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 ASTRAL EDITION 
 
 The Writings 
 
 OF 
 
 ANTHONY TROLLOPE 
 
 Ihe Publishers guarantee that this edition is 
 limited to twelve copies. 
 
 GEBBIb AND COMPANY 
 
 President 
 
 Vice-President 
 
 Attested : 
 
 Secretary
 
 i^^ '
 
 '•'■ Afadiii/r, you should not interffrc in tlwse matters. '^ 
 
 Page 254.

 
 '■^ Madam, you should }iot interfere in these /natters.'" 
 
 Page 254.

 
 THE 
 
 LAST CHRONICLE 
 OF BARSET 
 
 BY 
 ANTHONY TROLLOPE 
 
 Volume I. 
 
 ff 
 
 PHILADELPHLV 
 GEBBIE AND COMPANY 
 
 1900
 
 Copyright, 1900 
 By Dodd, Mead and Company 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
 UNIVERSITY PRESS • lOHN WILSON 
 ANO SON • CAMUHlDiiE, U.S.A.
 
 poo 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGB 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. How Did He Get It ? i 
 
 II. "By Heavens, He: had Better Not!" i8 
 
 III. The Archdeacon's Threat 31 
 
 IV. The Clergyman's House at Hogglestock. . 39 
 V. What the World Thought about It 51 
 
 VI. Grace Crawley 6° 
 
 VII. Miss Prettyman's Private Room 76 
 
 VIII. Mr. Crawley is Taken to Silverbridge. . . . 92 
 
 IX. Grace Crawley Goes to Allington 113 
 
 X. Dinner at Framley Court 128 
 
 XI. The Bishop Sends His Inhibition 138 
 
 XII. Mr. Crawley Seeks for Sympathy 151 
 
 XIII. The Bishop's Angel i^S 
 
 XIV. Major Grantly Consults a Friend 180 
 
 XV. Up in London ^9° 
 
 XVI. Down at Allington 208 
 
 XVII. Mr. Crawley is Summoned to Barchester. 227 
 
 XVIII. The Bishop of Barchester is Crushed 242 
 
 XIX. " Where Did It Come From ? " 257 
 
 XX. What Mr. Walker Thought about It 265 
 
 XXI. Mr. Robarts on His Embassy 276 
 
 XXII. Major Grantly at Home 289 
 
 V 
 
 938671
 
 vi CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XXIII. Miss Lily Dale's Resolution 304 
 
 XXIV. Mrs. Dobbs Broughton's Dinner-Party. . . 322 
 
 XXV. Miss Madalina Demolines 344 
 
 XXVI. The Picture 358 
 
 XXVII. A Hero at Home 370 
 
 XXVIII. Showing how Major Grantly took a 
 
 Walk 383 
 
 XXIX. Miss Lily Dale's Logic 39s
 
 Illustrations 
 
 PHOTOGRA VURES 
 
 " Madam, you should not interfere in these matters " 
 
 Frontispiece 
 J. Steeple Davis, 
 
 " Am I to go to prison — to-night?" 42 
 
 J. Steeple Davis. 
 
 " I was driven by shame to keep it" 109 
 
 J. Steeple Davis. 
 
 " I love him so well that I will never do him an injury " 401 
 C. R. Grant.
 
 THE LAST CHROxXICLE 
 OF BARSET. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 HOW DID HE GET ITr 
 
 " I CAN never bring myself to believe it, John," said 
 Mary Walker, the pretty daughter of Mr. George 
 AValker, attorney of Silverbridge. Walker and Win- 
 throp was the name of the firm, and they were respect- 
 able people, who did all the sohcitors' 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 al- 
 together 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 unfrequently condescended 
 to come, and in a mild way led the fashion in Silver- 
 bridge. " I can never bring myself to beheve it, 
 John," said Miss Walker. 
 
 " You '11 have to bring yourself to beheve it," said 
 John, without taking his eyes from his book. 
 
 "A clergjTnan, — and such a clergyman too!" 
 
 VOL. 1. — i
 
 2 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " I don't see that that has anything to do with it." 
 And as he now spoke John did take his eyes off his 
 book. "Why should not a clergyman turn thief as 
 well as anybody else? You girls always seem to for- 
 get 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 'U under- 
 take to say that at this moment there are more clergy- 
 men 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 
 Silverbridge." 
 
 " John, that is saying more than you have a right to 
 say," said Mrs. Walker. 
 
 "Why, mother, this very cheque was given to a 
 butcher who had threatened a few days before to post 
 bills all about the county, giving an account 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 Silverbridge." 
 
 "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 Hoggle- 
 stock to get his little bill settled six days running. You 
 see he got it at last. Of course a tradesman must look 
 for his money." 
 
 " Mamma, do you think that Mr. Crawley stole the 
 cheque? " Mary, as she asked the question, came and 
 stood over her mother, looking at her with anxious 
 eyes.
 
 HOW DID HE GET IT? $ 
 
 " I would rather give no opinion, my dear." 
 
 " But you must think something, when everybody is 
 talking about it, mamma." 
 
 " Of course my mother thinks he did," said John, 
 going back to his book. "It is impossible that she 
 should think otherwise." 
 
