's trial ; for he also had been hurried back by John Eames's visit to Florence. "I should have come at once," he said to his wife, "when they wrote to ask me whether Crawley had taken the check from me, had any body then told me that he was in actual trouble ; but I had no idea then that they were charging him with theft." "As far as I can Icarn, they never really sus- pected him until after your answer had come. They had been quite sure that your answer would be in the affirmative." "What he must have endured it is impossible to conceive. I shall go out to him to-morrow." "Would he not come to us?" said Mrs. Arabin. "I doubt it. I will ask him, of course. I will ask them all here. This about Henry and the girl may make a dift'erence. He has resign- ed the living, and some of the palace people are doing the duty." " But he can have it again ?" "Oh yes; he can have it again. For the matter of that, I need simply give him back his letter. Only he is so odd — so unlike otlier peo- ple ! And he has tried to live there, and lias failed ; and is now in debt. I wonder whether Grantly would give him St. Ewold's?" "I wisli he would. But you must ask him. I should not dare." As to the matter of the check, the dean ac- knowledged to his wife at last that he had some recollection of her having told him that she had made the sum of money up to seventy pounds. " I don't feel certain of it now ; but I think you may have done so." "I am (luite sure I could / not have done it without telling you," she rc- jilied. "At any rate you said nothing of the check," pleaded the dean. " I don't suppose I did," said Mrs. Arabin. ' ' I thought that checks were like any other money ; but I shall know better for the future." On the following morning the dean rode over to Ilogglestock, and as he drew near to the house of his old friend his spirits flagged ; for, to tell the truth, he dreaded the meeting. Since the day on which he had brought Mr. Crawley from a curacy in Cornwall into the diocese of Barchester his friend had been a trouble to him rather than a joy. The trouble had been a trouble of spirit altogether — not at all of pocket. He would willingly have picked the Crawleys out from the pecuniary mud into which they were ever fiilling, time after time, liad it been possible. For, though the dean was hardly to be called a ricli man, his lines had fallen to him not only in ]jleasant places, but in easy circum- stances ; and Mr. Crawley's embarrassments, though overwhelming to him, were not so great as to have been heavy to the dean. But in striving to do this he had always failed, had al- ways suffered, and had generally been rebuked. Crawley would attempt to argue with him as to the improper allotment of Church endowments — declaring that he did not do so with any ref- erence to his own circumstances, but simply be- cause the subject was one naturally interesting to clergymen. And this he would do as ho was waving off with his hand offers of immedi- ate assistance which were indispensable. Then there had been scenes between the dean and Mrs. Crawley — terribly painful — and which had taken place in direct disobedience to the hus- band's positive injunctions. " Sir," he had once said to the dean, "I request that nothing may pass from your hands to the hands of my wife." "Tush, tush I" the dean had answei-ed. "I will have no tushiug or pshawing on such a matter. A man's wife is his very own, the breath of his nostril, the blood of his heart, the rib from his body. It is for me to rule my wife, and I tell you that I will not have it." After that the gifts liad come from the hands of Mrs. Arabin ; and then again, after that, in the direst hour of his need, Crawley had himself come and taken money from the dean's hands ! The interview had been so i:ainful tliat Arabin would hardly have been able to count the mon- ey or to know of what it had consisted had he taken the notes and check out of the envelope in which his wife had put them. Since that day the two had not met each other, and since that day these new troubles had come. Arabin as yet knew but little of the manner in which they had been borne, except that Crawley had felt himself compelled to resign the living of 342 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. Hogglestock. He knew nothing of Mrs. Prou- die's persecution, except what he gathered from the fact of the clerical commission of which he had been informed ; but he could imagine that Mrs. Troudie would not lie easy on her bed wliilc a clergyman was doing duty almost under her nose, who was guilty of the double oftcnsc of being accused of a theft, and of having been put into his living by the dean. The dean, therefore, as ho rode on, pictured to himself his old friend in a terrible condition. And it might be that even now that condition would hardly have been improved. He was no longer sus- pected of being a thief; but he could have no money in his pocket ; and it might well be that Ilia suft'erings would have made him almost mad. The dean also got down and left his horse at a farm-yard — as Grantly had done with his car- riage ; and walked on first to the school. lie hoard voices inside, but could not distinguish from them whether Mr. Crawley was there or not. Slowly he opened the door, and looking round saw that Jane Crawley was in the ascend- ant. Jane did not know him at once, but told him when he had introduced himself tliat her father had gone down to Hoggle End. He had started two houi'S ago, but it was impossible to say when he might be back. " lie sometimes stays all day long with the brickmakcrs," said Jane. Her mother was at home, and she would take the dean into the house. As she said this she told him that her father was sometimes bet- ter and sometimes worse. "But he has never been so very, very bad since Henry Grantly and mamma's cousin came and told us about the check." That word Henry Grantly made the dean understand that there might yet be a ray of sunshine among the Crawleys. "There is papa," said Jane, as they got to the gate. Then they waited for a few minutes till Mr. Crawley came up, very hot, wijjing tlie sweat from his forehead. "Crawley," said the dean, "I can not tell you how glad I am to see you, and how rejoiced I am that this accusation has fallen olf from you." "Verily the news came in time, Arabin," said the other; "but it was a narrow pinch — a narrow pinch. Will "j-ou not enter, and see my wife?" CHAPTER LXXIX. MR. CRAWLEY SPEAKS OF HIS COAT. At this time Grace had returned home from Framley. As long as the terrible tragedy of the forthcoming trial was dragging itself on she had been content to stay away, at her mother's bid- ding. It has not been possible in these pages to tell of all the advice that had been given to tlie ladies of the Crawley family in their great difficulty, and of all the assistance that had been offered. The elder Lady Lufton and the youn- ger and Mrs. Robnrts had continually been in consultation on the subject ; Mrs. Grantly's A opinion had been asked and given ; and even the Miss Prettymans and Mrs. Walker had found means of expressing themselves. The communications to Mrs. Crawley had been very frequent — though they had not of course been allowed to reach the ears of Mr. Crawley. What was to be done when the living should be gone and Mr. Crawley should be in prison ? Some said that he might be there for six weeks and some for two years. Old Lady Lufton made anxious inquiries about Judge Medlicotc, before whom it was said that the trial would be taken. Judge Medlicote was a Dissenter, and old Lady Lufton was in despair. When she was assured by some liberally-disposed friend that this would certainly make no difference, she shook her head woefully. "I don't know why we are to have Dissenters at all," she said, " to try people who belong to the Established Church." When she heard that Judge Medlicote would certainly be the judge, she made up her mind that two years would be the least of it. She would not have minded it, she said, if he had been a Roman Catholic. And whether the punishment might be for six weeks or for two years, what should be done with the family ? Where should they be housed ? how should they be fed ? What should be done with the poor man when he came out of prison ? It was a case in which the gen- erous, soft-hearted old Lady Lufton was almost beside herself. "As for Grace," said young Lady Lufton, " it will be a great deal better tha-t we should keep her among us. Of course she will become Mrs. Grantly, r.nd it will be nicer for him that it should be so." In those days the ])Osters had been seen, and the flitting to Pau had been talked of, and the Framley opin- ion was that Grace had better remain at Fram- ley till she should be carried off to Pau. There were schemes, too, about Jane. But what was to be done for the wife ? And what was to be done for Mr. Crawley ? Then came the news from Mrs. Arabin, and all interest in Judge Medlicote was at an end. But even now, after this great escape, what was to be done ? As to Grace, she had felt the absolute necessity of being obedient to her friends — with the consent of course of her mo- ther — during tlie great tribulation of her family. Things were so bad that she had not the heart to make them worse by giving any unnecessary trouble as to herself. Having resolved — and having made her mother so understand — that on one point she would guide herself by her own feelings, she was contented to go hither and thither as she was told, and to do as she was bid. Her hope was that Miss Prettyman would allow her to go back to her teaching, but it had come to be understood among them all that no- thing was to be said on that subject till the trial should be over. Till that time she would be passive. But then, as I have said, had come the news from Mrs. Arabin, and Grace, with all tlie others, understood that thei'e would be no trial. When this was known and acknowledged; THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 843 slie declared her purpose of going back to Hog- glestock. She would go back at once. When asked both by Lady Lufton and by Mrs. Robarts why she was in so great a haste she merely said that it must be so. She was, as it were, absolved from her passive obedience to Framley author- ities by the diminution of the family misfor- tunes. Mrs. Robarts understood the feeling by which Grace was hurried away. " Do you know why slic is so obstinate?" Lady Lufton asked. "I think I do," said Mrs. Robarts. "And what is it?" " Should Major Grantly renew his offer to ; her she is under a pledge to accept him now." " Of course he will renew it, and of course she will accept him." "Just so. But she prefers that he should come for her to her own house, because of its poverty. If he chooses to seek her there I don't think she will make much difficulty." Lady Lufton demurred to this, not, however, with anger, and expressed a certain amount of mild displeasure. She did not quite see why Major Grantly should not be allowed to come and do his love-making comfortably, where there was a decent dinner for him to eat, and chairs and tables and sofas and carpets. She said that she thought that something was due to Major Grantly. She was in truth a little disappointed that she was not allowed to have her own way, and to aiTange the marriage at Framley under her own eye. But, through it all, she appre- ciated Grace ; and they who knew her well and heard what she said upon the occasion under- stood that her favor was not to be withdrawn. All young women were divided by old Lady Lufton into sheep and goats — very white sheep and very black goats — and Grace was to be a sheep. Thus it came to pass that Grace Craw- ley was at home when the dean visited Hopgle- stock. "Mamma," she said, looking out of the^ window, " there is the dean with papa at thj^ gate." " It was a narrow squeak — a very narrow squeak," Mr. Crawley had said when his friend congratulated him on his escape. The dean felt at the moment that not for many years liad he heard the incumbent of Hogglestock speak either of himself or of any thing else with so manifest an attempt at jocularity. Arabiu had expected to find the man broken down by the weight of his sorrows, and lo! at. the first mo- ment of their first interview he himself l)egau to ridicule them ! Crawley having thus alluded to the narrow squeak had asked his visitor to enter the house and see his wife. " Of course I will," said Arabin, " but I will speak just a word to you first." Jane, who had accompanied the dean from the school, now left them, and went into the house to her mo- ther. "My wife can not forgive herself about' the check," continued he. "Tiiere is nothing to be forgiven," said Mr. Crawley; "nothing." "She feels that what she did was awkward and foolish. She ought never to have paid a check away in sucii a manner. She knows that now." " It was given — not paid," said Crawley ; and as he spoke something of the black cloud came back upon his face. "And I am well aware how hard Mrs. Arabin strove to take away from the alms she bestowed the bitterness of the sting of eleemosynary aid. If yon jdease, Araliin, we will not talk any more of tiiat. I can never forget that I have been a beggar, but I need not make my beggary the matter of conversation, I hope the Holy Land has fulfilled your exijcct- ation?" "It has more than done so," said the dean, bewildered by the sudden change. " For myself, it is, of course, impossible that I should ever visit any scenes except those to which my immediate work may call me — never in this world. Tlie new Jerusalem is still with- in my reach — if it be not forfeited by pride and obstinacy ; but the old Jerusalem I can never behold. Methinks, because it is so, I would sooner stand with my foot on Mount Olivet, or drink a cup of water in the village of Bethany, than visit any other spot within the traveler's compass. The sources of the Nile, of which men now talk so much — I see it in the papers and reviews Avhich the ladies at Framley are so good as to send to my wife — do not interest me much. I have no ambition to climb Mont Blanc or the Matterhorn ; Rome makes my mouth wa- ter but little, nor even Athens much. I can real- ize without seeing all that Athens could show me, and can fancy that the existing truth would destroy more than it would build up. But to have stood on Calvary!" "We don't know where Calvary Avas," said the dean. " I fancy that I should know — should know enough,'' said the illogical and unreasonable Mr. Crawley. "Is it true that you can look over from the spot on which He stood as He came across the brow of the hill, and see the huge stones of the Temple placed there by Solo- mon's men — as He saw them — riglit across the brook Cedron, is it not ?" " It is all there, Crawley — ^just as your knowl- edge of it tells you." " In the privilege of seeing those places I can almost envy a man his — money." The last word he uttered after a pause. He had been about to say that under such temptation he could almost envy a man his promotion ; but he be- thought himself that on such an occasion as this it would be better that he should spare the dean. "And now, if you wish it, m'C will go in. I fancy that I see my wife at the window, as though slie were waiting for us." So saying, he strode on along the little path, and the dean was fain to follow him, even though he had said so little of all that he had intended to sa3^ As soon as lie was with Mrs. Crawley he re- peated liis apology about the check, and found liimsclf better able to explain himself than he could do when alone with her husband course it has been our fault," he said. "Oil no," said Mrs. Crawley; "how can you have been in fault when your only object was to do us Kiiod?" IJut iievertlieless the dean took the blame ujjon his own shoulders, or, rather, upon those vi' his wife, and declared liiniself to be responsible for all the trouble about the check. "Let it go," said Crawley, after sitting for a. while in silence ; " let it j)ass." "You can not wonder, Crawley," said the dean, " that I should have felt myself obliged to speak of it." "For the future it Avill be well that it should be forgotten," said Crawley ; " or, if not forgot- ten, treated as though forgotten. And now, dean, what must I do about the living?" "Just resume it, as though nothing had hap- pened." "But that may hardly be done without tlie bislio])'s authority. I sjieak, of course, with def- erence to your higher and better information on such sid)jects. My experience in the taking u]) and laying down of livings has not been ex- tended. But it seeraeth to me that though it may certainly be in your power to nominate me again to the perpetual curacy of this parish — presuming your patronage to be unlimited and not to reach you in rotation only — yet the bish- oj) may demand to institute again, and must so demand, unless he pleases to permit that my letter to him shall be revoked and canceled." "Of course he will not do any thing of that kind. lie must know the circumstances as well as you and I do." "At present they tell me that he is much af- flicted by the death of his wife, and therefore can hardly be expected to take immediate action. There came here on the last Sunday one Mr. Snajiper, his lordsiiip's chaplain." "We all know Snapper," said the dean. " Snapper is not a bad little fellow." " I say nothing of his being bad, my friend, but merely mention the fact that on Sunday moniiiig last he performed the service in our cliurch. On the Sunday previous one Mr. Tliumble was here." " We all know Tliumble, too," said the dean ; " or, at least, know something about him." "He has been a thorn in our sides," said Mrs Crawley, unable to restrain the expression of her dislike when Mr. Thumble's name was mentioned. " Nay, my dear, nay ; do not allow yourself the use of language so strong against a brother. Our flesh at that time was somewhat prone to fester; and little thorns made us very sore." " lie is a horrible man," said Jane, almost in a whisper ; but the words were distinctly aud- ible by the dean. "They need not come anymore," said Arabin. "That is where I fear we differ. I think tliey must come — or some others in their place — till the bislio]) shall have expressed his pleasure to the coiitrarv. I have submitted mvself to THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. Of his lordship, and, having done so, feel that I can not again go uji into my pulpit till he shall have authorized me to do so. For a time, Ara- bin, I combated the bislio)), believing — then and now — that he put forth his hand against me aft- er n fashion which the law had not sanctioned. And I made bold to stand in his presence and to tell him that I would not obey him except in things legal. But afterward, when he pro- ceeded formally, through the action of a com- mission, I submitted myself. And I regard mvself still as being under submission." It was iinj)ossible to shake him. Arabin re- mained there for more than an hour, trying to j)ass on to another subject, but being constantly brought back by Mr. Crawley himself to the fact of his own de])endent position. Nor would he condescend to su])])licate the bishop. It was, he surmised, the duty of Dr. Tempest, together