 " That is not fair, John," said Mrs. Walker ; " and 
 I won't have 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 before 
 him," said Mary. " I know that papa does not wish 
 to have it talked about. But how is one to help think- 
 ing 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 because he 's a 
 clergyman. I hate all that kind of clap-trap. There 
 are a lot of people here in Silverbridge who think the 
 matter should n't be followed up because the man is in 
 a position which makes the crime more criminal in him 
 than it would be in another." 
 
 " But I feel sure that Mr. Crawley has committed 
 no crime at all," said Mary. 
 
 " My dear," said Mrs. Walker, " I have just said 
 that I would rather you would not talk about it. Papa 
 will be in directly." 
 
 " I won't, mamma ; — only " 
 
 "Only! yes; just only!" said John. "She'd go 
 on till dinner if any one would stay to hear her."
 
 4 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " You 've said twice as much as I have, John." But 
 John had left the 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 tliink I ever saw 
 her." 
 
 " I knew Grace very well ; — when she used to come 
 first to Miss 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 cheque. How can it be 
 possible? For though he may have been in debt be- 
 cause they have been so very, very poor ; yet we all 
 know that he has been an e.xcellent clergyman. When 
 the Robartses were dining here last I heard Mrs. 
 Robarts say that for piety and devotion to his duties 
 she had hardly ever seen any one equal to him. And 
 the Robartses know more of them than anybody." 
 
 "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 expressed 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
 
 HOW DID HE GET IT? 5 
 
 they were thus talking the father came in from his 
 office, and then the subject was dropped. He was a 
 man between fifty and sixty years of age, with grey 
 hair, rather short, and somewhat corpulent, but still 
 gifted with that amount of personal comeliness which 
 comfortable position and the respect of others will 
 generally seem to give. A man rarely carries himself 
 meanly whom the world holds high in esteem. 
 
 " I am very tired, my dear," said Mr. Walker. 
 
 "You look tired. Come and sit down for a few 
 minutes before you dress. Mary, get your father's 
 slippers." Mary instantly ran to the door. 
 
 " Thanks, my darling," said the father. And then 
 he whispered to his wife, as soon as Mary was out of 
 hearing, " I fear that unfortunate man is guilty. I 
 fear he is! 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 asked her to go in to you, but she declined. 
 She said you could do nothing for her." 
 
 "And does she think her husband guilty? " 
 
 " No, indeed. She think him guilty! Nothing on 
 earth, — or from heaven either, as I take it, would make 
 her suppose it to be possible. She came to me 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?
 
 6 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 Thank you, dearest. I '11 get yoiir slippers for you 
 some day, perhaps." 
 
 The whole county was astir in this matter of the 
 alleged guilt of the Reverend Josiah Crawley, — 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 cheque for twenty pounds, which he 
 was said to have stolen out of a pocket-book left or 
 dropped 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. Crawley was 
 in those days the perpetual curate of Hogglestock, a 
 parish in the northern extremity of East Barsetshire ; a 
 man known by all who knew anything of him to be 
 very poor, — an unhappy, 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 friend Mr. 
 Arabin, the dean of Barchester, 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 
 with whom his lot was cast ; for in the parish of Hog- 
 glestock there resided only a few farmers higher in 
 degree than field laborers, brickmakers, and such-like. 
 Mr. Crawley had now passed some ten years of his 
 life at Hogglestock ; and during those years he had 
 worked very hard to do his duty, struggling to teach 
 the people around him perhaps too much of the mys- 
 tery, but something also of the comfort, of religion. 
 That he had become popular in his parish cannot be 
 said of him. He was not a man to make himself 
 popular in any position. I have said that he was
 
 HOW DID HE GET IT? 7 
 
 moody and disappointed. He was even worse than 
 tliis ; he 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 kno^vn among the 
 farmers, who talked about their clergyman among them- 
 selves as though he were a madman. But among the 
 very poor, among the brickmakers of Hoggle End, — 
 a lawless, drunken, terribly rough lot of humanity, — he 
 was held in high 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 cheque 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 Mrs. 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 honour. She had joined herself to him for 
 better or worse, and it was her manifest duty to bear
 
 8 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 such things. Wives always have to bear them, know- 
 ing 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 fortune. Instead of 
 that, he was now, just as he was approaching his fif- 
 tieth year, a perpetual curate, with 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 contented, or, 
 rather, to appear to be 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 honoured father of a family, and with the 
 careful measiu"ed 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 tempered to a steel which was 
 very rare and fine, but the rareness and fineness of 
 which he had failed, if to appreciate, at any rate to 
 imitate. He had often told her that she was without 
 pride, because she had stooped to receive from others, 
 on his behalf and on behalf of her children, things 
 which were very needful, but which she could not buy. 
 He had told her that she was a beggar, and that it was 
 better to starve than to beg. She had borne the re- 
 buke 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.
 