with the other four clergymen, to rejiort to the bislio]) on the question of the alleged theft ; and then doubtless the bishop, when he had duly considered the report, and — as Mr. Crawley seemed to think was essentially necessary — had sufiiciently recovered from the grief at his wife's death, would, at his leisure, communicate his decision to Mr. Crawley. Nothing could be more complete than ISIr. Crawley's humility in reference to the bishop ; and he never seemed to be tired of declaring that he had submitted himself! And then the dean, finding it to be vain to expect to be left alone with Mr. Crawley for a moment — in vain also to wait for a proper ojjcn- ing for that which he had to say — rushed vio- lently at his other subject. "And now, Mrs. Crawley," he said, " Mrs. Arabin wishes you all 'to come over to the deanery for a while and stay with us." " Mrs. Arabin is too kind," said Mrs. Craw- ley, looking across at her husband. "We should like it of all things, "said the dean, with perhaps more of good-nature than of truth. ' ' Of course you must have been knocked about a good deal." "Indeed we have," said Mrs. Crawley. "And till you are somewhat settled again I think that the change of scene would be good for all of you. Come, Crawdey, I'll talk to you every evening about Jerusalem for as long as you jdease ; and then there will perhaps come back to us something of the pleasantness of old days." As she heard this ]\Irs. Crawley's eyes became full of tears, and she could not altogeth- er hide them. What she had endured during the last four months had almost broken her spirit. The burden had at last been too heavy for her strength. " You can not fancy, Crawley, how often I have thought of the old days and wished tliat they might return. I have found it very hard to get an opportunity of saying so much to you ; but I will say it now." " It may liardly be as you say," said Crawley, grimly. "You mean that the old days can never be brought back?" THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 345 "Assuredly they can not. But it was not tliat that I meant. It may not be that I and mine sliould transfer ourselves to your roof and sojourn there." "\Vhy should you not?" "The reasons are many, and on the face of thin<;s. The reason, perha))S, the most on the f;ice is to be found in my wife's t^own and in my coat." This Mr. Crawley said very gravely, lookinf; neither to the right nor to the left, noy at the face of any of them, nor at his own gar- ment, nor at hers, but straight before him ; and when he had so spoken he said not a wortl fur- tlier — not going on to dilate on liis jjoverty as the dean expected that he would do. "At such a time such reasons should stand for nothing," said the dean. "And why not now as they always do, and always must till the power of tailors shall have waned, and the daugliters of Eve shall toil and spin no more? Like to like is true, and should be held to be true, of all societies and of all com- pacts for co-operation and mutual living. Here, where, if I may venture to say so, you and I are like to like, for the new gloss of your coat" — the dean, as it happened, had on at the moment a very old coat, his oldest coat, selected perhaps with some view to this special visit — " does not obtrude itself in my household as would the threadbare texture of mine in yours, I can open my mouth to you and converse with you at my case ; you are now to me that Frank Arabin who has so often comforted me and so often confuted me ; whom I may perhaps on an occasion have confuted — and perhaps have comforted. But were I sitting with you in your library in Bar- chester my threadbare coat would be too much for me. I should be silent, if not sullen. I should feel the weight of all my poverty, and the greater weight of all your wealth. For my children, let them go. I have come to know that they will be better away from me." " Papa !" said Jane. ♦ " Papa does not mean it," said Grace, coming up to him and standing close to him. There was silence among them for a few mo- ments, and then the master of the house shook himself — literally shook himself, till he had shaken off the cloud. He had taken Grace by the hand, and thrusting out the other arm had got it round Jane's waist. "When a man has girls, Arabin," he said, "as you have, but not big girls yet like Grace here, of course he knows that they will fly away." " I shall not fly away," said Jane. "I don't know what papa means, "said Grace. Upon the wliole the dean thought it the pleas- antest visit he had ever made to Hogglestock, and when he got home he told his wife that he believed that the accusation made against Mr. Crawley had done him good. " I could not say a word in private to her," he said, "but I did promise that you would go and see her." On the very next day Mrs. Arabin went over, and I tliiuk that the visit was a comfort to Mrs. Crawlev. CHAPTER LXXX. miss DEMOLINES DESIKKS TO BECOME A FINGEU-I'OST. John Eames had passed Mrs. Thorne in ihe hall of her own house almost without noticing her as he took his departure from Lily Dale, yiie had told him as plainly as words could speak that she could not bring herself to be his wife — and he had believed her. He had sworn to himself that if he did not succeed now he would never ask her again. " It would be fool- ish and unnuinly to do so," he said to himself as he rushed along the street toward his club. No ! That romance was over. At last there had come an end to it! "It has taken a good bit out of me," he said, arresting his steps sud- denly that he might stand still and think of it all. By George, yes ! A man doesn't go through that kind of thing without losing some of the caloric. I couldn't do it again if an an- gel came in my way." He went to his club, and tried to be jolly. He ordered a good din- ner, and got some man to come and dine with him. For an hour or so he held himself up, and did appear to be jolly. But as he walked home at night, and gave himself time to think over what had taken place with deliberation, he stopped in the gloom of a deserted street, and leaning against the rails burst into tears. He had really loved her, and she was never to be his. He had wanted her— and it is so painful a thing to miss what you want when you have done your very best to obtain it! To struggle in vain al- ways hurts the pride; but the wound made by tiie vain struggle for a woman is sorer than any other wound so made. He gnashed his teeth, and struck the iron railings with his stick ; and then he hurried home, swearing that he would never give another thought to Lily Dale. In the dead of the night, thinking of it still, he asked himself whether it would not be a fine thing to wait another ten years, and then go to her again. In such a way would he not make himself immortal as a lover beyond any Jacob or any Leander? The next day he went to his office and was very grave. When Sir Raffle complimented him on being back before his time, he simply said that when he had accomplished that for which he had gone, he had, of course, come back. Sir Raffle could not get a word out from him about Mr. Crawley. He was very grave, and intent upon his work. Indeed he was so serious that he quite afflicted Sir Raffle, whose mock activity felt itself to be confounded by the official zeal of his private secretary. During the whole of that day Johnny was resolving that there could be no cure for his malady but hard work. He would not only work hard at the of- fice if he remained there, but he would take to heavy reading. He rather thought that he would go deep into Greek and do a translation, or take up the exact sciences and make a name for himself that w.ay. But as he had enough for the life of a secluded literary man without 346 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET his salary, he rather thought that he would give up his office altogether. He had a mutton-chop at liomc that evening, and si>cnt his time in endeavoring to read out loud to himself certain passages from tlie Iliad — for he had bought a Homer as he returned from his office. At nine o'clock he went, half-price, to tiic Strand Theatre. How lie met tlicre his old friend Roulgcr, and went afterward to " Tiie Cock" and liad a sup- jpcr, need not here be told with more accurate detail. On the evening of the next day he was bound by his appointment to go to Torchcstcr Terrace. In the moments of his enthusiasm about Homer he had declared to himself that he would never go near Miss Demolines again. Wliy should he ? All that kind of tiling was nothing to him now. He would simply send her his compli- ments, and say tliat he was jirevented by busi- ness from kcejnng his engagement. She, of course, would go on writing to him for a time, but he would simply leave her letters unanswer- ed, and the thing, of course, would come to an end at last. He afterward said something to Boulger about Miss Demolines — but that was during the jollity of their sujjper — and he then declared that he would follow out that little game. " I don't see wliy a follow isn't to amuse himself, eh, Boulger, old boy?" Boulger wink- ed and grinned, and said that some amuse- ments were dangerous. "I don't think that there is any danger there," said Johnny. "I don't believe she is thinking of tliat kind of thing herself — not with me, at least. What she likes is the pretense of a mystery ; and as it is amusing I don't see why a fellow shouldn't in- dulge her." But that determination was pro- nounced after two mutton-chops at "The Cock," between one and two o'clock in the morning. On the next day he was cooler and wiser. Greek he thought might be tedious, as he discovered that lie would have to begin again from the very alpliabst. He would therefore abandon that idea. Greek was not the thing for him, but he would take up the sanitary condition of the poor in London. A fellow could be of some use in that way. In the tnean time he would keep his ap- pointment with Miss Demolines, siinjily because it was an a])pointment. A gentleman should always keep his word to a lady ! He did keep his appointment with Miss Demo- lines, and was with her almost precisely at the hour slie had named. Siie received him with a mysterious tranquillity which almost perplexed him. He remembered, however, that the way to enjoy the society of Miss Demolines was to take her in ail her moods with perfect serious- ness, and was therefore very tranquil himself. On the present occasion she did not rise as he entered the room, and hardly spoke as she tend- ered to him the tips of her fingers to be touch- ed. As she said almost nothing, he said no- thrng at all, but sank into a chair and stretched his legs out comfortably before him. It had been always understood between them that she was to bear the burden of the conversation. "You'll have a cup of tea?" she said. "Yes — if you do." Then the page brought the tea, and John Eames amused himself with swallowing three slices of very thin Ijread and butter. " None for me — thanks," said Madalina. " I rarely cat after dinner, and not often much then. I fancy that I should best like a world in which there was no eating." "A good dinner is a very good thing," said John. And then there was again silence. He was aware that some great secret was to be told to him during this evening, but he was much too discreet to show any curiosity upon that subject. He sipped his tea to the end, and then, having got up to put his cuj) down, stood on the rug with his back to the fire. " Have you been out to-day ?" he asked. " Indeed I have." "And you are tired?" "Very tired!" " Then perhaps I had betternot keep you up." "Your remaining will make no ditference in that respect. I »lon't suppose that I shall be in bed for the next four hours. But do as you like about going." "I am in no hurry, "said Johnny. Then he sat down again, stretched out his legs, and made himself comfortable. " I have been to see thai woman," said Mad- alina, after a pause. " What woman?" "Maria Clutteibuck — as I must always call her; for I can not bring myself to pronounce the name of that poor wretch who was done to death." " He blew his brains out in delirium tremens," said Johnny. "And what made him drink ?" said Madalina, with emjihasis. "Never mind. I decline al- together to spejik of it. Such a sceiie as I have had ! I was driven at last to tell her what I thought ^f her. Any thing so callous, so heart- less, so selfisli, so stone-cold, and so childish I never saw before ! That Maria was childish and selfish I always knew ; but I thought there was some heart — a vestige of heart. I found to-day that tliei-c was none — none. If you please, wo won't sjjcak of her any more." "Certainly not," said Johnny. " You need not wonder that I am tired and feverish." "That sort of thing is fatiguing, I dare say. I' don't know whether we do not lose more than we gain by those strong emotions." " I would rather die and go beneath the sod at once than live without them," said Madalina. " It's a matter of taste," said Johnny. "It is there that that poor wretch is so defi- cient. She is thinking now, this moment, of nothing but her creature comforts. That trag- edy has not even stirred her pulses." " If her pulses were stirred ever so that would not make her happy." "Happv! Who is happy? Arc you hap- py?" THE LAST CHRONICLE OP BARSET. 347 Johnny thon;:ht of Lily Dale, and jiauseJ be- fore he answrM'cd. No; certainly he was not happy. But lie was not goin<^' to talk about his unhappiness to Miss Demolincs. " Of course I am — as jolly as a sandboy," he said. " Mr. Eames," said Madalina, raising herself on her sofa, "if yon can not express yourself in language more suitable to the occasion and to the scene than tiiat, I think that you had bet- ter — " " Hold my tongue." "Just so, though I should not have chosen myself to use words so abruptly discourteous." " What did I say — ^jolly as a sandboy ? There is nothing wrong in that. What I meant was, that I think that this world is a very good sort of world, and that a man can get along in it very well if ho minds his;»s and qs." "But suppose it's a woman ?" "Easier still." " And suppose she does not mind her 7)8 and 5s?" "Women always do." " Do they ? Your knowledge of women goes as far as that, docs it? Tell me fairh- — do you think you know any thing about women?" Madalina, as she asked the question, looked full into his face, and shook her locks and smiled. When she shook her locks and smiled there was a certain attraction about her of which John Eames was fully sensible. She could throw a special brightness into her eyes, which, though it probably betokened nothing truly beyond ill- natured mischief, seemed to convey a promise of wit and intellect. "I don't mean to make any boast about it," said Johnny. "I doubt whether you know any thing. The pretty simplicity of your excellent Lily Dale has sufficed for you." " Never mind about her," said Johnny, im- patfently. "I do not mind about her in the least. But an insight into that sort of simplicity will not teach you the character of a real woman. You can not learn the flavor of wines by sipping sherry and water. For myself I do not think that I am simple. I own it fairly. If you must have simplicity, I can not be to your taste." "Nobody likes partridge always, "said John- ny, laughing. " I understand yon, Sir. And though what you say is not complimentary, I am willing to forgive that fault for its truth. I don't consider myself to be always partridge, I can assure you. I am as changeable as the moon." " And as fickle ?" " I say nothing about that. Sir. I leave you to find tliat out. It is a man's business to dis- cover that for himself. If you really do know aught of women — " " I did not say t-hat I did." "But if you do, you will perhaps have dis- covered that a woman may be as changeable as the moon, and yet as true as the sun ; that she may flit from flower to flower, quite unheeding while no passion exists, but that a passion fixes her at once. Do you believe me?" Now she looked into his eyes again, but did not smile and did not shake her locks. " Oh yes — that's true enough. And when they have a lot of children, then they become steady as niilc-stones." " Children !" said Madalina, getting up and walking about the room. " They do have them, you know, '' said Johnny. " Do you mean to say, Sir, that I should be a milestone?" "A finger-post," said Johnny, "to show a fellow the way he ought to go." She walked twice across the room without speaking. Then she came and stood opposite to him, still without speaking ; and tlien she walked about again. "What could a woman better be than a finger-post, as you call it, with such a purpose ?" "Nothing better, of course; though a mile- stone, to tell a fellow his distances, is very good." "Pshaw !" "You don't like the idea of being a mile- stone." "No!" "Then yon can make up your mind to be a finger-post." "John, shall I be a finger-post for j-ou?" She stood and looked at him for a moment or two, with her eyes full of love, as though she were going to throw herself into his arms. And she would have done so, no doubt, instantly, had he risen to his legs. As it was, after hav- ing gazed at him for the moment with her love- laden eyes, she flung herself on the sofa, and hid her fiice among the cushions. He had felt that it was coming for the last quarter of an hour ; and he had felt, also, that he was quite unable to help himself. He did not believe that he should ever be reduced to marrying Miss Demolines, but he did see plain- ly enough that he was getting into trouble ; and yet, for his life, he could not help himself. The moth who flutters round the light knows that he is being burned, and yet he can not fly away from it. When Madalina had begun to talk to him about women in general, and then about herself, and had told him that such a woman as herself — even one so liable to the disturbance of violent emotions — might yet be as true and hon- est as the sim, he knew that he ought to get up and make his escape. He did not exactly know how the catastrophe would come, but he was quite sure that if he remained there he would be called upon in some way for a declaration of his sentiments, and that the call would be one which all his wit would not enable him to an- swer with any comfort. It was very well jest- ing about mile-stones, but every jest brought him nearer to the precipice. He perceived that however ludicrous might be the image which his words produced, she was clever enough in some way to turn that image to her own purpose. He had called a woman a finger-post, and forthwith 548 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. she had oft'ered to come to him and be finger- post to him for life ! What was he to say to lier? It was clear tiiat lie must say something. As at this moment siie was sobbing violently lie could not pass the oiler by as a joke. Wo- men will say that his answer should have been very simple, and his escape very easy. But men will understand that it i.s not easy to reject even a Miss Demolines when she oilers herself for mat- rimony. And, moreover — as Johnny bethought himself at this crisis of his fate — Lady Demolines was no doubt at the other side of the drawing- room door, ready to stop him should he attemj)t to run away. In the mean time the sobs on the sofa became violent, and still more violent. He had not even yet made up his mind what to do, when Madalina, springing to her feet, stood be- fore him, with her curls wildly waving and her arms extended. "Let it be as though it were unsaid," she exclaimed. John Eames had not the slightest objection ; but nevertheless there was a difficulty even in this. Were he simply to assent to this latter proposition, it could not be but that the feminine nature of Miss Demo- lines would be outraged by so uncomplimentary an acquiescence. He felt that he ought at least to hesitate a little — to make some pretense at closing upon the rich offer that had been made to him ; only that were lie to show any such pre- tense the rich offer would, no doubt, be repeated. His Madalina had twitted him in the earlier part of their interview witli knowing nothing of the nature of women. He did know enough to feel assured than any false step on his part now would lead him into very serious difficulties. " Let it be as though it were unsaid ! Why, oh, why, have I betrayed myself?" exclaimed Mad- alina. John now had risen from his chair, and com- ing up to her took her by the arm and spoke a word. "Compose yourself," he said. He spoke in his most affectionate voice, and he stood very close to her. "How easy it is to bid me do that," said Madalina. " Tell the sea to compose itself when it rages!" "Madalina!" said he. " Well— whiit of Madalina? Madalina has lost her own respect — forever." "Do not say tliat." "Oh, John— why did you ever come here? Why ? Why did we meet at that fatal woman's house? Or, meeting so, why did we not part as strangers ? Sir, why have you come here to my mother's house day after day, evening after evening, if — Oh Heavens ! what am I saying ? I wonder whether you will scorn me always ?" " I will never scorn you." "And you will pardon me?" " Madalina, there is nothing to pardon." "And — you will love me?" Then, without waiting for any more encouraging reply — un- able, probably, to wait a moment longer — she sunk upon his bosom. He caught her, of course — and at tliat moment the drawing-room door was opened, and Lady Demolines entered the chamber. John Eames detected at a glance the skirt of tiie old white dressing-gown which he Jiad seen whisking away on the occasion of his last visit at rorchcster Terrace. But on the pres- ent occasion Lady Demolines wore over it a short red opera-cloak, and the cap on her head was ornamented with colored ribbons. "What is this ?" she said, " and why am I thus disturbed ?" Madalina lay motionless in Johnny's arms, while the old woman glowered at him from under the colored ribbons. "Mr. Eames, what is it that I behold ?" she said. "Your daughter, madam, seems to be a little unwell," said Johnny. Madalina kept her feet firm upon the ground, but did not for a mo- ment lose her purchase against Johnny's waist- coat. Her respirations came very strong, but they came a good deal stronger when he men- tioned the fact that she was not so well as she might be. " Unwell !" suid Lady Demolines. And John was stricken at the moment with a conviction that her ladyshi]) must have passed the early years of her life upon the stage. "You would trifle with me. Sir. Beware that you do not trifle with her — witii Madalina!" "My mother," said Madalina; but still she did not give up her purchase, and the voice seemed to come half from her and half from John- ny. " Come to me, my mother." Then Lady Demolines hastened to her daughter, and Mada- lina between them was gradually laid at her length upon the sofa. The work of laying her out, how- ever, was left almost entirely to the stronger arm of Mr. John Eames. "Thanks, mother," said Madalina ; but she had not as yet opened her eyes, even for an instant. " Perhaps I had better go now," said Johnny. The old woman looked at him with eyes which asked him whether " he didn't wish he might get it" as plainly as though the words had been pronounced. " Of course I'll wait if I can be of any service," said Johnny. "I must know more of this, Sir, before you leave the house," said Lady Demolines. He saw that between them both there might proba- bly be a very bad quarter of an hour in store for iiim; but he swore to himself that no union of dragon and tigress should extract from him a word that could be taken as a promise of mar- riage. The old woman was now kneeling by the head of the sofa, and Johnny was standing close by her side. Suddenly Madalina opened her eyes — opened them very wide, and gazed around her. Then slowly she raised herself on the sofa, and turned her face first upon her mother and then upon Johnny. " You here, mamma ! " she said. "Dearest one, I am near you. Be not afraid," said her ladyship. "Afraid ! Vi^hy should I be afraid ? John ! My own John! IMamma, he is my own." And she put out her arms to him, as though calling to him to come to licr. Things were now very bad with John Eames — so bad that he would have given a considerable lump out of Lord de THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAKSET. 349 Guest's legacy to be able to escape at once into the street. The power of a woman, when she chooses to use it recklessly, is, for the moment, almost unbounded. "I hope you find yourself a little better," said John, struggling to speak as tliough he were not utterly crushed by the occasion. Lady Demolines slowly raised herself from her knees, helping herself with her hands against the shoulder of the sofa — for though still very clever, she was old and still' — and then offered both her hands to Johnny. Johnny cautiously took one of them, finding himself unable to de- cline them both. "My son 1" she exclaimed ; and before he knew where he was the old wo- man hud succeeded in kissing his nose and his whiskers. " My son !" siie said again. Now the time had come for facing the drag- on and the tigress in their wrath. If they were to be faced at all, the time for facing them liad certainly arrived. I fear that John's heart sank low in his bosom at that moment. " I don't quite understand," he said, almost in a whisper. Madalina put out one arm toward him, and the fingers trembled. Iler lips were opened, and the white row of interior ivory might be seen plainly ; but at the present conjuncture of affairs she spoke not a word. She spoke not a word ; but her arm remained stretched out to- ward him, and her fingers did not cease to trem- ble. " You do not understand !" said Lady Demo- lines, drawing herself back, and looking, in her short 0]X!ra-cloak, like a knight who has donned his cuirass, but has forgotten to put on his leg- gear. And she shook the bright ribbons of her cap, as a knight in his wrath shakes the crest of his helmet. "You do not understand, Mr. Eames? What is it, Sir, that you do not un- derstand?" " There is some misconception, I mean," said Johnny. " Mother!" said Madalina, turning her eyes from her recreant lover to her tender parent ; trembling all over, but still keeping her hand extended. " Mother !" " My darling ! But leave him to me, dearest. Compose yourself." " 'Twas the word that he said — this moment ; before he pressed me to his heart." " I thought you were fainting," said Johnny. " Sir !" And Lady Demolines, as she spoke, shook her crest and glared at him, and almost flew at him in her armor. "It may be that nature has given way with me, and tliat I have been in a dream," said Madalina. " That which mine eyes saAV was no dream," said Lady Demolines. " Mr. Eames, I havci given to you the sweetest name that can falB from an old woman's lips. I have called you my son." "Yes, you did, I know. But, as I said be- fore, there is some mistake. I know how proud I ought to bo, and how happy, and all that kind of thing. But — " Then there came a screech from Madalina, which would have awakened the dead had tliere been any dead in that house. The page and the cook, however, took no notice of it, whether they were awakened or not. And having screeched, Madalina stood erect upon the floor, and she also glared upon her recreant lover. The dragon and the tiger were there before him now, and he knew that it behooved him to look to himself. As he had a battle to fight, might it not be best to put a bold face upon it ? "The truth is," said he, "that I don't understand this kind of thing at all." "Not understand it. Sir?" said the dragon. "Leave him to me, mother," said the tigress, shaking her head again, but with a kind of shake diflering from that which she had used before. "This is my business, and I'll have it out for myself. If he thinks I'm going to put up with his nonsense he's mistaken. I've been straightforward and above board with you, Mr. Eames, and I expect to be treated in the same w.ay in return. Do you mean to tell my mother tliat you deny that we are engaged?" " Well, yes ; I do. I'm very sorry, you know, if I seem to be uncivil — " " It's because I've no brother," said the tigress. " He thinks that I have no man near me to pro- tect me. But he shall find that I can protect myself. John Eames, why are you treating me like this?" " I shall consult my cousin, the sergeant, to- , morrow," said the dragon. "In the mean time he must remain in this house. I shall not allow the front door to be unlocked for him." This, I think, was the bitterest moment of all to Johnny. To be confined all night in Lady Demolines's drawing-room would of itself be an intolerable nuisance. And then the absurdity of the thing, and the story that would go abroad I And what should he say to the dragon's cousin, the sergeant, if the sergeant should be brought upon the field before he was able to escape from it? He did not know what a sergeant might not do to him in such circumstances. There was one thing no sergeant should do, and no dragon ! Between them all they should never force him to marr}' the tigress. At this moment Johnny heard a tramp along the pavement, and he rushed to the window. Before the dragon or even the tigress could arrest him he had thrown up the sash, and had appealed in his difficulty to the guardian of the night. "I say, old fel- low," said Johnny, "don't you stir from that till I tell you." The policeman turned his bidl's- eye upon the window, and stood perfectly mo- tionless. "Now, if you please, I'll say good- night," said Johnny. But as he spoke he still held the open window in his hand. "What means this violence in my house?" said the dragon. " Mamma, you had better let him go," said the tigress. " We shall know where to find him." " You will certainly be able to find me," said Johnny. "Go," said the dragon, shaking her crest — shaking all her armor at him, "dastard, go!" 350 THE LAST CHKONICLE OF BARSET. "Policeman," shouted Johnny, while he still held tlie open window in his hand, "mind yon don't stir till I conic out." Tlic bull's-eye was shifted a, little, but the policeman spoke never a word. "I wish you good-night. Lady Demolines," said Johnny. " Good-night, Miss Demolines." Tlien he left the window and made a run for the door. But tho dragon was there before him. "Let him go, mamma," said tho tigress, as slie closed the window. ' ' We shall only have a rumpus." "That will be all," said Julinny. "There isn't the slightest use in your trying to keep me lierc." "And are we never to sec you again?" said the tigress, almost languishing again with one eye. "Well, no. Wliat would he the use? No man likes to be shut in, you know." "Go, then," said the tigress; "but if you think tliat this is to be the end of it you'll find yourself wonderfully mistaken. You poor, false, driveling creature ! Lily Dale won't touch you with a pair of tongs. It's no use your going to her." " Go away, Sir, this moment, and don't con- taminate ray room an instant longer by your jM'csence," said the dragon, who had observed tlirough the window that tlie bull's-eye was still in full force before the liouse. Then John Eamcs withdrew, and descending into the hall made his way in the dark to the front door. For aught he knew there might still be treachery in regard to the lock ; but his heart was comforted as he heard the footfall of the policeman on the door-step. With much fumbling he succeeded at last in turning the key and drawing the bolt, and then he found himself at liberty in the street. Before he even spoke a word to the policeman he went out into the road and looked up at tho window. He could just see the figure of tlic dragon's helmet as she was closing the shutters. It was the last he ever saw of Lady Demolines or of her daughter. "What was it all about?" said the police- man. " I don't know that I can just tell you," said Johnny, searching in his pocket-book for half a sovereign, which he tendered to the man. "There was a little difficulty, and I'm obliged to you for waiting." " There ain't nothing wrong?" said the man, suspiciously, hesitating for a moment before he accepted the coin. " Nothing on earth. I'll wait with you while you have the house opened and inquire, if you wisii it. The truth is, somebody inside refused to have the door opened, and I didn't want to stay there all night." "They're a rummy couple, if what I hear is true." "They are a rummy couple," said Johnny. " I suppose it's all right," said the policeman, taking tho money. And then John walked oft' home by himself, turning in his mind all the circumstances of liis connection with Miss Dem- olines. Taking his own conduct as a whole, he was rather proud of it; but he acknowledged to himself that it would be well that he should kcej) liimself free from the society of Madalinas for the future. CHAPTER LXXXI, n ARC HESTER CLOISTERS. On tlie morning of the Sunday after the dean's return Mr. Harding was lying in his bed, and Posy was sitting on the bed beside him. It was manifest to all now that he became feebler and feebler from day to day, and that he would never leave his bed again. Even the archdeacon had shaken his head, and had acknowledged to his wife that the last day for lier father was near at hand. It would very soon be necessary that he should select another vicar for St. Ewold's. "Grandpa won't ])lay cat's-cradle," said Posy, as ]\Irs. Arabin entered the room. "No, darling — not this morning," said the old man. He himself knew well enough that he would never play cat's-cradle again. Even that was over for him now. " She teases you, pajia," said Mrs. Arabin. "No indeed," said he. "Posy never teases me;" and he slowly moved his withered hand down outside the bed, so as to hold the child by her frock. "Let her stay with me, my dear." "Dr. Filgrave is down stairs, papa. You will see him, if he comes up?" Now Dr. Fil- grave was the leading physician of Barchester, and nobody of note in the city — or for the mat- ter of that in tlie eastern division of the county — was allowed to start upon the last great jour- ney without some assistance from Jiim as the hour of going drew nigh. I do not know that he had much reputation for prolonging life, but he was supposed to add a grace to the hour of departure. Mr. Harding had expressed no wish to see the doctor — had rather declared his con- viction that Dr. Filgrave could be of no possible service to him. But he was not a man to per- severe in his objection in opposition to the wishes of the friends around him ; and as soon as the archdeacon had spoken a word on the subject he assented. " Of course, my dear, I will see him." "And Posy shall come back when he has gone," said Mrs. Arabin. "Posy will do me more good than Dr. Fil- grave, I am quite sure ; but Posy shall go now." So Posy scrambled off the bed, and the doctor was ushered into the room. "A day or two will see the end of it, Mr. Archdeacon — I should say a day or two," said the doctor, as he met Dr. Grantly in the hall. " I should say that a day or two would see the end of it. Indeed I will not undertake that twenty-four hours may not see the close of his earthly troubles. He has no suffering, no pain, no disturbing cause. Nature simply retires to THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 35. rest." Dr. Filgrave, as he said this, made a dow falling motion with his hands, which alone on various occasions had been tiiought to be wortli all the money i)aid for his attendance. "Perhaps yon would wish that I should step in in the evening, Mr. Dean? As it happens, I shall be at liberty." The dean of course said that he would take it as an additional favor. Neither the dean nor the archdeacon had the slightest belief in Dr. Filgrave, and yet they would hardly have been contented tliat tlieir fa- tlier-in-law should have departed without him. "Look at that man, now," said tlic archdea- con, when the doctor had gone, "who talks so glibly about nature going to rest. I've known him all my life. He's an older man by some . months than our dear old friend up stairs. And he looks as if he were going to attend death- beds in Barchester forever." "I suppose he is right in what he tells us now?" said the dean. " No doubt he is ; but my belief doesn't come . from his saying it." Then tliere was a pause as the two church dignitaries sat together, do- ing nothing, feeling that the solemnity of tiie moment was such that it would be hardly be- coming that they should even attempt to read. " His going will make an old man of me," said the archdeacon. "It will be ditferent u ith you." "It will make an old woman of Eleanor, I fear." "I seem to have known him all my life," said the archdeacon. " I have known him ever since I left college; and I have known him as one man seldom knows another. There is no- thing that he has done — as I believe, nothing tliat he has thought — with which I have not been cognizant. I feel sure that he never had an impure fancy in his mind, or a faulty wish in his heart. His tenderness has surpassed the tenderness of woman ; and yet, when an occa- sion came for showing it, he had all the spirit of a hero. I shall never forget his resignation of tlie hospital, and all that I did and said to make him keep it." "But he was right?" " As Septimus Harding he was, I think, right; but it would have been wrong in any other man. And he was right, too, about the deanery." For promotion had once come in My. Harding's way, and he, too, miglit have been Dean of Barchester. "The fact is, he never was wrong. He couldn't go wrong. He lacked guile, and he feared God : and a man who docs both will never go far astray. I don't tiiink he ever coveted aught in his life — ex- cept a new case for his violoncello and some- body to listen to him when he played it." Then tlie archdeacon got up, and walked about the room in his enthusiasm ; and perhaps as he walked some thoughts as to the sterner ambi- tion of his own life passed through his mind. What things had he coveted? Had he lack- ed guile ? He told himself that he had feared God ; but he was not sure that he was telling himself true even in that. During the whole of the morning Mrs. Ara- bin and Mrs. Grantly were with their father, and during the greater part of the day there was absolute silence in the room. He seemed to sleep ; and tliey, though they knew tliat in truth he was not slcejiing, feared to disturb him by a word. About two Mrs. Baxter brought him his dinner, and