 HOW DID HE GET IT? 9 
 
 They had had many children, and three were still 
 alive. Of the eldest, Grace Crawley, we shall hear 
 much in the coming story. She was at this time nine- 
 teen years old, and there were those who said that, in 
 spite of her poverty, her shabby outward apparel, and 
 a certain thin, unfledged, unrounded form of person, a 
 want of fulness 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 Sil- 
 verbridge who declared that very bright prospects were 
 opening to her, — that young Major Grantly of Cosby 
 Lodge, who, though a widower with a young child, 
 was the cynosure of all female eyes in and round Sil- 
 verbridge, had found beauty in her thin face, and that 
 Grace Crawley'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 expense of his godfather. Dean Arabin. In this 
 also the world saw a stroke of good luck. But then 
 nothing was lucky to Mr. Crawley. Bob, indeed, Avho 
 had done very well at school, might do well at Cam- 
 bridge, — might do great things there. But Mr. Craw- 
 ley would almost have preferred that the boy should 
 work in the fields, than that 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 ]\Ir. 
 Crawley very much in the dark, as Mrs. Crawley was 
 in the habit of leaving him. Then there was a younger
 
 lO THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 daughter, Jane, still at home, who passed her life be- 
 tween her mother's work-table and her father's Greek, 
 mending linen and learning to scan iambics, — for Mr. 
 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. Crawley had grad- 
 ually 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 Silver- 
 bridge and Hogglestock. To a great many it was 
 known that Dean Arabin had paid money for him, 
 very much contrary to his own consent, and that he 
 had quarrelled, 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 ex- 
 pressed his opinion that the perpetual curate of Hog- 
 glestock would show a higher pride in allowing him- 
 self to be indebted to a rich brother clergyman, than 
 in remaining under thrall to a butcher. And thus a 
 rumour had grown up. And then the butcher had 
 Nvritten repeated letters to the bishop, — to Bishop 
 Proudie of Barchester, — who had at first caused his 
 chaplain to answer them, and had told Mr. Crawley 
 somewhat roundly what was his opinion of a clergy- 
 man who eat meat and did not pay for it. But noth- 
 ing that the bishop could say or do enabled Mr. Craw- 
 ley to pay the butcher. It was very grievous to such 
 a man as Mr. Crawley to receive these letters from
 
 HOW DID HE GET IT? II 
 
 such a man as Bishop Proudie. The letters came, and 
 made festering 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 Silverbridge 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 de- 
 fended himself by showing that six or seven months 
 since, in the spring of the year, Mr. Crawley had been 
 paying money in Silverbridge, but had paid none to 
 him, — to him who had been not only his earliest but 
 his most enduring creditor. " He got money from the 
 dean in March," said Mr. Fletcher to Mr. Walker, 
 " and he paid twelve pounds ten to Green, and seven- 
 teen pounds to Grobury, the baker." It was that 
 seventeen pounds to Grobiiry, the baker, for flour, 
 which made the butcher so fixedly determined to smite 
 the poor clerg}'man 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 
 far Fletcher the butcher had been successful. 
 
 Some six weeks after this, inquiry began to be made 
 as to a certain cheque for twenty pounds drawn by 
 Lord Lufton on his bankers in London, which cheque 
 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
 
 12 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 pocket-book Soames had believed himself to have left 
 at Mr. Crawley's house, and had gone so far, even at 
 the time of the loss, as to express his absolute convic- 
 tion that he had so left it. He was in the habit of 
 paying a rent-charge to Mr. Crawley on behalf of Lord 
 Lufton, amounting 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 INIr. Soames through 
 the post. On the occasion now spoken of he had had 
 some reason for visiting Hogglestock and had paid the 
 money personally to Mr. Crawley. Of so much there 
 was no doubt. But he had paid it by a cheque drawn 
 by himself on his own bankers at Barchester, and that 
 cheque had been cashed in the ordinary way on the 
 next morning. On returning to his own house in Bar- 
 chester he had missed his pocket-book, and had written 
 to Mr. Crawley to make inquiry. There had been no 
 money in it, beyond the cheque drawn by Lord Lufton 
 for twenty pounds. Mr. Crawley had answered this 
 letter by another, saying that no pocket-book had been 
 found in his house. All this had happened in March. 
 In October, Mrs. Crawley paid the twenty pounds 
 to Fletcher, the butcher, and in November Lord Luf- 
 ton's cheque was traced back through the Barchester 
 bank to Mr. Crawley's hands. A brickmaker of 
 Hoggle End, much favoured by Mr. Crawley, had 
 asked for change over the counter of this Barchester 
 bank, — not, as will be understood, the bank on which 
 the cheque was drawn, — and had received it. The 
 accommodation had been refused to the man at first, 
 but when he presented the cheque the second day,
 
 HOW DID HE GET IT? 13 
 
 bearing Mr. Crawley's name on the back of it, together 
 with a note from Mr. Crawley himself, 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 Mrs. Crawley. When inquiry was made, Mr. 
 Crawley stated that the cheque had been paid to him 
 by Mr. Soames, on behalf of the rent-charge due to him 
 by Lord Lufton. But the error of this statement was 
 at once made manifest. There was the cheque, 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 cheque drawn by his lordship. The cheque 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 al- 
 together wrong in the statement made to account for 
 possession of the cheque. 
 
 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 cheque for twenty pounds to be 
 a part of a present given by Dean Arabin to her hus- 
 band in April last. There had been, she said, great 
 heartburnings about this gift, and she had hardly dared 
 to speak to her husband on the subject. An execu- 
 tion had been threatened in the house by Grobury, the 
 baker, of which the dean had heard. Then there had 
 been some scenes at the deanery between her husband 
 and the dean and Mrs. Arabin, as to which she had 
 subsequently heard much from Mrs. Arabin. Mrs. 
 Arabin had told her that money had been given, — and
 
 14 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 at last taken. Indeed, so much had been very appar- 
 ent, as bills had been paid to the amount of at least 
 fifty pounds. When the threat made by the butcher 
 had reached her husband's ears, the effect upon him 
 had been very grievous. All this was the story told 
 by Mrs. Crawley to Mr. Walker, the lawyer, when he 
 was pushing his inquiries. She, poor woman, at any 
 rate told all that she knew. Her husband had told 
 her one morning, when the butcher's threat was weigh- 
 ing heavily on his mind, speaking to her in such a 
 humour 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 Silverbridge and satisfy the 
 man who was so eager for his money. She had done 
 so, and had felt no doubt that the money so forthcom- 
 ing 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 cheque, which had been shown to be alto- 
 gether false? All this passed between Mr. Walker and 
 Mrs. Crawley, and the lawyer was very gentle with 
 her. In the first stages of the inquiry he had simply 
 desired to learn the truth, and place the clergyman 
 above suspicion. Latterly, being bound as he was to 
 follow the matter up officially, he would not have seen 
 Mrs. Crawley, had be been able to escape that lady's 
 importunity. " Mr, Walker," she had said, at last, 
 " you do not know my husband. No one knows him 
 but I. It is hard to have to tell you of all our 
 troubles." " If I can lessen them, trust me that I will 
 do so," said the lawyer. " No one, I think, can lessen
 
 HOW DID HE GET IT? 1 5 
 
 them in this world," said the lady. "The truth is, 
 sir, that my husband often knows not what he says. 
 When he declared that the money had been paid to 
 him by Mr. Soames, most certainly he thought so. 
 There are times when in his misery he knows not what 
 he says, — when he forgets everything." 
 
 Up to this period Mr. Walker had not suspected 
 Mr. Crawley of anything dishonest, nor did he suspect 
 him as yet. The poor man had probably 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 thinking that there would be no 
 further inquiry. He had been very foohsh, and that 
 would be the end of it. Mr. Soames was by no means 
 so good-natured in his behef. " How should my 
 pocket-book have got into Dean Arabin's hands? " said 
 Mr. Soames, almost triumphantly. "And then I felt 
 sure at the time that I had left it at Crawley's house! " 
 
 Mr. Walker wrote a letter to the 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 Dr. Arabin, saying that on the 
 17th of March he had given to Mr. Crawley a sum of 
 fifty pounds, and that the payment had been made with 
 five Bank of England notes of ten pounds each, which 
 had been handed by him to his friend in the hbrary 
 at the deaner}\ 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 the transaction between the two gentlemen, 
 saying that no doubt the dean's answer would clear up 
 a little mystery which existed at present respecting a
 
 1 6 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 cheque for twenty pounds. The dean in answer sim- 
 ply 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 circumstances of the 
 money, as he remembered them. The sum advanced 
 had certainly consisted of fifty pounds, and there had 
 certainly been live Bank of England notes. He had 
 put the notes into an envelope, which he had not 
 closed, but had addressed to Mr. Crawley, and had 
 placed this envelope in his friend's hands. He went 
 on to say that Mrs. Arabin would have written, but 
 that she was in Paris with her son. Mrs. Arabin was 
 to remain in Paris during his absence 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 apply 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 cheque from the dean. Then whence bad he 
 received it? The poor wife was left by the lawyer to 
 obtain further information from her husband. Ah, 
 who can tell how terrible were the scenes between that 
 poor pair of wretches, as the wife endeavoured to learn 
 the truth 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 endeavoured to tell the truth, as far as 
 his poor 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 declared that he 
 still beheved that the money had come to him from the
 
 HOW DID HE GET IT? 1 7 
 
 dean. He had kept it by him, not wishing to use it if 
 he could 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 manner in which the fatal cheque 
 had reached him. In all that he said he was terribly 
 confused, contradictory, unintelligible, — speaking al- 
 most as a madman might speak, — ending always by 
 declaring 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 burden 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 assistance there. " The dean's 
 answer is very plain," 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. Crawley could say nothing further 
 beyond making protestations of her husband's in- 
 nocence. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 "by heavens, he had better not!" 
 