he did rouse himself, and swallowed a spoonful or two of soup and half a glass of wine. At this time Posy came to him, and stood at the bedside, looking at him with her great wide eyes. She seemed to be aware that life had now gone so far with her dear old friend that she must not be allowed to sit u])on his bed again. But he jnit his hand out to her, and she held it, standing quite still and silent. When !Mrs. Baxter came to take away the tra}' Posy's mother got u]) and whispered a word to the child. Then Posy went away, and her eyes never beheld the old man again. That was a day which Posy will never furget — not though she should live to be much older than her grand- father was when she thus left him. "It is so sweet to have you both here," he said, when he had been lying silent for nearly an hour after the child had gone. Then they got up, and came and stood close to him. "Tliere is nothing left for me to wish, my dears — no- thing." Not long after that he expressed a de- sire that the two husbands — his two sons-in-law — should come to him ; and Mrs. Arabin went to them, and brought them to the room. As he took their hands he merely repeated the same words again. "Tliere is nothing left for me to wish, my dears — nothing." He never spoke again above his breath ; but ever and anon his daughters, who watched him, could see that he was praying. The two men did not stay with him long, but returned to the gloom ot the li- brary. The gloom had almost become the dark- ness of night, and they were still sitting there without any light, when Mrs. Baxter entered the room. "The dear old gentleman is no more," said Mrs. Baxter : and it seemed to the arch- deacon that the very moment of Iiis father's death had repeated itself. When Dr. Filgrave called he was told that his services could be of no fur- ther use. "Dear, dear 1" said the doctor. "We are all dust, Mrs. Baxter; are we not?" There were peojile in Barchester who pretended to know how often the doctor had repeated this lit- tle formula during the last thirty years. There was no violence of sorrow in the house that night; but there were aching hearts, and one heart so sore that it seemed that no cure for its anguish could ever reach it. "He has al- ways been with me," Mrs. Arabin said to her husband, as he strove to console her. "It was not that I loved him better than Susan, but I have felt so much more of his loving tenderness. The sweetness of his voice has been in my ears almost daily since I was born." They buried him in the cathedral which he had loved so well, and in which nearly all the work of his life had been done ; and all Barches- ter was there to see hini laid in his grave within 352 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAllSET. tlic cloisters. There was no procession of coaches, no hearse, nor was there any attempt at funereal pomp. From the dean's side-door, across the vaulted jiassage, and into the tran- sept — over the little step ujjon which he had so nearly fallen wlien hist he made his way out of the building' — the coftin was carried on men's shoulders. It was but a sliort journey from his bedroom to his }j;rave. I3ut the bell bad been tollinj; sadly all the morning;, and the nave and the aisles and the transepts, close up to the door leading from the transci)t into the cloister, were crowded with those who had known the name and the figure and the voice of Mr. Harding as long as they had known any thing. I'p to tliis ilay no one would iiavc .«aid specially tliat l\Ir. Harding was a favorite in the town. He had never been forward enough in any thing to be- come the acknowledged possessor of popularity. But, now that he was gone, men and women told each otlier how good he had been. Tliey remembered the sweetness of his smile, and talked of loving little words which he had spoken to them — either years ago or the other day, for his words had always been loving. The dean and the archdeacon came first, shoul- der to shoulder, and after them came their wives. I di) not know that it was the projjcr order for mourning, but it was a touching sight to be seen, and was long remembered in Barchester. I'ain- ful as it was for them, the two women would be there, and tlie two sisters would walk together — nor would they go before their husbands. Then there were the archdeacon's two sons- — for the Rev. Cliarles Grantly had come to Plum- stead on the occasion. And in the vaulted pas- sage which runs between tlie deanery and the end of the transept all the chapter, witli the choir, the prebendaries, with the fat old clian- cellor, the precentor, and the minor canons down to the little choristers — they all were there, and followed in at the transejit door, two by two. And in the transept they were joined by another clergyman whom no one had expected to see tliat day. The bishop was there, looking old and worn — almost as thougli he were un- conscious of what he was doing. Since his wife's death no one had seen him out of the pal- ace or of the palace grounds till that day. But there he was; and they made way for him into the procession behind the two ladies ; and the archdeacon, when lie saw it, resolved that there should be peace in his heart, if peace might be possible. They made their way into the cloisters where the grave had been dug — as many as might be allowed to follow. The jdace indeed was open to all who chose to come ; but they who had only slightly known the man refrained from pressing ujjon tliose who had a right to stand around his coffin. But there was one other there whom the faithful chronicler of Barchester slicnild mention. Before any other one had reached the spot the sexton and the verger be- tween them had led in between them, among the graves beneath the cloisters, a blind man, very old, with a wondrous stoop, but who must have owned a grand statwre before extreme old age liad bent him, and they placed him sitting on a stone in the corner of the archway. But as soon as tlie shuffling of steps reached his ears he raised liimself witli tlic aid of his stick, and stood during the service leaning against the pil- lar. The blind man was so old that he might almost have been Mr. Harding's father. This was John Bunco, a bedesman from Hiram's Hos- pital ; and none perhajjs there had known Mr. Harding better than he had known him. When the earth had been thrown on to the coffin, and tlic service was over, and they were about to disperse, Mrs. Arabin went up to the old man, and taking his hand between hers whis])ercd a word into his ear. "Oh, Miss Eleanor!" he said. "Oh, Miss Eleanor!" Within a fort- night he also was lying within the cathedral pre- cincts. , And so they buried Mr. Septimus Harding, formerly Warden of Hiram's Hosjutal in tlic city of Barchester, of whom the chronicler may say that that city never knew a sweeter gemlenian or a better Christian. CHAPTER LXXXII. THE LAST SCENE AT HOGGLESTOCK. TiiK fortnight following Mr. Harding's death was ]iassed very quietly at Hogglestoek, for dur- ing that time no visitor made an appearance in the parish except Mr. Snapper on the Sundays. Mr. Snapper, when he had completed the serv- ice on the first of these Sundays, intimated to Mr. Crawley his opinion that probably that gen- tleman might himself wish to resume the duties on the following Sabbath. Mr. Crawley, how- ever, courteously declined to do any thing of tiie kind. He said that it was quite out of the ques- tion that he should do so without a direct com- munication made to him from the bishop, or by the bishop's order. The assizes had, of .course, gone by, and all question of the trial was over. Nevertlieless — as Mr. Snaji])er said — the bishop had not, as yet, given any order. Mr. Snapper was of ojiinion that the bishoj) in these days was not quite himself. He had spoken to the bishop about it, and the bishop had told him, peevislily — "I must say quite peevislily," Mr. Snnpper had said — that nothing was to be done at jiresent. Mr. Snapjier was not the less clearly of opinion that Mr. Crawley might resume his duties. To this, however, Mr. Crawley would not assent. But even during the fortniglit Mr. Crawley liad not remained altogether neglected. Two days after Mr. Harding's death he had received a note from the dean, in which he was advised not to resume the duties at Hogglestoek for the present. " Of course you can understand that we have a sad house here at present," the dean had said. "But as soon as ever we are able to move in the matter we will arrange things for THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAKSET. 353 you ns comfortabl}' as we can. I will see the bishop myself." Mr. Crawley had no ambitious idea of any comfort which might accrue to him beyond that of an honorable return to his hum- ble preferment at nogglestock : but neverthe- less he was in tiiis case minded to do as the dean counseled him. He had submitted him- self to the bisho)), and he would wait till the bishop absolved him from his submission. On the day after the funeral the bishop had sent his compliments to the dean, with the ex- pression of a wish that the dean would call upon him on any early day that might be convenient with reference to the position of Mr. Crawley of Hogglestock. The note was in the bishop's own handwriting, and was as mild and civil as. a bishop's note could be. Of course the dean named au early day for the interview ; but it was necessary before he went to the bishop that he should discuss the matter with the archdea- con. If St. Ewold's might be given to Mr. Craw- ley the Hogglestock difficulties would all be? brought to an end. The archdeacon, after the funeral, had returned to Plumstead, and thither the dean went to him before he saw the bish- op. He did succeed — he and Mrs. Grantly be- tween them — but with very great difficulty, In obtaining a conditional promise. They had both thought that when the archdeacon became fully aware that Grace was to be his daughter- in-law he would at once have been delighted to have an opportunity of extricating from his poverty a clergyman with whom it was his fate to be so closely connected. But he fought the matter on twenty diit'erent points. He declared at first that, as it was his primary duty to give to the people of St. Ewold's the best clergyman he could select for them, he could not give the preferment to Mr. Crawley, because Mr. Craw- ley, in spite of all his zeal and piety, was a man so quaint in his manners and so eccentric in his mode of speech as not to be the best clergyman whom he could select. " What is my old friend Thorne to do with a man in his parish who won't drink a glass of wine with him?" For Ullathorne, tlie seat of tliat Mr. Wilfred Thorne who had been so guilty in the matter of the foxes, was situated in the parish of St. Ewold's. When Mrs. Grantly proposed that Mr. Thome's consent should be asked the archdeacon became very angry. He had never heard so unecclesiastical a proposition in his life. It was his special duty to do the best he could for Mr. Thorne, but it was specially his duty to do so without consult- ing Mr. Thorne about it. As the archdeacon's objection had been argued simply on the point of the glass of wine, both the dean and Mrs. Grant- ly thought that he was unreasonable. But they had their point to gain, and tlierefore they only flattered him. They were sure tliat Mr. Thorne would like to have a clergyman in the parish who would himself be closely connected with the archdeacon. Then Dr. Grantly alleged that he might find himself in a trap. What if he conferred the living of St. Ewold's on Mr. Crawley, and after all there should be no mar- riage between his son and Grace ?" " Of course they'll be married," said Mrs. Grantly. "It's all very well for you to say that, my dear ; but the whole family are so queer that there is no knowing what the girl may do. She nuiy take up some other f\id now, and refuse him point- blank." "She has never taken up any fad," said Mrs. Grantly, who now mounted almost to wrath in defense of her future daughter-in-law, " and you are wrong to say that she has. She has beliaved beautifully — as nobody knows bet- ter than you do." Then the archdeacon gave way so far as to promise that St. Ewold's should be offered to Mr. Crawley as soon as Grace Crawley was in truth engaged to Harry Grantly. After that the dean went to the palace. There had never been any quarreling between the bish- op and the dean, cither direct or indirect ; nor, indeed, had the dean ever quarreled even with Mrs. Proudie. But he had belonged to the anti-Proudie fiiction. He had been brought into the diocese by the Grantly interest ; and tliere- fore, during Mrs. Proudie's lifetime, he had al- ways been accounted among the enemies. Tiiere had never been any real intimacy between the houses. Each house had been always asked to dine with the other house once a year; but it had been understood that such dinings were ec- clesiastico-official, and not friendly. There had been the same outside diocesan civility between even the palace and Plumstead. But now, when the great chieftain of the palace was no more, and the strength of the palace faction was gone, peace, or perhaps something more than peace — amity, perhaps, might be more easily arranged with the dean than witii the archdeacon. In prejiaration for such arrange- ments the bishop had gone to Mr. Harding's funeral. And now the dean went to the palace at the bishop's behest. He found his lordsliip alone, and was received with almost reverential courte- sy. He thought that the bishop was looking wonderfully aged since he last saw him, but did not perhaps take into account the absence of clerical sleekness which was incidental to the bishop's private life in his private room, and perhaps in a certain measure to his recent great affliction. The dean had been in the hiibit of regarding Dr. Proudie as a man almost young for his age, having been in the habit of seeing him at his best, clothed in authority, redolent of the throne, conspicuous as regarded his apron and outward signs of episeopality. Much of all this was now absent. The bishop, as he rose to greet the dean, shuffled with his old sli])pers, and his hair was not brushed so becomingly as used to be the case when jMrs. Proudie was al- ways near him. It was necessary that a word should be said by each as to the loss which the other had suf- fered. "Mr. Dean," said his lordship, "allow me to offer you my condolements in regard to the death of that very excellent clergyman and most worthy gentleman, your father-in-law." "Thank you, my lord. He was excellent 854 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. and worthy. 1 do not suppose that I shall live to sec any man who was more so. You also have a great — a terrible loss." '•Oh, Mr. Dean, yes; yes indeed, Mr. Dean. That was a loss." " And hardly past the prime of life !" "Ah, yes — just lifty-si.x — and so strong! Was she not ? At least every hody tliouglit so. And yet slio was gone in a minute — gone in a minute. I haven't held up my head since, Mr. Dean.' " It was a great loss, my lord ; but you must struggle to bear it." "I do struggle. I am struggling. But it makes one ft-el so lonely in this great house. Ah me! I often wish, I\Ir. Dean, tiuit it had,' ])li'ascd Providence to have left me in some hum* i)le ]iar.sonage, wliere duty would have been easier than it is here. But I will not trouble you with all that. What are we to do, Mr. Dean, about this poor Mr. Crawley ?" "Mr. Crawley is a very old friend of mine, and a very dear friend." "Ls he? Ah! A very worthy man, I am sure, and one who has been much tried by un- deserved adversities." "Most severely tried, my lord." " Sitting among the jjotsherds, like Job ; has he not, Mr. Dean ? Well ; let us hope that all that is over. When this accusation about the robbery was brought against him I found my- self bound to interfere." " He has no complaint to make on that score." "I hoi)e not. I have not wished to be harsh, but wliat could I do, Mr. Dean ? They told me that the civil authorities found the evidence so strttng against him that it could not be witli- Stoiul." " It was very strong." " And we thouglit that he should at least be relieved, and we sent for Dr. Tempest, who is his rural dean." Then the bishop, remembering all tlie circumstances of that interview with Dr. Teiiiiiest — as to which he had ever felt assured that one of the results of it was tlie death of his wife, whereby there was no longer any "we" left in tlie palace of Barchester — sighed piteous- ly, looking up at the dean witii hopeless face. "Nobody doubts, my lord, that you acted for the best." " I hope we did. I think we did. And now what shall we do? He has resigned his living, both to you and to me, as I hear — you being the patron. It will simply be necessary, I think, that he sliould ask to iiave the letters canceled. Tlien, as I take it, there need be no reinstitution. You can not think, Mr. Dean, how much I have thought about it all." Then the dean unfolded his budget, and ex- plained to the bishop how he hoped that the living of St. Ewold's, which was, after some ec- clesiastical fashion, attached to the rectory of Plumstead, and which was now vacant by the demise of Mr. Harding, might be conferred by the archdeacon upon Mr. Crawley It was necessary to explain also that this could not be done quite immediately, and in doing this the dean encountered some little difficulty. The archdeacon, he said, wished to be allowed an- other week to think about it ; and therefore perha])S provision for the duties at Hogglestock might yet be made for a few Sundays. The bishop, the dean said, might easily understand that, after what had occurred, Mr. Crawley would hardly wish to go again into that puli)it, unless he did so as resuming duties which would necessarily be permanent with him. To all this the bisho]) assented, but he was apj)areiUly struck with much wonder at the choice made by the archdeacon. " I should have thought, Mr. Dean," he said, " that Air. Crawley was the last man to have suited the archdeacon's choice." "The archdeacon and I married sisters, my lord." " Oh, ah ! yes. And he puts the nomination of St. Ewold's at your disposition. I am sure I shall be delighted to institute so worthy a gen- tleman as Mr. Crawley." Then the dean took his leave of the bishop — as will Me also. Boor dear bishoj) ! I am inclined to think that ho was right in his regrets as to the little parsonage. Not that his failure at Barchester, and his pres- ent consciousness of lonely incom])etenee, were mainly due to any ]josit)ve inefficiency on his own ])art. He might have been a sufficiently good bishop had it not been that Mrs. I'roudie was so much more than asufficiently good bishop's wife. We will now say farewell to him, with a hope that the lopped tree may yet become green again, and to some extent fruitful, although all its beautiful head and richness of waving foli- age have been taken from it. About a week after tliis Henry Grantly rode over from Cosby Lodge to Hogglestock. It has been just said that though the assizes had pass- ed by, and though all question of Mr. Crawley's guilt was now set aside, no visitor had of late made his way over to Hogglestock. I fancy that Grace Crawley forgot, in the fullness of her memory as to other things, that Mr. Harding, of whose death she heard, had been her lover's grandfather — and that therefore there might possibly be some delay. Had there been much said between the mother and the daughter about the lover no doubt all this would have been ex- plained ; but Grace was vei-y reticent, and there were other matters in the Hogglestock house- hold which in those days occupied Mrs. Craw- ley's mind. How were they again to begin life ? for, in very truth, life as it had existed with them before, had been brought to an end. But Grace remembered well the sort of compact which existed between her and her lover — the compact which had been made in very words between herself and her lover's father Com- plete in her estimataon as had been the heaven opened to her by Henry Grantly's offer, she had refused it all — lest she should bring disgrace upon him. But the disgrace was not certain ; and if her father should be made free from it, tiien — then — tlien Henry Grantly ought to come to her and be at her feet with all the expedition THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAKSET. 