 I MUST ask the reader to make the acquaintance of 
 Major Grantly of Cosby Lodge, before he is intro- 
 duced to the family of Mr. Crawley, at their parsonage 
 in Hogglestock. It has been said that Major Grantly 
 had thrown a favourable eye on Grace Crawley, — by 
 which report occasion was given to all men and women 
 in those parts to hint that the Crawleys, with all their 
 piety and humility, were very cunning, and that one 
 of the Grantlys was, — to say the least of it, — very soft, 
 admitted as it was throughout the county of Barset- 
 shire, that there was no family therein more widely 
 awake to the affairs generally 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 Silverbridge, 
 had acknowledged to her daughter that she could not 
 understand it, — that she could not see anything at 
 all in Grace Crawley. Mr. Walker had shrugged his 
 shoulders and expressed 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 
 
 i8
 
 "by heavens, he had better NOT!" 1 9 
 
 beggar, and that she could not possibly have acquired 
 the manners of a gentlewoman. Fletcher the butcher 
 had wondered whether the major would pay his future 
 father-in-law's debts ; and Dr. Tempest, the old rector 
 of Silverbridge, whose four daughters were all 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 had been the expressions of the 
 opinion of men and women in Silverbridge. But the 
 matter had been discussed further afield than at Silver- 
 bridge, and had been allowed to intrude itself as a most 
 unwelcome subject into the family conclave of the 
 archdeacon's rectory. To those who have not as yet 
 learned the fact from the public character and well- 
 appreciated reputation of the man, let it be known that 
 Archdeacon Grantly was at this time, as he had been 
 for many years previously. Archdeacon of Barchester 
 and Rector of Plumstead Episcopi. A rich and pros- 
 perous 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 ecclesiastical promo- 
 tion which his soul had coveted, and for which the 
 whole tenour of his hfe 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 chil- 
 dren ; and for him such a marriage as this which was 
 now suggested for his son was encompassed almost 
 with the bitterness of death. " I think it would kill 
 me," he had said to his wife ; " by heavens, I think it 
 would be my death! " 
 
 A daughter of the archdeacon had made a splendid
 
 20 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 matrimonial alliance, — so splendid that its history was 
 at the time known to all the aristocracy of the county, 
 and had not been altogether forgotten by any of those 
 who keep themselves well instructed in the details of 
 the peerage. Griselda Grantly had married Lord Dum- 
 bello, the eldest son of the Marquis of Hartletop, — 
 than whom no English nobleman was more puissant, 
 if broad acres, many castles, high title, and stars and 
 ribbons are any signs of puissance, — and she was now, 
 herself, Marchioness of Hartletop, with a little Lord 
 Dumbello of her own. 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 Marchioness of Hartletop has special duties 
 which will hardly permit her to devote herself fre- 
 quently to the humdrum society of a clerical father 
 and mother. That it would be so, father and mother 
 had understood when they sent the fortunate 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 rectory pillows for a night or so, and on 
 such occasions 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 renewed waft of 
 the tidings as to Major Grantly's infatuation regarding 
 Miss Grace Crawley, which, on its renewal, seemed to 
 bring with it something of confirmation, — it chanced, 
 I say, that at that moment Griselda, Marchioness of 
 Hartletop, 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
 
 "by heavens, he had better NOT!" 21 
 
 been equally quick to ask her daughter's advice had 
 she been left in the matter entirely to her own propen- 
 sities. 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 ex- 
 isted between them. Griselda, Marchioness of Har- 
 tletop, was more than ever a daughter to the archdea- 
 con, even though he might never see her. Nothing 
 could rob him of the honour of such a progeny, — 
 nothing, even though there had been actual estrange- 
 ment 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 degree, was still her child, moving in the 
 same sphere of hfe with her, still dependent in a great 
 degree upon his father's bounty, a neighboiu- in the 
 county, a frequent visitor at the parsonage, and a vis- 
 itor who could be received without any of that trouble 
 which attended the 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 stand- 
 ing so poorly in the world's esteem as Grace Crawley, 
 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 there are counsellors so strong that we do 
 not wish to trust them, lest in the trusting we ourselves 
 be overwhelmed by their strength. Now Mrs. Grantly
 
 22 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 was by no means willing to throw her influence into 
 the hands of her titled daughter. 
 
 But the titled daughter was consulted and gave hei 
 advice. On the occasion of the present visit to Plum- 
 stead she had consented to lay her head for two nights 
 on the parsonage pillows, and on the second evening 
 her brother the major was to come over from Cosby 
 Lodge to meet her. Before his coming the affair ol 
 Grace Crawley was discussed. 
 
 " It would break my heart, Griselda," said the arch- 
 deacon, piteously, — " and your mother's." 
 
 " There is nothing against the girl's character," said 
 Mrs. Grantly, " and the father and mother are gentle- 
 folks by birth ; but such a marriage for Henry would 
 be very unseemly." 
 
 " To make it worse, there is this terrible story about 
 him," said the archdeacon. 
 
 " I don't suppose there is much in that," said Mrs. 
 Grantly. 
 
 " I can't say. There is no knowing. They told me 
 to-day in Barchester that Soames is pressing the case 
 against him." 
 
 "Who is Soames, papa? " asked the marchioness. 
 
 " He is Lord Lufton's man of business, my dear." 
 
 "Oh, Lord Lufton's man of business!" There was 
 something of a sneer in the tone of the lady's voice as 
 she mentioned Lord Lufton's name. 
 
 " I am told," continued the archdeacon, " that 
 Soames declares the cheque was taken from a pocket- 
 book which he left by accident in Crawley's house." 
 
 " You don't mean to say, archdeacon, that you think 
 that Mr. Crawley, — a clergyman, — stole it! "said Mrs. 
 Grantly.
 