355 possible to him. That was her reading of the compact. She had once dechired, wlicn speak- ing of the possible disgrace whicli miglit attach itself to her family and to Iier name, tluit her poverty did not " signify a bit." She was not ashamed of her father — only of the accusation against her father. Therefore slie had hurried home when that accusation was withdrawn, de- sirous that her lover should tell her of his love — if ho chose to rcj)eat such telling — amidst all the poor things of Hogglestock, and not among tlie cliairs and tables and good dinners of lux- urious Framlcy. Mrs. Kobarts had given a true interpretation to Lady Lufton of the haste which Grace liad displayed. But she need not have been in so great a hurry. She had been at home already above a fortnight, and as yet he had made no sign. At last slie said a word to her mother. " Might I not ask to go back to Miss Prettyman's now, mamma?" "I tliink, dear, you had better wait till things are a little settled. Papa is to hear again from the dean very soon. You see they are all in a great sor- row at Barchester about poor Mr. Harding's death." " Grace \" said Jane, rushing into the liouse almost speechless at that moment, "here he is — on horseback." I do not know wliy Jane should have talked about j\L)jor Grantly as simply "he." There hat! been no conver- sation among the sifters to justify her in such a mode of speech. Grace had not a moment to put two and two togetlier, so that she might realize the meaning of what her mother had said; but nevertheless she felt at the moment that the man, coming as he hnd done now, Iiad come with iiU commendable s))eed. How fool- ish had she been with her wretched impatience ! There he was certainly, tying his horse up to the railing. "Mamma, what am I to say to liim ?" "Nay, dear; he is your own friend — of your own making. You must sa\' what you think fit." " You arc not going?" "I think we liad better, dear." Then she went, and Jane with her, and Jane opened the door for Major Grantly. Mr. Crawley iiimself was away, at Hoggle End, and did not return till after Major Grantly liad left the parsonage. Jane, as she greeted the grand gentleman, whom she had seen and no more tlian seen, hardly knew what to say to him. ^Vilen, after a min- ute's hesitation, she told him that Grace was in there — pointing to the sitting-room door, she felt that she had been very awkward. Henry Grantly, however, did not, I think, feel her awkwardness, being conscious of some small dif- ficulties of his own. When, however, he found that Grace was alone, the task before him at once lost half its difficulties. " Grace," he said, " am I right to come to you now ?" " I do not know," she said. " I can not tell." " Dearest Grace, there is no reason on earth now why you should not be my wife." "Is tliere not?" " I know of none — if you can love me. You saw my fatlier ?" "Yes, I saw him." "And you heard what he said?" "I hardly remember what he said; but he kissed me, and I thouglit he was very kind." What little attempt Henry Grantly tlicn made, thinking that he could not do better than follow closely the examj)le of so excellent a father, need not be explained witii minuteness. But I tiiink that his first eilbrt was not successful. Grace was embarrassed and retreated, and it was not till she had been compelled to give a direct an- swer to a direct question that she submitted to allow his arm round her waist. But when she had answered tliat question she was almost more iiumble tlian becomes a maiden who has just been wooed and won. A maiden who has been wooed and won generally tbinks that it is she who has conquered, and chooses to be triumph- ant accordmgly. But Grace was even mean enough to thank her lover. "I do not know why you should be so good to me," she said. "Because I love you," said he, "better than all the world." "But why should you be so good to me as that? Why should you love me? I am such a poor thing for a man like you to love." " I have had the wit to see that yoii are not a poor thing, Grace; and it is thus that I have earned my treasure. Some girls are poor things and some are rich treasures." " If love can make me a treasure I will be your treasure. And if love can make me rich I will be rich for you." After that I think he had no difficulty in following in his father's footsteps. After a while Mrs. Crawley came in, and tlicre was mucli pleasant talking among them, while Henry Grantly sat happily ^ith his k^ve, as though waiting fur Mr. Crawley's return. But though he was there nearly all the morning Mr. Crawley did not return. " I think he likes the brickmakers better than any body in all the world, except ourselves," said Grace. " I don't know how he will manage to get on without his friends." Before Grace had said this Major Grantly had told all his story, and had produced a letter from his father, addressed to Mr. Craw- ley, of which the reader shall have a copy, al- though at this time the letter had not been open- ed. The letter was as follows : "Plcmsteat) Reotoey, — Mav, ISO-. "My dear Sir, — You will no doubt have heard that Mr. Harding, the vicar of St. Ewold's, who was the fothcr of my wife and of Mrs. Ara- bin, has been taken from us. The loss to us of so excellent and so dear a man has been very great. I iiave conferred with my friend the Dean of Barchester as to a new nomination, and I venture to request your acceptance of the pre- ferment, if it should suit you to move from Hog- glestock to St. Ewold's. It may be as well tliat I should state plainly my reasons for making this oft'er to a gentleman with whom I am not personally acquainted. Mr. Harding, on his death-bed, himself suggested it. moved thereto by what he had heard of the cruel and unde- 356 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. served persecution to which you have lately hcen subjected ; as also — on wliicii point lie was very urgent in what he said — by tlic cliaracter wliicli you bear in the diocese for zeal and piety. I may also add, that the close connection -which, as I understand, is likely to take place between vour family and mine has been an additional reason for my takinfj this step, and the loufjj friendsliip whicli has existed between yon and mv wife's brother-in-law^, the Dean uf 13arches- ter, is a third. St. Ewold's is worth £^')0 per annum, be- sides the house, which is siiniciently commodious fly. "St. Ewold's isn't the best house in the for a moderate family. The jtopulation is alwut twelve hundred, of which more than a half con- sists of persons dwelling in an outskirt of the city — for tiie ]iarish runs almost into Barchestcr. "I shall be <;lad to have yf)iir reply witli as little delay as may suit your convenience, and in the event of your accepting the ot^er — which I sincerely trust you may be enabled to do — I shall hope to have an early opportunity of seeing you with reference to your institution to the parish. "Allow me also to say to you and to Mrs. Crawley that, if we have been correctly informed as to that other event to wliich I have alluded, we both hope that we may have an early opportunity of making ourselves personally acquainted witli the parents of a young lady who is to be so dear to us. As I have met your daughter, I may pcrhajis be allowed to send her my kindest love. If, as my daughter-in-law, she comes up to the impression which she gave me at our first meet- ing, I, at any rate, shall be satisfied. "I have tlie honor to be, my dear Sir, "Your most faithful servant, " TlIEOrillLUS GlJANTLY." Tills letter the arclideacon had show^n to his wif'!, by whom it had not been very warmly ap- proved. Nothing, Mrs. Grantiy had said, could be prettier than what tlie archdeacon had said about Grace. Mrs. Crawley, no doubt, would be satisfied with that. But Mr. Crawley was such a strange man! "lie will be stranger than I take him to be if he does not accept St. Ewold's," said the archdeacon. " But in offer- ing it," said Mrs. Grantiy, "you have not said a word of your own high opinion of his merits." "I have not a very high opinion of them," said the archdeacon. " Your father had, and I have said so. And as I have the most profound re- spect for your father's opinion in such a matter I have permitted that to overcome my own hesi- tation." This was pretty from the husband to the wife as it regarded her fatlier, wlio had now gone from them ; and, therefore, Mrs. Grantiy accepted it without further argument. The reader may probably feel assured tliat the arcli- deacon had never, during their joint lives, acted in any church matter upon the advice given to him by Mr. Harding ; and it was probably the case also that the living would have been offei-- i tience of my horse has been surprising." Then ed to Mr. Crawley if nothing had been said by I Grace walked out with him to tlie gate, and ])ut Mr. Harding on the subject; but it did not be- I her hand njion his bridle as he mounted, and come Mrs. Grantiy even to think of all this. The archdeacon, having made his gracious speech about her father, was not again asked to alter his letter. "I sujipose he will accept if," said Mrs. Grantiy. "I should think that he proba- bly may," said the arclideacon. So Grace, knowing what was the purport of tlie letter, sat with it between her fingers, while her lover sat beside her, full of various plans for the future. This was his first lover's ])reseiit to her — and what a jiresent it was ! Comfort, and happiness, and a pleasant liome for all her fami- world," said the major, "because it is old, and what I call j)icecmeal ; but it is very pretty, and certainly nice." "That is just the sort of parsonage that I dream about," said Jane. "And tlie garden is pleasant with old trees," said the major. "I always dream about old trees," said Jane, "only I'm afraid I'm too old myself to be let to climb up them now." Mrs. Crawley said very little, but sat by with her eyes full of tears. Was it possible that, at last, before the world had closed upon her, she was to enjoy something again of the comforts which siic had known in her early years, and to be again surrounded by those decencies of life which of late had been almost banished from her home by povert}' ! Tlieir various plans for the future — for the immediate future — were very startling. Grace was to go over at once to riumstead, whither Edith had been already transferred from Cosby Lotlge. That was all very well ; there was no- thing very startling or impracticable in that. The Framley ladies, having none of those doubts as to what was coming which had for a wliile peri)lexcd Grace herself, had taken little lilierties with her wardrobe, which enabled such a visit to be made without overwhelming difii- culties. But tlie major was equally eager — or at any rate equally iinjierious — in his requisi- tion for a visit fiom Mr. and Mrs. Crawley themselves to Plumstead rectory. ]\Irs. Craw- ley did not dare to put forward the plain un- adorned reasons against it, as Mr. Crawley had done when discussing the subject of a visit to the deanery. Nor could she quite venture to explain that she feared tliat the archdeacon and her husband Avotild hardly mix well together in society. With whom, indeed, was it ]iossible that her husband sliould mix well after his long and hardly-tried seclusion? She could only plead that both her husband and herself were so little used to going out that she feared — she feared — she feared she knew not what. " We'll get over all that," said the major, almost con- temptuously. " It is only the first plunge that is disagreeable." Perhaps the major did not know how very disagreeable a first ])lunge may be! At two o'clock Henry Grantiy got up to go. " I should very much like to have seen him, liut I fear I can not wait longer. As it is, the pa- THE LAST CIIKONICLE OF BARSET. 357 thought how wonderful was the jiower of For- tune that the goddess sliould liave sent so gal- Lmt a gentleman to he her lord and her lover. " I declare I don't quite believe it even yet," slic said in tlie letter which she wrote to Lily Dale that night. It was tour before Mr. Crawley returned to his liouse, and then he was very weary. Tlicre were many sick in these days at Iloggle End, and he had gone from cottage to cottage througli tlie day. Giles Darvell was ahnost unable to work from rlieumatism, but still was of opinion that doggedness might carry him on. "It's been a deal o' service to you. Muster Crawley," he said. " "We hears about it all. If you hadn't a been dogged, where'd you a been now ?" With Giles Darvell and others he had remained all the day, and now he came home weary and beaten. "You'll tell him first," Grace had said, "and then I'll give him the letter." The wife was the first to tell him of the good fortune that was coming. He flung himself into the old chair as soon as he entered, and asked for some bread and tea. "Jane has already gone for it, dear," said his wife. "We have had a visitor here, Josiah." "A visitor — what visitor?" " Grace's own friend — Henry Grantly." "Grace, come here, that I may kiss you and bless you," he said, very solemnly. " It would seem that the world is going to be very good to you." "Papa, you must read this letter first." " Before I kiss my own darling ?" Then she knelt at his feet. "I see," he said, taking the letter ; " it is from your lover's father. Perad- venture he signifies his consent, wliich would be surely needful before such a marriage would be seemly." " It isn't about me, papa, at all." " Not iibout you ? If so, that would be most nnpromising. But, in any case, you are my best darling." Then he kissed her and blessed her, and slowly opened the letter. His wife had now come close to him, and was standing over him, touching him, so that she also could read the archdeacon's letter. Grace, who was still in front of him, could see the working of his face as he read it ; but even she could not tell whether he was gratified, or oftended, or dis- mayed. When he had got as far as the first offer of the presentation he ceased reading for a while, and looked round about the room as though lost in thought. "Let me see wliat further he writes to me," he then said ; and aft- er that he continued the letter slowly to the end. "Nay, my child, you Mere in error in saying that he wrote not about you. 'Tis in writing of you he has put some real heart into his words. He writes as though his home would be welcome to you." "And does he not make St. Ewold's welcome to j'ou, papa?" "He makes me welcome to accept it — if I may use the word after the ordinary and some- what faulty parlance of mankind." "And you will accept it, of course?" " I know not that, my dear. The acceptance of a cure of souls is a thing not to be decided on in a moment — as is the color of a garment or the shape of a toy. Nor wouhl I condescend to take this thing from the archdeacon's hands if I thouglit tluit lie bestowed it simply that the fatlicr of his daughter-in-law might no longer be accounted poor." "Does he say that, papa?" " He gives it as a collateral reason, basing his offer first on the kindly expressed judgment of one who is now no more. Then he refers to the friendship of the dean. If he believed that the judgment of his late father-in-law in so weighty a matter were the best to be relied upon of all that were at his command, then he would have done well to trust to it. But in such case he should have bolstered up a good ground for ac- tion with no collateral supports which are weak — and worse than weak. However, it shall have my best consideration, whereunto I hope that wisdom will be given me where only such wis- dom can be had." "Josiah," said his wife to him when they were alone, "you will not refuse it?" "Not willingly — not if it may be accepted. Alas! you need not urge me, when the tempta- tion is so strong!" CHAPTER LXXXIII. MR. CKAWLEY IS CONQUERED. It was more than a week before the archdea- con received a reply from Mr. Crawley, during which time the dean had been over at Hoggle- stock more than once, as had also Mrs. Arabin and Lady Lufton the younger — and there had been letters written without end, and the arch- deacon had been nearly beside himself. "A man wlio pretends to conscientious scruples of that kind is not fit to have a parish," he had said to his wife. His wife understood what he meant, and I trust that the reader may also un- derstand it. In the ordinary cutting of blocks a very fine razor is not an appropriate instru- ment. The archdeacon, moreover, loved the temporalities of the Ciiurch as temporalities. The Church was beautiful to him because one man by interest might have a thousand a year, while another man equally good, but without interest, coukl only have a hundred. And he liked the men who had the interest a great deal better than the men who had it not. He had been willing to admit this poor ])erpetual curate, who had so long been kept out in the cold, with- in the pleasant circle which was Avarm with ec- clesiastical good things, and the man hesitated — because of scruples, as the dean told him! "I always button up my pocket when I hear of scruples," the archdeacon said. But at last Mr. Crawley condescended to ac- cept St. Ewold's. "Reverend and dear Sir," he said in his letter. "For the personal bencv- 338 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. olence of the offer made to me in your letter of the — instant I beg to tender you my most grateful thanks ; as also for your generous kind- ness to me in telling me of the high praise be- stowed upon me by a gentleman who is now no more — wliose character I have esteemed and whose good oinnion I value. There is, mctliinks, something inexpressibly dear to me in tiie re- corded praise of the dead. For the further in- stance of tlie friendship of the Dean of Barches- ter I am also thankful. " Since the receiptof your letter I have doubt- ed much as to my fitness for the work you have pi'ojjosed to intrust to me — not from any feeling that the parish of St. Ewold's may be beyond my intellectual jiower, but because the latter circum- stances of my life have been of a