 " BY HEAVENS, HE HAD BETTER NOT ! " 23 
 
 " I don't say anything of the kind, my dear. But 
 supposing Mr. Crawley to be as honest as the sun, you 
 would n't wish Henry to marry his daughter." 
 
 " Certainly not," said the mother. " It would be an 
 unfitting marriage. The poor girl has had no advan- 
 tages." 
 
 " He is not able even to pay his baker's bill. I al- 
 ways thought Arabin was very wrong to place such a 
 man in such a parish as Hogglestock. Of course the 
 family could not live there." The Arabin here spoken 
 of was Dr. Arabin, dean of Barchester. The dean 
 and the archdeacon had married sisters, and there was 
 much intimacy between the families. 
 
 "After all it is only a rumour as yet," said Mrs. 
 Grantly. 
 
 " Fothergill told me only yesterday, that he sees her 
 almost every day," said the father. " What are we to 
 do, Griselda? You know how headstrong Henry is." 
 The marchioness sat quite still, looking at the fire, and 
 made no immediate 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 Mrs. Grantly said 
 nothing ; but Mrs. Grantly's daughter understood verj' 
 well that her mother's confidence in her was not equal 
 to her father's. Lady Hartletop said nothing, but still 
 sat, with impassive face, and eyes fixed upon the fire. 
 " I think that if you were to speak to him, Griselda, 
 and tell him that he would disgrace his family, he 
 would be ashamed to go on with such a marriage," 
 said the father. " He would feel, connected as he is 
 with Lord Hardetop "
 
 24 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " I don't think he would feel anything about that," 
 said Mrs. Grantly. 
 
 " I dare say not," said Lady Hartletop. 
 
 " I am sure he ought to feel it," said the father. 
 They were all silent, and sat looking at the fire. 
 
 " I suppose, papa, you allow Henry an income," 
 said Lady Hartletop, after a wnile. 
 
 " Indeed I do, — eight hundred a year." 
 
 " Then I think I should tell him that that must de- 
 pend upon his conduct. Mamma, if you won't mind 
 ringing the bell, 1 will send for Cecile, and go upstairs 
 and dress." Then the marchioness went upstairs to 
 dress, and in about an hour the major arrived in his 
 dog-cart. He also was allowed to go upstairs to dress 
 before anything was said to him about his great 
 offence. 
 
 " 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 anything to prevent such a marriage 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, then, 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 could n't 
 hold him to it." 
 
 " My dear, they 'd know as well as I do, that you 
 would give way after three months."
 
 " BY HEAVENS, HE HAD BETTER NOT ! " 2$ 
 
 "But why should I give way? Good heavens!" 
 
 "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 arch- 
 deacon, 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 fulminated at his wife his assurances that he 
 would never allow himself to be immersed in such a 
 depth of humility as that she had suggested. " I can 
 tell you this, 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 please." 
 
 " That is just what I cannot do. If I could do as I 
 pleased, I would put a stop to it at once." 
 
 " It seems to me that you want to encourage him. 
 A child about sixteen years of age! " 
 
 " I am told .she is nineteen." 
 
 "What does it matter if she was fifty-nine? Think 
 of what her bringing up has been. Think what it 
 would be to have all the Crawleys in our house for 
 ever, and all their debts, and all their disgrace!" 
 
 " I do not know that they have ever been dis- 
 graced." 
 
 " You '11 see. The whole county has heard of the 
 affair of this twenty pounds. Look at that dear girl 
 upstairs, 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 a bit of harm," said
 
 26 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 Mrs. Grantly. " But there would be no chance of that, 
 seeing that Griselda's husband 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 Mrs. Grantly's younger sister. 
 " It has always been a sorrow to me that I ever brought 
 Arabin into the diocese." 
 
 " I never asked you to bring him, archdeacon. But 
 nobody was so glad as you when he proposed to 
 Eleanor." 
 
 " Well, the long and short of it is this, I shall tell 
 Henry to-night that if he makes a fool of him.self with 
 this girl, he must not look to me any longer for an in- 
 come. 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 shan'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 does you '11 be the first to forgive him." 
 
 On hearing this the archdeacon slammed the door, 
 and retired to his washing apparatus. At the present 
 moment he was very angry with his wife, but then she 
 was so accustomed to such anger, and v/as so well 
 aware that it in truth meant nothing, that it did not 
 make her unhappy. The archdeacon and Mrs. Grantly 
 had now been man and wife for more than a quarter 
 of a century, and had never in truth quarrelled. He 
 had the most profound respect for her judgment, and
 
 "ry heavens, he had better not!" 27 
 
 the most implicit reliance on her conduct. She had 
 never yet offended him, or caused him to repent the 
 hour in which he had made her Mrs. Grantly. But she 
 had come to understand that she might use a woman's 
 privilege with her tongue ; and she used it, — not alto- 
 gether 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 himself. And yet, as 
 he said it, he knew that he would not have the strength 
 of character to carry him through a prolonged quarrel 
 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 hfe, — 
 with the one exception of having lost the mother of his 
 child within a twelvemonth of his marriage and within 
 a few hovurs 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 
 with some money, and had left the active service of 
 the army with the concurring advice of his ov/n family 
 and that of his wife. He had taken a small place in 
 his father's county, but the wife for whose comfort he 
 had taken it had died before she was permitted to see 
 it. Nevertheless he had gone to reside there, hunting 
 a good deal and farming a little, making himself popu- 
 lar in the district, and keeping up the good name of 
 Grantly in a successful way, till — alas, — it had seemed 
 good to him to throw those favouring eyes on poor 
 Grace Crawley. His wife had now been dead just two 
 years, and as he was still under thirty, no one could 
 deny it would be right that he should marry again.
 
 28 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 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 something. 
 " What is the good of keeping it? " the archdeacon had 
 said in hberal 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 '11 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 
 those two girls at Chaldicotes? " 
 
 "WTiat, Mrs. Thome's nieces?" 
 
 " No ; they are not her nieces but her cousins. 
 Emily Dunstable is very handsome ; — and as for 
 money — !" 
 
 " But what about birth, mother? " 
 
 " One can't have everything, my dear." 
 
 "As far as I am concerned, I should like to have 
 everything 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 particu- 
 lar birth, and not even beauty itself, — so at least Mrs. 
 Grantly said, — who had not even enjoyed the ordinary 
 education of a lady, was too bad. Nothing had been 
 wanting to Emily Dunstable's education, and it was 
 calculated that she would have at least twenty thou- 
 sand 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,
 
 " BY HEAVENS, HE HAD BETTER NOT ! " 29 
 
 and had at first, as she thought, seen her way to suc- 
 cess, — to success in spite of the disparaging words 
 which her son had spoken to her. Mrs. Thome's house 
 at Chaldicotes, — or Dr. Thome's house, as it should, 
 perhaps, be more properly called, for Dr. Thorne was 
 the husband of Mrs. Thorne, — was in these days the 
 pleasantest house in Barsetshire. No one saw so much 
 company as the Thornes, or .spent so much money in 
 so pleasant a way. The great county families, the 
 PaUisers and the De Courcys, the Luftons and the 
 Greshams, were no doubt grander, and some of them 
 were perhaps richer than the Chaldicote Thornes, — as 
 they were called to distinguish them from the Thornes 
 of Ullathome ; but none of these people were so 
 pleasant in their ways, so free in their hospitality, or so 
 easy in their modes of living, as the doctor and his 
 wife. When first Chaldicotes, a very old country-seat, 
 had by the chances of war fallen into their hands and 
 been newly furnished, and newly decorated, and newly 
 gardened, and newly greenhoused and hot-watered by 
 them, many of the county people had turned up their 
 noses at them. Dear old Lady Lufton had done so, 
 and had been greatly grieved, — saying nothing, how- 
 ever, of her grief, — when her son and daughter-in-law 
 had broken away from her, and submitted themselves 
 to the blandishments of the doctor's wife. And the 
 Grantlys had stood aloof, partly influenced, no doubt, 
 by their dear and intimate old friend Miss Monica 
 Thorne of Ullathome, 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 honour and glory in 
 the county, simply because of her riches. Miss Mon-
 
 30 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 ica Thorne stood out, but Mrs. Grantly gave way, and 
 haWng once given way found that 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 him and Miss Emily 
 Dunstable, as to which Mrs. Thome, who managed 
 everything, 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 heard 
 any faintest whispers of his fancy for Grace Crawley ; 
 and she had therefore been justified in hoping, — almost 
 in expecting, that Emily Dunstable would be her 
 daughter-in-law, and was therefore the more aggrieved 
 when this terrible Crawley peril first opened itself be- 
 fore her eyes.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE archdeacon's THREAT. 
 
 The dinner-party at the rectory comprised none but 
 the Grantly family. The marchioness had written to 
 say that she preferred to have it so. The father had 
 suggested that the Thornes of Ullathorne, very old 
 friends, might be asked, and the Greshams from Boxall 
 Hill, and had even promised to endeavour to get old 
 Lady Lufton over to the rectory, Lady Lufton having 
 in former years been Griselda's warm friend. But 
 Lady Hartletop had preferred to see her dear father 
 and mother in privacy. Her brother Henry she would 
 be glad to meet, and hoped to make some arrange- 
 ment with him for a short visit to Hartlebiuy, her hus- 
 band's place in Shropshire, — as to which latter hint, it 
 may, however, be at once said, that 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 upon to meet her grandfather, 
 her mother's father, Mr. Harding, a clergyman of Bar- 
 chester, who was now stricken in years. — " Papa would 
 not have come," said Mrs. Grantly, "but I think, — I 
 do think " Then she stopped herself. 
 
 "Your father has odd ways sometimes, my dear. 
 You know how fond I am of having him here myself." 
 