nature so strange and perplexing that they have left me somcwliat in doubt as to my own aptitude for going about among men without giving offense and becoming a stumbling-block. " Nevcrtlieless, reverend and dear Sir, if after this confession on my part of a certain fiiulty de- meanor with which I know well that I am af- flicted, you arc still willing to put tlie parish into my hands, I will accept the charge, instigated to do so by the advice of all whom I have con- sulted on tlie subject ; and in thus accepting it I hereby pledge myself to vacate it at a month's Avarning should I be called upon by you to do so at any period within the next two years. Should I be so far successful during those twenty- four months as to have satisfied both yourself and myself, I may then perhaps venture to regard the preferment as my own in perpetuity for life. "I have the honor to be, reverend and dear Sir, "Your most humble and faithful servant, "JosiAii Crawley." * ' Pshaw !" said the archdeacon, who professed that he did not at all like the letter. "I wonder what he would say if I sent him a month's notice at next Michaelmas?" "I'm sure he would go," said Mrs. Grantly. "The more fool he," said the archdeacon. At this time Grace was at the parsonage in a seventli licaven of happiness. The archdeacon was never rougli to her, nor did he make any of his harsh remarks about her father in her pres- ence. Before her St. Ewold's was spoken of as the home tliat was to belong to the Crawleys for the next twenty years. Mrs. Grantly was A'ery loving with her, lavishing upon her pretty pres- ents and words that were jn-ettier than the pres- ents. Grace's life had hitherto been so desti- tute of those prcttinesses and softnesses which can hardly be had without money, though money alone will not purchase tiiem, that it seemed to her now that the heavens rained graciousness upon her. It was not that the archdeacon's watch, or her lover's chain, or Mrs. Grantly's locket, or the little toy from Italy which Mrs. Arabin brought to her from the treasures of the deanery filled her heart with undue exultation. It was not that she reveled in her new delights of silver and gold and shining gems : but that the silver and gold and shining gems were con- stant indications to her that things had changed, not only for her, but for her father and mother, and brother and sister. She felt now more sure than ever that she could not have enjoyed her love had she accepted her lover while the dis- grace of the accusation against her father re- mained. But now, having waited till that had passed away, every thing was a new ha])piness to her. At last it was settled that Mr. and Mrs. Craw- Icy were to come to Tlumstead — and they came. It would be too long to tell now how gradually had come about that changed state of things which made such a visit possible. Mr. Crawley had at first declared that such a thing was quite out of the question. If St. Ewold's was to de- pend upon it St. Ewold's must be given up. And I think that it would have been impossible for him to go direct from Ilogglestock to Plujn- stead. But it fell out after this wise : Mr. Harding's curate at St. Ewold's was nom- inated to Ilogglestock, and the dean urged upon his friend Crawley the expediency of giving up the house as quickly as he could do so. Gradu- ally at this time Mr. Crawley had been forced into a certain amount of intimacy with the haunts of men. He had been twice or thrice at Bar- chester, and had lunched with the dean. He had been at Framley for an hour or two, and had been forced into some communication with old Mr. Thorne, the squire of his new parish. The end of this had been that he had at last consented to transfer himself and wife and daughter to the deanery for a fortnight. He Ipd preached one farewell sermon at Iloggle- stock — not, as he told his audience, as their pas- tor, which he had ceased to be now for some two or three months — but as their old and lov- ing friend, to whom the use of his former pul- pit had been lent that he might express himself thus among them for the last time. His sermon was very short, and was preached without book or notes — but he never once paused for a word or halted in the string or rhythm of his discourse. Tlie dean was there, and declared to him after- ward that he had not given him credit for such powers of utterance. "Any man can ntter out of a full heart," Crawley had answered. "In this trumpery aff'air about myself my heart is full. If we could only have our hearts full in other matters, our utterances thereanent would receive more attention." To all of which the dean made no reply. On the day after this the Crawleys took their final departure from Ilogglestock, all the brick- makers from Hoggle End having assembled on the occasion, with a purse containing seventeen pounds seven shillings and sixpence, which they insisted on presenting to Mr. Crawley, and as to which there was a little difficulty. And at the deanery they remained for a fortnight. How Mrs. Crawley, under the guidance of Mrs. Ara- bin, had there so fiir trenched upon the revenues of St. Ewold's as to provide for her husband THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 859 and herself raiment fitting for the worldly splen- dor of Plumstead need not here be told in de- tail. Suffice to say, the laiment was fortlicom- ing, and Mr. Crawley found himself to he the perplexed possessor of a black dress coat, in ad- dition to the long frock, coming nearly to his feet, which was provided for his daily wear.' Touching this garment there had been some discussion between the dean and the new vicar. [ The dean had desired that it should be curtailed in length. The vicar had remonstrated, but still with something of the weakness of compli- ance in his eye. Then tlie dean had persisted. " Surely the price of the cloth wanted to perfect the comeliness of the garment can not be much," said the vicar, almost woefully. After that the dean relented, and the comeliness of the coat was made perfect. The new black long frock I think Mr. Crawley liked ; but the dress coat, with the suit complete, perplexed him sorely. With his new coats, and sometliing, also, of new mannei-s, he and his wife went over to Plumstead, leaving Jane at the deanery with Mrs. Arabin. The dean also went to Plum- stead. They arrived there not much before dinner, and as Grace was there before them the first moments were not so bad. Before Mr. Crawley had had time to feel himself lost in the drawing-room he was summoned away to pre- pare himself for dinner — for dinner, and for the coat, which at the deanery he had been allowed to leave unworn. " I would with all my heart that I might retire to rest," he said to his wife when the ceremony had been perfected. " Do not say so. Go down and take your place with them, and sj)eak your mind with them, as you so well know how. Who among them can do it so well?" " I have been told," said Mr. Crawley, " that you shall take a cock which is lord of the farm- yard — the cock of all that walk — and when you have daubed his feathers with mud he shall be thrashed b)' every dunghill coward. I say not that I was ever the cock of the walk, but I know that they have daubed my feathers." Then he went down among the other poultry into the farm-yard. At dinner he was very silent, answering, however, wiih a sort of graceful stateliness any word that Mrs. Grantly addressed to him. Mr. Thorne, from UUathorne, was there also to meet his new vicar, as was also Mr. Thome's very old sister, JNliss Monica Thorne. And Lady Anne Grantly was there — she having come with the expressed intention that the wives of the two brothers should know each other, but with a warmer desire, I think, of seeing Sir. Crawley, of whom the clerical world had been talking much since some notice of the accusation against him had becothe general. There were, therefore, ten or twelve at the dinner-table, and Mr. Crawley had not made one at such a board certainly since his marriage. All wentfairlysmooth with liimtill the ladies left the room ; for though Lady Anne, who sat at his left hand, had perplexed him somewhat with clerical questions, he had found that he was not called upon for much more than mono- syllabic responses. But in his heart he feared the archdeacon, and he felt that when the ladies were gone the archdeacon would not leave him alone in his silence. As soon as the door was closed the first sub- ject mooted was that of the Plumstead fox which had been so basely murdered on Mr. Thome's ground. Mr. Thome had confessed the inifjui- ty, had dismissed the murderous keeper, and all was serene. But the greater on that account was the feasibility of discussing the question, and the archdeacon had a good deal to say about it. Then Mr. Thorne turned to the new vicar, and asked him whether foxes abounded in Iloggle- stock. Had he been asked as to tlie rats or the moles he would have known more about it. "Indeed, Sir, I know not whether or no there be any foxes in the parish of Hogglestock. I do not remember me that I ever saw one. It is an animal whose habits I have not watched." "There is an earth at Hoggle Bushes," said the major; "and I never knew it without a litter." "I think I know the domestic whereabouts of every fox in Plumstead," said the archdeacon, with an ill-natured intention of astonishing Mr. Crawley. "Of foxes with two legs our friend is speak- ing, without doubt,"said the vicarof St. Ewold's, with an attempt at grim pleasantry. " Of them we have none at Plumstead. No — I was speaking of the dear old fellow with the brush. Pass the bottle, Mr. Crawley. AVon't you fill your glass ?" Mr. Crawley passed the bottle, but would not fill his glass. Then the dean, looking up slily, saw the vexation written in the archdeacon's face. The parson whom the archdeacon feared most of all parsons was the parson who wouldn't fill his glass. Then the subject was changed. "I'm told that the bishop has at last made his reappearance on his throne," said the archdeacon. "He was in the cathedral last Sunday," said the dean. "Does he ever mean to preach again ?" "He never did preach very often," said the dean. "A great deal too often, from all that people say, " said the archdeacon. "I never heard him myself, and never shall, I dare say. You have heard him, Mr. Crawley?" "I have never had that good fortune, Mr. Archdeacon. But living as I shall now do, so near to the city, I may perhaps be enabled to attend the cathedral service on some holy-day of the Church which may not require prayers in my own rural parish. I think that the clei'- gy of the diocese should be acquainted with the opinions, and with the voice, and with the very manner and words of their bishop. As things are now done this is not possible. I could wish that there were occasions on which a bishop might assemhle his clergy and preach to them sermons adapted to their use." " What do you call a bishop's charge, then ?" 300 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. "It is usually in the primed form that I have received it," said INIr. Crawley. "I think wc have quite enough of that kind of tliinfj," said the archdeacon. "He is a man whose conversation is not j)leasin}? to nic," Jlr. Crawley said to his wife that nifiht. '■ Do not judge of him too (juickly, Josiah," ills wife said. "There is so much of good in him! He is kind, and generous, and I think all'ectionate.'' '■IJut he is of the earth, earthy. When you and tlio other ladies had retired the conversa- tion at first foil on the habits and value of — foxes. I have been informed that in these parts the fox is greatly prized, as without a fox to run before the dogs that scampering over the country which is called hunting, and which delights by the quickness and perhaps by the peril of the exercise, is not relished by the riders. Of the wisdom or taste herein displayed by the hunters of the day I say nothing. But it seemed to me tliat in talking of foxes Dr. Grantly was master of his subject. Thence the topic glided to the duties of a bishop and to questions of preaching, as to which Dr. Grantly was not slow in offer- ing his opinion. But I thought that I would rather have heard him talk about the foxes for a week together." She said nothing more to him, knowing well how useless it was to attempt to turn him by any argument. To her thinking the kindness of the archdeacon to them person- ally demanded some indulgence in the expres- sion, and even in the formation, of an ojiinion respecting his clerical peculiarities. On the next day, however, iMr. Crawley, hav- ing been summoned by the archdeacon into the library for a little private conversation, found that he got on better with him. How tlie areh- duiiion conquered him may perhaps be best de- srril) • 1 by a further narration of what Mr. Craw- lev said to his wife. "I told him that in regard to inDiicy-matters, as he called them, I had no- thing to say. I only trusted that his son was aw. lie that my daugliter had no money, and never would have an}'. 'My dear Crawle}',' the archdeacon said — for of late there seems to have grown up in the world a habit of greater familiarity than that which I think did prevail when last I moved much among men—' my dear Crawley, I have enough for both.' 'I would we stood on more equal grounds,' I said. Then, as he answered me, he rose from his chair. 'We stand,' said he, 'on the only perfect level on which such men can meet each other. We are both gentlemen.' ' Sir,' I said, rising also, ' from the bottom of my heart I agree with you. I could not have spoken such words ; but com- ing from you who are rich to me who am poor, they are honorable to the one and comfortable to the other.' " "And after that?" "He took down from the shelves a volume of sermons which his father publisiied many years ago, and presented it to me. I have it now under my arm. It hath the old bishop's man- 1 uscript notes, which I will study carefully," And thus the archdeacon bad hit his bird on both wings. CHAPTER LXXXIV. CONCLUSION. It now only remains for mc to gather togeth- er a few loose strings, and tie them together in a knot, so that my work may not become un- twisted. Early in July Henry Grantly and Grace Crawley were married in the parish church of riumstead — a great improjiriety, as to which neither Archdeacon Grantly nor Mr. Crawley could be got to assent for a long time, but wliicli was at last carried, not simply by a union of Mrs. Grantly and Mrs. Crawley, nor even by the as- sistance of Mrs. Arabin, but by the strong inter- vention of old Lady Lufton herself. " Of course Miss Crawley ought to be married from St. Ew- old's vicarage ; but 'when the furniture has only half been got in, how is it possible?" When Lady Lufton thus spoke the archdeacon gave way, and Mr. Crawley hadn't a leg to stand upon. Henry Grantly had not an opinion upon the mat- ter. He told his father that he expected that they would marry him among them, and that that would be enough for him. As for Grace, nobody even thought of asking her ; and I doubt whether she would have heard any thing about the contest had not some tidings of it reached her from her lover. Married they were at Plum- stead — and tlie breakfast was given with all that luxuriance of plenty which was so dear to the archdeacon's mind. Mr. Crawley was the of- ficiating priest. With his hands dropping be- fore him, folded humbly, he told the archdeacon — when that Plumstead question had been finally settled in opposition to his wishes — that he would fain himself perform the ceremony by which his dearest daughter would be bound to-her marriage duties. "And who else should ?" said the arch- deacon. Mr. Crawley muttered that he had not known how far his reverend brother might have been willing to waive his rights. But the arch- deacon, who was in high good-humor — having just bestowed a little pony carriage on his new daughter-in-law — only laughed at him ; and, if the rumor which was handed about the families be true, the archdeacon, before the interview was over, had poked Mr. Crawley in the ribs. Mr. Crawley married them ; but the archdeacon assisted, and the dean gave away the bride. The Rev. diaries Grantly was there also; and as there was, as a matter of course, a cloud of curates floating in the distance, Henry Grantly was perhaps to be excused for declaring to his wife, when the pair had escaped, that surely no coujjle had ever been so tightly buckled since marriage had first become a Church ceremony. Soon after that Mr. and Mrs. Crawley be- came quiet at St. Ewold's, and, as I think, con- tented. Iler happiness began very quickl}'. Though she had been greatly broken by her trou- bles, the first si<;ht she had of her husband in THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 361 his new long frock-coat went far to restore her, and while he was declaring himself to be a cock so daubed with mud as to be incapable of crow- ing, she was congratulating herself on seeing her husband once more clothed as became his position. And they were lucky, too, as regard- ed the squire's house ; for Mr. Thornc was old, and quiet, and old-tashioned ; and Miss Tliornc was older, and thougli she was not exactly quiet, she was very old-fashioned indeed. So that there grew to be a i)leasant friendship between IMiss Thorne and Mrs. Crawley. John Eames, when last I heard of him, was still a bachelor, and, as I think, likely to remain so. At last he had utterly thrown over Sir Raffle Buffle, declaring to his friends that the special duties of private secretaryship were not exactly to his taste. "You get so sick at the thirteenth ])rivate note," he said, "that you find yourself unable to carry on the humbug any farther." But he did not leave his office. "I'm the head of a room, you know," he told Lady Julia De Guest; " and there's nothing to trou- ble me — and a fellow, you know, ought to have something to do." Lady Julia told him, with a great deal of energy, that she would never for- give him if he gave up his office. After that eventful night when he escaped ignominiously from the house of Lady Demolines under the pi-otection of a policeman's lantern he did hear more than once from l'(jrci:ester Terrace, and from allies employed by the enemy who was there resident. "My cousin, the sergeant," proved to be a myth. Johnny found out all about that Sergeant Runter, who was distantly connected, indeed, with the late husband of Lady Demolines, but had always persistently declined to have any intercourse wliatever with her ladyship. For the sergeant was a rising man, and Lady Demolines was not exactly pro- gressing in the world. Johnny heard nothing from the sergeant ; but from Madalina he got letter after letter. In the first she asked him not to think too much of the little joke that had occurred. In her second she described the ve- hemence of her love. In her third the bitter- ness of her wrath. Iler fourth she simply in- vited him to come and dine in Porchester Ter- race. Her fifth was the outpouring of injured innocence. And then came lettei's from an at- torney. Johnny answered not a word to any of them, and gradually the letters were discon- tinued. Within six months of the receipt of the last he was delighted by reading among the marriages in the newsjiapers a notice that Peter Bangles, Esq., of the firm of Burton and Ban- gles, wine merchants, of Hook Court, had been united to Madalina, daughter of the late Sir Confucius Demolines, at the church of Peter the IMartyr. "Most appropriate," said Johnny, as he read the notice to Conway Dalrymple, who was then back from his wedding tour; "for most assuredly there will be now another Peter the Martyr." " I'm not so sure of that," said Conway, who had heard something of JNIr. Peter Bangles. "There are men who have strong wills of their own, and strong hands of their own." "Poor Madalina!" said Johnny. "If he does beat her, I ho]ie he will do it tenderly. It may be that a little of it will suit her fevered temperament." Before the summer was over Conway Dalrym- ))le had been married to Clara Van Siever, and by a singular arrangement of circumstances had married her with the full approval of old Mrs. Van. Mv. IMussclboro — whose name I hojic has not been altogether forgotten, though the part played by him has been subordinate — had oj>posed Dalrymple in the efforts made by the artist to get something out of Broughton's es- tate for the benefit of the widow. From circum- stances of which Dalrymple learned the particu- lars with the aid of an attorney, it seemed to him that certain facts were willfully kept in the dark by JMusselboro, and he went wjth his com- plaint to Mrs. Van Siever, declaring that he would bring the whole affair into court unless all the workings of the firm were made clear to him. Mi's. Van was very insolent to liim, and even turned him out of the house. But never- theless she did not allow Mr. Musselboro to es- cape. Whoever was to be left in the dark she did not wish to be there herself; and it began to dawn upon her that her dear INIusselboro was deceiving her. Then she sent for Dalrymple, and, without a word of apology for her former conduct, put him upon the right track. As he was pushing his inquiries, and working heaven and earth for the unfortunate widow — as to whom he swore daily that when this matter was settled he would never see her again, so terrible was she to him with her mock aflection, and pre- tended hysterics, and false moralities — he was told one day that she had gone off with Mr. Musselboro ! Mr. Musselboro, finding that this was the surest plan of obtaining for himself the little business in Hook Court, married the wid- ow of his late partner, and is at this moment probably carrying on a lawsuit with Mrs. Van. For the lawsuit Conway Dalrymple cared no- thing. When the quarrel had become hot be- tween Mrs. Van and her late myrmidon Clara fell into Conway's hands without opposition ; and, let the lawsuit go as it may, there will be enough left of Mrs. Van's money to make the house of Mr. and Mrs. Conway Dalrymple very comfortable. The picture of Jael and Sisera was stitched up without any difficulty, and I dare say most of my readers will remember it hanging on the walls of the exhibition. Before I take my leave of the diocese of Bar- chester forever, which I purpose to do in the succeeding paragraph, I desire to be allowed to say one word of apology for myself, in answer to those who have accused me — always witliout bitterness, and gener.illy with tenderness — of having forgotten, in writing of clergymen, the first and most prominent characteristic of the ordinary English clergyman's life. I have de- scribed many clergymen, they say, but have spoken of them all as though their professional 3G2 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. duties, their liigh calling, their dally workings for the good of those around them, were matters of no moment, cither to me, or, in my opinion, to themselves. I would ])lead, in answer to tliis, that my object has been to jiaint tlie social and not the jirofessional lives of clergymen ; and that I have been led to do so, firstly, by a feel- ing that as no men alVect more strongly, by their own character, the society of those around than do country clergymen, so, therefore, their social habits have been worth the labor necessary for ])ainting them ; and, secondly, by a feeling that though I, as a novelist, may feel myself entitled to write of clergymen out of tlicir jiulpits, as I may also write of lawyers and doctors, I liavc no such liberty to write of them in their pul])its. When I have done so, if I have done so, I have so far transgressed. There are those who have told me that I have made all my clergymen bad and none good. I must venture to hint to such judges that they have taught their eyes to love a coloring higher than nature justifies. We are, most of ns, ajit to love Ivaphael's ^Lidonnas bet- ter than Rembrandt's matrons. But, though we do so, we know that Rembrandt's matrons existed ; but we have a strong belief that no such woman as Ra])hael painted ever did exist. In that he painted, as he may be surmised to have done, for pious ])urposes — at least for Church piii'poses — Raphael was justified; but had he jiainted so for family portraiture he would have been false. Had I written an epic about clergy- men I would have taken St. Paul for my mod- el ; but describing, as I have endeavored to do, such clergymen as I sec around me, I could not venture to be transcendental. For mvsclf I can only say that I shall always be happy to sit, when allowed to do so, at the table of Archdeacon Grantly, to walk through the High Street of Barchcster arm in arm with INIr. Robarts of Framley, and to stand alone and shed a tear beneath the modest black stone in the north transept of the cathedral on which is inscribed the name of Septimus Harding. And now, if the reader will allow me to seize him atlectionately by the arm, we will together take our last farewell of Barset and of the tow- ers of Barchcster. I may not venture to say to him that, in this country, he and I together have wandered often through the country lanes, and have ridden together over the too-well wood- ed fields, or have stood together in the cathedral nave listening to the peals of tlie organ, or have together sat at good men's tables, or have con- fronted together the angry pride of men who were not good. I may not boast that any be- side myself have so realized the place, and tiic people, and the facts, as to make such reminis- cences possible as those which I should attempt to evoke by an appeal to perfect fellowship. But to me Barset has been a real county, and its city a real city, and the spires and towers have been before my eyes, and the voices of the peojde are known to my ears, and the pavement of the city ways are familiar to my footsteps. To them all I now say farewell. That I have been induced to wander among them too long by my love of old friendships, and by the sweetness of old faces, is a fiiult for which I may perhaps be more read- ily forgiven when I repeat, with some solemnity of assurance, the promise made in my title, that this shall be the lust chronicle of Barset. THE END. JUN E BOOK- LIST. 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Mr. Nordhoff's first volume obtained an immediate aud extraordinary success ; and the present, which is a companion to it— or, rather, its sequel— completes the tour of the Pacific coast, including the Sandwich Islands', has the same merits, and, like the first, is most careful detail, what the traveler ought to see, i very fully and finely illustrated." Harper or' Brothers' List of New Books. St'hweiiifiirtli's Heart of Africa. The Heart of Africa ; or, Three Years' Travels and Adventures in the Unexplored Regions of the Centre of Africa. From iS6S to 1S71. By Dr. Georg SChweinfurth, Trans- lated by Elle.v E. Frewer. With an Introduction by Winwood Reade. Illustrated by about 130 Woodcuts from Drawings made by the Author, and with Two Maps. 2 vols. 8vo, Cloth, $S 00. The three great features of Schweiiifurth's book are, fli^t, his trreat coutribiitioiis to the hydrography of Central Africa; next, his rediscovery of the Pygmies — always thought fabulous when inontioncd in the l)agps of Herodotus and the old iioets; and tliirdly, the dreadful but useful light wliith he throws on the slave-hunting system and the work begun for the Egyptian government by Sir Samuel Baker. In re- gard to the question of the Nile, it may be briefly stated that Sclnvcinfurth crossed the western water- shed of tliat river, and having arrived where the Lualaba must come — if it come northward at all, and not into the Nyanza — he found the Welle, the Keebaly, the Gadda, and all the streams of the land flowing westward, and probably to the Shary. Tliis does not "settle the Lualaba," but it proves the exist- ence of a 6ei)arate river system where Livingstone and Stanley thought there might be found the con- tinuous cliannel of the Bahr-el-Ghazal. As to the Pygmies, the German discovered them iu a little peo- ple, averaging fi)ur feet seven inches iu height, living south of King Munza's territory. Tlicy are called the Akka. Besides seeing a great company of the dimin- tuive savages, the traveler actually obtained one, call- ed Tikkitikki, and brought him in good health as far as Egypt, where he sickened and died from over- sumptuous food. The Akka arc a separate nation —great hunters and fighters, like the Bushmen of South Africa, whom they greatly resemble ; and there is little doubt that they represent the aborig- inal human race of the continent, while they seem iu feature and habit to carry humanity some degrees closer to the " missing link." The Monbuttos and the Iv iam-niaras, among whom the doctor lived for a long time, are confirmed cannibals ; and one of the most curious points of the description is to show that this unpleasant foible is not incompatible with marked advance iu social arts and manners. For instance, these mau-eaters, the Niam-niams, are affectionate husbands aud wives, and will surrender the most cherished possession to buy back one of their house- hold, if captured by the slave-hunters or by a hostile tribe. The Pygmies, therefore, exist, as Herodotus said, though they are rather too large fcr the cranes to engage. Lastly, the dreadful pictures of war, rapine, famine, and speechless misery, the horrible conse- quences of the slave-trade, must awaken the con- science of Europe, which can not rest until measures are taken to restrain these wicked men-hunters. Al- together, the journey which we have cited is a most memorable contribution to the work of African dis- coverj-, and proves more than ever what a rich and splendid land it is which awaits the life aud light of knowledge around those magnificent sweet-water seas of the " Heart of Africa."— Lo»(fon TdegrajtJi. All persons who are really interested in Africa — and in the present day their name is legion — should contrive to devote themselves to an attentive perusal of "The Heart of Africa."— /-ifcrrti-i/ World, Loudon. One of the remarkable features of this Interesting book is the immense patience and pluck displayed by its author. • « * But in thebookitsclf we And indirect evidence of a multifarious industry and energy such as few travelers have before exhibited. * * * it may be imagined from the multifarious interests of Dr. Schweinfurth himself how much interesting matter lie has collected, and to how many different tastes hia book will appeal.— />aii Mall GazctU; London. Dr. Schweinfurth's work is a most valuable con- tribution to our knowledge of Inner Africa. We have here the matured results of an accomplished man of science, who combines all the qualities of a good trav- eler with the power of conveying to others the rich stores of information he has collected and classilied iu a very agreeable tunn.— Ocean Ili/jkioays, London. Dr. Schweinfurth has unquestionably taken rank as a leading African explorer, and the present work more than justifies the position assigned him by sci- entific men. Few greater books of travel have been written in our day. * * * Dr. Schweinfurth has also much to say on the flora, fauna, aud physical aspects of the countries through which he passed ; and euliveus his tale by scores of drawings, some of which arc re- markably lifelike aud artistic. We may add that, al- though he never obtrudes himself, we come to know him by a thousand unconscious touches ; and we do not envy those who, when they close the book, have not learned to admire his bright, genial nature, min- gled firmness and courtesy, a'ud noble devotion to great aims. — Globe, Loudon. Dr. Schweinfurth has arrived fresh from the can- nibals of Moubuttoo with human skulls and bones al- most warm from the saucepaus of the savages. He cau eveu describe the sauces which these gourmands use iu their dainty dishes. Such men as Dr. Schwein- furth will always have the regard aud esteem of all true friends of science ; he belongs to the same metal that has already formed a wedge which will force open the secrets of Inner Africa. — Xature, London. Dr. Schweinfurth adds to the accuracy aud perspicac- ity of the trained scientific mind a charming style, admirably rendered by the translator, which carries one along through the record of his observations and of the main purpose of his expedition — animated by many-sided intelligence, and information by whose extent he only is unimpressed, and guided by true German thoroughness. The man interests us as much as the facts, by his self-abnegation, his quiet taking for granted of feats upon which most travelers would have reasonably dilated, his deliberate manner of do- ing extraordinary things, his calmness iu danger, his patience in suffering, aud the stores of laboriously ac- quired information on all sorts of collateral subjects on which he draws when difliculties arise and opin- ions differ. No impatience, no anxiety to push on aud get over intervening space disturbs this equani- mous traveler, who is perpetually observing every thini;.— Spectator, London. A Fast Life on the Modem Highway. A Fast Life on the Modern Highway ; being a Glance into the Railroad World from a New Point of View. By Joseph Taylor. Illustrated. i2mo, Cloth, $1 50; Paper, $1 00. man living. He has written a lively, entertaining book, full of anecdote and sketches of character, aud illustrated with many humorous engravings." "Mr. Joseph Taylor has been for many years con- nected with railroads, in various capacities, and prob- ably knows more about life on the rail than any other Harper 6f Brothers' List of New Books. The Christian Pastor. By Dr. Tyng. The Office and Duty of a Christian Pastor. By Stephen II. Tyng, D.D., Rector of St. George's Church in the City of New Yoriv. Tublished at the request of the Students and Faculty of the School of Theology in the Boston University. i2mo, Cloth, §i 25. Direct, plain, and practical, and illustrated all tliroiigh by the wealtli of experience and wisdom gained in a busy pastorate extending over fifty years. — Boston Daily Advertiser. More than fifty years of active ministry have given this distinguished rector ample opportunity for wide observation and experience in his calling, and what he Bays here must necessarily be valuable. The volume would be an acceptable addition to every minister's library. It treats of p.astoral duty rather than pastor- al theology — which gives a practical turn — the author dividing his subject into the heads of a pastor's objects, qualifications, instruments, agencies, power, and attainments.— /irooiZyn Union. It is earnest in thought and unpretending in style. —Brooklyn Eagle. It embodies the results of his observation and ex- perience in an active ministry extending over a pe- Trollope's Lady Anna. riod of more than half a century, and deals with the Christian pastor in his object, his qualifications, his instruments, his agencies, his power, and his attain- ments, simpl}', practically, and with logical exactness. The result is a description of the minister of the Gos- pel in his two-fold and inseparable offices of preacher and pastor both forcible and complete. Illustrations from actual occurrences are freely given to enforce the truths exhibited. The words of direction, warning, and encouragement are charged with eloquence, and with an earnestness and fervor born of a high and just conception of the place and power of the Chris- tian ministry. It is well that the venerable author has consented to publish it. The topics embraced in it arc of paramount importance. Never was there a greater amount of error prevalent regarding them. Rarely have they been discussed so lucidly and prac- ticaUy.— Scottish- American Journal, New York City. Lady Anna. A Novel. By Anthony Trollope, Author of " The Warden," " Barchester Towers," " Phineas Finn," " Phineas Redux," " Dr. Thorne," &c., &c. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. Victor Hugo's Ninety-Three. Ninety-Three. A Novel. By Victor Hugo, Author of " Toilers of the Sea," " Les Mise'ra- bles," &C. Translated by Frank Lee Benedict, 8vo, Paper, 75 cents ; i2mo, Cloth, $i 75. Hugo is one of the great names in literature. In "Ninety-Three" we have probably the culmination of its author's career in prose fiction ; certainly we find in it all his peculiar traits, whether of plot-con- trivance, character-drawing, description, style, or moral purpose. — y. V. Times. The finest historical romance yet written by any French author. — Philadelphia Press. Reproduces with powerful effect the scenes of the Rev- olution, and is full of dramatic interest. — N. Y. World. Beautiful sayings, true and noble thoughts, inex- pressibly tender sentiments. — Pall Mall Budget, Lond. Nowhere else can there be found such graphic and startling pictures of the French Revolution. — Albany Evening Journal. Victor Hugo is a great thinker as well as a great novelist, and his fictions ought to be read, if only for the instruction and suggestion they contain. Other novelists are entertaining; he moves and convinces or provokes to opposition. He is one of the most original of all the famous writers of Europe since Goethe's time. —Springfield Bepublican. The consciousness of a pervading grandeur and power in this work that allows of its admission among the truly great dramatic novels of all languages.— Boston Post. As a picture of the Reign of Terror, and the master- Bpirits of that awful period, "Ninety-Three" unques- tionably stands among the greatest works of the im- agination. It belongs to that higher range of histor- ical fiction which, in a certain sense, is more truthful than history. The reader will rise from its perusal with a clearer conception of the men and the events of V annce terrible of the French Revolution, than if he had given years of study to the chronicles of that pe- riod. — Boston Journal. Second'Consin Sarah. The types in "Ninety-Three " are many and grand. — AthenoBiim, London. The grandeur of the description, the skillful inven- tion of situations, the striking portrayal of passion, the exquisite delineation of child life, the amazing brilliancy of the language will make this creation of Victor Hugo's take a higher rank as a literary pro- duction than even his "Notre-Dame de V axis."— Scot- tish-American Jonrnal, New York City. "Ninety-Three " will have a hundred thousand read- ers.— Boston Traveller. The storming of the castle is a grand piece of de- scriptive writing— intense in its picturesque realism, and almost overwhelming in its vividness. The sub- sequent scenes in which Gauvain appears, especially after the capture of the Marquis, are full of pathos and dignity. The final interview between him and Cimour- dain is exquisitely told, and the concluding chapters deserve to rank among the finest things that Victor Hugo has ever given to the world. An interview be- tween Robespierre, Danton, and Marat, in the early part of the book, is also a masterpiece. These three ruling spirits of the Terror are superbly drawn and magnificently individualized. They stand out mar- velously real in every distinctive peculiarity of dress, face, and mental characteristic. The livid, dirty, and snake-like Marat, the cautious, cold, and dandified Robespierre, and the huge, reckless, and daring Dan- ton were never before so grandly sketched. The word-pictures that Hugo has given of them haunt the memory as vividly as though one had gazed upon and heard the originals in the jjlood-chilling interview de- scribed. The work has been translated by Frank Lee Benedict, who has performed his task wonderfully well, preserving the style and manner of his author with remarkable ekili.— Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. Second-Cousin Sarah. A Novel. By F. W. Robinson, Author of " Little Kate Kirby,' "For Her Sake," " Poor Humanity," " Her Face was Her Fortune," " Carry's Confession,' &c., &c Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents. Harper 6- Brothers' List of New Books. WinclieH's Doctrine of Evolution. The Doctrine of Evolution : Its Data, its Trinciples, its Speculations, and its Theistic Bear- ings. By Alexander Wincheli., LL.D., Chancellor of Syracuse University, Author of "Sketches of Creation," "Geological Chart," Reports on the Geology and Physiography of Michigan, &c., &c. i2mo. Cloth, J»i oo. "In this admirable treatise Prof. Wincheli gives a succinct statement of tlie doctrine of evolution, to- gether with a clear and impartial summary of the ar- guments on both sides of the controversy. His object being merely to give a comprehensive view of the subject, ho neither attacks nor defends the doctrine; and readers who want to know what evolution means] and to make themselves acquainted with the views of the scientists who have made the doctrine a study, will tind this volume an invaluable assistant." John Wortliington's Name. By Frank Lee Benedict. John Worthington's Name. A Novel. By Frank Lee Benedict, Author of " My Daugh- ter Elinor," "Miss Van Kortland," "Miss Dorothy's Charge," &c. 8vo, Paper, %\ oo; Cloth, $1 50. Evansclical Alliance Conference, 1873. History, Essays, Orations, and Other Documents of the Sixth General Conference of the Evangelical Alliance, held in New York, October 2-12, 1S73. Edited by Rev. Philip Schaff, D.D,. and Rev. S. Iken/Eus Prime, D.D. With Portraits of Rev. Messrs. Pronier, Carrasco, and Cook, recently deceased. 8vo, Cloth, nearly Soo pages, $6 00 ; Sheep, $7 co ; Half Calf, $8 50. About one hundred men, from various parts of the world, eminent for learning, ability, and worth, hold- ing high rank in theology, phUosophy, science, and literature, men of genius, power, and fame, were care- fully selected, and invited to prepare themselves, by months and years of study, for the discussion of themes (,£ immediate and vital importance. They were chos- en, as the men of thought and purpose best fitted to produce Treatises which should exhibit, in the most thorough and exhaustive form, the Tcrin, as sustained by the Holy Scripture aild the most advanced and en- lightened human reason. The results of this concen- trated thought and labor are embodied in this volume. Earely has a volume issued from the press which contained a more varied and extensive array of talent and experience. The vital topics of Evangelical Theology, the delicate relations of Science and Religion, the ditlicult subjects of practical Benevolence, Philanthropy, and Reform are here discussed by clear, sound, and experienced minds. Pulpit orators, of renown and recognized po- sition, have contributed to this volume their best pro- ductions. It is, in short, a library of Christian thought and learning— the latest expression of master-minds upon the important topics that are now moving the Chris- tian world— and should be read by all who would be educated in the thought of the age. Bulvyer's The Parisians. The Parisians. A Novel. By Edward Bulwer, Lord Lytton, Author of " The Coming Race," "Kenelm Chillingly," "A Strange Story," "The Caxtons," " My Novel," &c., &c. With Illustrations by Sydney Hall. i2mo, Cloth, %\ 50; 8vo, Paper, ^i 00. Few things in literature are finer than the description of the social condition of France which made her so easy a prey, in spite of the bravery and the pride of her people. — Boston Saturdaij Evening Gazette. At every step we feel the charm of the author's style, of his incisive wit, of his keen, clear observation. The volume abounds in brilliant sayings, as well as pro- found ones. There are chapters and books in " The Parisians" on which the reader dwells with special pleasure, and to which every one will turn back with delight for a repernsal ; but there is none which he will feel inclined to skip in the hurry to get on with the story. — Boston Journal. The author has set before himself the task of paint- ing French society in Paris in the last days of the Sec- ond Empire, and he has accomplished this task, for- Through Fire and Water. Through Fire and Water. A Tale of City Life. By Frederick Jalbot. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 25 cents. This is a short but exciting narrative of London 1 startling incident and pathetic denonement.— A'. Y. life, embracing within its narrow limits much of I World. eigner as he was, with a skill which a born Freuchmau might well envy. As an historical fiction, " The Paris- ians" stands higher than "Rienzi" or the "Last Days of Pompeii." It is a satire in the sense that it remorse- lessly depicts the follies and crimes of the imperialist regime, and is a far abler satire than the "New Ti- mon." It is more brilliant in its epigrammatic wit than "Pelham," and smoother in the flow of its narrative than " Kenelm Chillingly." * * * It will always be treat- ed by students of literature with the respect due to a brilliant and esceptionably able novel.— )lo?W,N.Y. * * * The reader who takes it up will not willingly lay it down until the last page is reached, and he will rise from its perusal with the conviction that it is a work worthy of a place by the side of "The Cax-, tons" and "Jly Novel."— ivmmf/ Post, N. Y. Harper Cf Brothers'' List of New Books. Aimuiil Record of Science and Industry for 1873. Annual Record of Science and Industry. Prepared by Prof. Spencer F. Baird, Assistant- Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution. With the Assistance of some of the most Emi- nent Men of Science in the United States. Large i2mo, over 800 pages, Cloth, ^2 00. (Uniform with the Annual Records for 1871 and 1872.) The three Volumes sent by mail, postage prepaid, on receipt of Five Dollars. The merits of this Annual are becoming very gener- ally appreciated, and it has met with great favor iu Europe, where sucli journals as the Athcncsxim, Tlie Academy, Nature, The Quarterly Journal of Science, Meclianies' Magazine, etc., place it at the head of works intended to give a satisfiictory account of the prog- ress of science in all its branches. Unlike most other works having the same object, it is not a mere compilation of extracts from pub- lished journals. In every Instance the matter pre- sented has been thoroughly digested and re-written by nu expert, generally with additions from other sources, and often including results of original re- eearch on his own part; the authority whence it has been derived or suggested being always indicated. A list of the journals most frequently used is given at the end of the volume ; but, besides these (nearly one hundred in uumber), a much larger series, in the un- rivaled library of the Smithsonian Institution, has been at the command of the author and his assistants. The volume is prefaced by a Summary of Progress during the year, arranged under different heads, each department being prepared by some eminent special- ist. In this Summary reference is made uot only to the articles actually presented in the volume, but to such others as are necessary to give a couuccted idea of the principal topics. A work entitled The Annual 0/ Scientific Discovery was discontinued when this Annual Kccord was com- menced. The Record, therefore, although entirely independent of its predecessors, iu reality forms a continuation ; so that those who already possess the Annual of Scientific Discovery will do well to secure the present series. A special feature of the present Annual is its Bi- ographical Record, alphabetically arranged, of the men of science who have died duriug-^he year, at home and abroad. The value of the work is greatly increased, as a book of reference, by a thorough systematic table of contents, to which specialists can convenieutly refer for information as to any subject of study. In addition to this, an exhaustive alphabetical in- dex furnishes the meaus of ready reference to names and topics. The volume for 1S73 is much larger than either of its predecessors, occupying over 800 pages, of which 114 are devoted to the Summary. Colonel Dacre. Colonel Dacre. A Novel. By the Author of "Caste," &c. Svo, Paper, 50 cents. There is much that is attractive botli in Colonel Dacre and the simple-hearted girl whom he honors with his love. — Athenceum, Loudon. Colonel Dacre is a gentleman throughout.— PaJi Mall Gazette. The readers of "Caste" who take up this novel on the merits of "Caste" will find their expectations fully realized ; and, having once taken it up, they will not willingly lay it aside until the last leaf has been turned. The real merits of the story consist in the elevated motives which it attributes to the principal characters and in the intensity with which it describes the longings and the yearnings which arise when nat- ural instincts and affections are sacrificed to supposed duty or caprice. Colonel Dacre is a character not un- like Colonel Newcome.— .V. Y. World. Pet. A Book for Cliildren. Pet; or, Pastimes and Penalties. By H. R. 50 Illustrations. i2mo, Cloth, $1 50, Prettily writteu and sure to interest children. The illustrations are very good. — Pall Mall Gazette, Loudou. A charming little volume. — Daily Neics, London. "Pet," the dearest little heroine who ever graced a story-book. — Athcnmum, London. The book is capitally illustrated. — Examiner, Lon- don. This is one of the nicest books ever published, as pretty as a pond-lily, and quite as fragrant. Nothing finer could be imagined than such a combination of fresh pages and fair pictures ; and while children will rejoice over it— which is much better than crying for it —it is a book that can be read with pleasure even by bald and bearded boys, and by girls who have become grandmothers. — Evening Traveller, Boston. Haweis, Author of " Music and Morals." With Evidently the work of a writer who is at heart a boy yet, and gains from this fact a freshnecs and truth. — Hour, London. A delightful story for children.— SfofswiaJi. It is the relation of a series of incidents in the lives of four children, told with rare ease and naturalness of style, making a most interesting and agreeable child's book. Each one of the little peojjle iu it has a distinct character, which is brought out by the diff'er- ent chapters of the story with a skill that can hardly fail to furnish genuine entertainment for the class of readers whom the book aMvesees.— Saturday Evening Gazette, Boston. It is a book to charm, to teach, and to set young folk Ih'mkiug.— Philadelphia Press. "Ship Ahoy!" A Yarn in Thirty-si.x Cable Lengths. Illustrated by Wallis Mackay and Frederick Waddy. Svo, Paper, 40 cents. The book is capitally written, and exceedingly in- unique in their way, especially the initial letters at the teresting in plot. It is told with a certain quaintness head of the chapters. The spirit and the freshness that is very attractive, and in its more serious phases of the narrative will highly recommend it. — Satur- is earnest and manly in tone. The illustrations are day Evening Gazette, Boston. Harper os^ Brothers' List of New Books. Viiiceiil's Laiiil of the White Elephant. The Land of the White Elephant : Sights and Scenes in Southeastern Asia. A Personal Narrative of Travel and Adventure in Farther India, embracing the Countries of Burma Siam, Cambodia, and Cochin-China (1S71-2). By Frank Vincent, Jr. Magnificently illustrated with Map, Plans, and numerous Woodcuts. Crown Svo, Cloth, $3 50. It is a narrative of travel, uiKlcrtakcii liy its author, an American f^entlemen, to Farther India, and is full of valuable iufonnation, which is conveyed in a most attractive manner. The frankness and simplicity that distinguish the narrative throughout create an effect which leaves a very pleasant impression on the read- er's mind. Mr. Vincent's account embraces voyages to Burma, Siam, Cambodia, and Cochin •China, and abounds to overflowing in hitherto unpublished facts regarding these places. Every thing is told in the most natural manner imaginable, and there is not a page that shows the slightest evidence of padding or cramming, for the mere sake of producing a bulky vol- ume. There is a highly nicturesque account of the grand ruins to be found at Angkor, and a remarkably entertaining description of tlio jialacc at Bangkok. The author contrives to inspire liis reader with the same interest and enthusiasm in hearing of these sights as he himself experienced in seeing them. There ia here but little, if any, of that tiresome moralizing and reflection that make so many books of travel at once a labor and an exasperation to the reader. On the contrary, Mr. Vincent simply describes what he has seen In a frank and unafl'ected manner, and leaves one to draw his own deductions. He has written nothing that is not of special interest to his subject, and his intelligence as a writer is not inferior to his closeness as an observer. The book is profusely illustrated. — Boston Saturday I'h'nung Gazette. No former traveler or writer has seen and described these far-off lands so thoroughly and so intelligently. In fact, the pages are like revelations of a new and marvelous world. The illustrations, which are very numerous and well executed, are as remarkable as th» letter-press ; for some of them show architectural structures, of a very remote antiquity, that are amaz- ing for magnitude and splendor. The " Nagkou Wat " is the most extraordinary of these structures, and it is the subject of many striking pictures and diagrams. — Evening Bulletin, Philadelphia. The book is very simply and cleverly written. It is a truthful narrative of a journey, very seldom made, through a most interesting and little known country. The illustrations are beautifully engraved; they look almost like photographs. — Bakon de lIuuNEn. A not unwelcome addition to our knowledge of the ludo-Chinese peninsulas. It is written in a clear and unafl'ected style. It is descriptive of forests, lakes, rivers, capitals, and ruins. It shows the author to be possessed of some of the qualities indispensable to successful exploration— energy, endurance of heat, fatigue, and petty annoyances, good-hinnor, quickness of observation, and intelligence. Its value is enhanced by two or three maps throwing light on some disputed points of geography, as well as by many excellent en- gravings, which place before us the i>agodas with their wonderful tracery and the reigning monarchs in their robes of state.— .VnftoJn^ Jlcvieu; London. This is in many respects a model book of travel. For once a traveler eschews any thing like book- making, and, although Mr. Vincent visited India and China, Ceylon and Japan, he limits his narrative to lauds that are far less familiar to us. The route he describes in his volume led him up the Irrawaddy to independent Burma; thence, returning to Rangoon, he made the circuit of the Malay Peninsula, and, after a visit to the kingdom of Siam, made his way through Cambodia to the French settlements in Cochin-Chiua. The volume is profusely and excellently illustrated, and convenient maps add to its value. Mr. Vincent gives a plain but pleasant account of all that struck him as best worth noting. * * * In many ways the jour- ney was extremely interesting, and, what is more to our present purpose, it was a journey extremely inter- esting to read about. * * * The whole of his book is worth reading,as giving the latest observations of an in- telligent traveler over countries that are rapidly chang- ing their characteristics. — Pall Mall Gazette, London. We are inclined to assign to this book a place of foremost interest among the travel books of the year. The architectural and sculptural plates alone add im- mensely to its \ii\i\e.— Examiner, London. Farther India is still more or less a sealed book to most of us, and one could not desire a more pleasant tutor in fresh geographical lore than our author. He won our heart at once by plunging in mcdias res, In- stead of devoting a chapter to the outward voyage ; and he tells us sensibly and intelligent!)-, in a natural and unaffected style, what he saw and heard. — John Lull, London. Taken at the Flood. Taken at the Flood. A Novel. By Miss M. E. Braddon, Author of " Aurora Floyd," " Birds of Prey," " Charlotte's Inheritance," " Publicans and Sinners," " To the Bitter End," &c., &:c. Svo, Paper, 75 cents. Field's Memories of Many Men and of Some Women. Memories of Many Men and of Some Women : being Personal Recollections of Emperors, Kings, Queens, Princes, Presidents, Statesmen, Authors, and Artists, at Home and Abroad, during the last Thirty Years. By Maunsell B. Field. i2mo. Cloth, $2 00. The personal sketches of eminent characters are so c'everly drawn that we have the originals before us.— Philadelphia Pres/?. Detailing in a frank, unpretending way a host of in- teresting anecdotes.— X 1'. World. The book is very cleverly executed, and is enter- taining in no ordinary degree. * * * He has preserved plenty of anecdotes which embody much that is pithy and pungent about them.— Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. Lottie Darling. By John Cordy Jcaffrcson. Lottie Darling. A Novel. By John Cordy Jeaffreson, Author of " Isabel," " Not Dead Yet," "Live it Down," " Olive l^lake's Good Work," &c. Svo, Paper, 75 cents. A story of healthy tone, and readable throughout— I This story is well told. It opens up a phase of life Examiner, London. I hitherto untouched by any novelist.— Dai^ir yeio.-i, Lon. f0-'rwk :l^-j - UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, BERKELEY FORM NO. DD6, 40m, 3/78 BERKELEY, CA 94720 H ^oJMlo^^- ^ - - a THE UNIVERSITY Of CALIFORNIA LIBRARY OF TfrtMj^ (©BPflT. CALIFORNIA 11 ^ v-'":^^ ^^m I GENERAL LIBRARY - U.C. BERKELEY = I 5 BQDDfll7STM .:^, /i V ^/ F TtE UmVERSiry of CUIFORNIH LISRtRt OF THE UmVERSITy OF CUIFU'oi' -•--^f^S:-, (JV^^ .x'?7?''"''^' » ^ /y \^ (lii % \ %