 31
 
 32 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " It does not signify," said Mrs. Grantly. " Do not 
 let us say anything more about it. Of course we can- 
 not have everything. I am told the child does 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, yes ; quite well." Then there seemed to be noth- 
 ing more to be said between the two. The major 
 never made inquiries after the august fam.ily, or would 
 allow it to appear that he was conscious of being shone 
 upon by the wife of a marquis. Any adulation which 
 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 other members 
 of her family, and more fitted by nature to move in 
 that sacred circle to which she 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 carried on had her 
 daughter married the son of some neighboiu"ing 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 magnificence, 
 which I think had become a second nature with her, 
 but which was not on that account the less oppressive. 
 Even the archdeacon, who enjoyed something in that
 
 THE ARCHDEACON'S THREAT. 33 
 
 which was so disagreeable to his wile, felt a relief when 
 he was left alone after dinner with his son. He felt 
 relieved as his son get up to open the door for his 
 mother and sister, but was aware at the same time that 
 he had before him a most difficult and possibly a most 
 disastrous task. His dear son Henry was not a man 
 to be talked smoothly 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 you drinking? That 's '34 port, but it 's 
 not just what it should be. Shall I send for another 
 bottle?" 
 
 " It will do for me, sir. I shall only take a glass." 
 " I shall drink two or three glasses of claret. But you 
 young fellows have become so desperately temperate." 
 " We take our wine at dinner, sir." 
 " By-the-bye, how well Griselda is looking." 
 " Yes, she is. It 's always easy for women to look 
 well when they 're rich." How would Grace Crawley 
 look, then, who was poor as poverty itself, and who 
 should remain poor, if his son was fool enough to marry 
 her? That was the train of thought which ran through 
 the archdeacon's mind. " I do not think much of 
 riches," said he, " but it is always well that a gentle- 
 man's wife or a gentleman's daughter should have a 
 sufficiency to maintain her position in life." 
 
 " You may say the same, sir, of everybody's wife 
 and everybody's daughter." 
 
 " You know what I mean, Henry." 
 " I am not quite siu"e that I do, sir." 
 VOL. 1. — 3
 
 34 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " Perhaps I had better speak out at once. A ru- 
 mour has reached your mother and me, which we don't 
 beheve for a moment, but which, nevertheless, makes 
 us unhappy even as a report. They say that there is 
 a young woman hving in Silverbridge to whom you 
 are becoming attached." 
 
 " Is there any reason why I should not become 
 attached to a young woman in Silverbridge? — 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, Henry ; I hope so. I do hope so." 
 
 "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 rumour about Grace 
 Crawley was true ; and, secondly, that the major was 
 resolved not to be talked out of his folly. " But you 
 are not engaged to any one, are you? " said the arch- 
 deacon. The son did not at first make any answer, 
 and then the father repeated the question. " Consider- 
 ing our mutual positions, Henry, I think you ought to 
 tell me if you are engaged." 
 
 " I am not engaged. Had I become so, I should 
 have taken the first opportunity of telling either you or 
 my mother." 
 
 " Thank God. Now, my dear boy, I can speak out 
 more plainly. The young woman whose name I have 
 heard is daughter to that Mr. Crawley who is perpetual 
 curate at Hogglestock. I knew that there could be 
 nothing in it."
 
 THE archdeacon's THREAT. 35 
 
 " 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. When you express yourself as 
 thankful that there is nothing in the rumour, I am 
 forced to stop you, as otherwise 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 intend to lower yourself by marrying 
 a young woman who cannot possibly have enjoyed any 
 of the advantages of a lady's education? I say noth- 
 ing of the imprudence of the thing; nothing of her 
 own want of fortune ; nothing of your having to main- 
 tain a whole family steeped in poverty ; nothing of the 
 debts and character of the father, upon whom, as I 
 understand, at this moment there rests a very grave 
 suspicion of — 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 with you."
 
 36 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET, 
 
 " 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 disgrace 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 Crawley." 
 
 " I claim the privilege of a man of my age to do as 
 I please in such a matter as marriage. Miss Crawley 
 is a lady. Her father is a clergyman, as is mine. Her 
 father's oldest friend is my uncle. There is nothing on 
 earth against her except her poverty. I do not think 
 I ever heard of such cruelty on a father's part." 
 
 " Very well, Henry." 
 
 " I have endeavoured to do my duty by you, sir, al- 
 ways ; and by my mother. You can treat me in this 
 way, if you please, but it will not have any effect on 
 my conduct. You can stop my allowance to-morrow, 
 if you like it. I had not as yet made up my mind to 
 make an offer to Miss Crawley, but I shall now do so 
 to-morrow morning." 
 
 This was very bad indeed, and the archdeacon was 
 extremely unhappy. He was by no means at heart a 
 cruel man. He loved his children dearly. If this disa- 
 greeable marriage were to take place, he would doubt- 
 less do exactly as his wife had predicted. He would
 
 THE ARCHDEACON S THREAT. 37 
 
 not Stop his son's income for a single quarter ; and, 
 though he went on telling himself that he would stop 
 it, he knew in his own heart that any such severity was 
 beyond his power. He was a generous man in money 
 matters, — having a dislike for poverty which was not 
 generous, — and for his own sake could not have en- 
 dured to see a son of his in want. But he was terribly 
 anxious to exercise the power which the use of the 
 threat might give him. " Henry," he said, " you are 
 treating me badly, very badly. My anxiety has ahvays 
 been for the welfare of my children. Do you think that 
 Miss Crawley would be a fitting sister-in-law for that 
 dear girl upstairs? " 
 
 " 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 the major said nothing, the 
 father continued his entreaties. " Pray, pray think of 
 what my wishes are, and your mother's. You are not 
 committed as yet. Pray think of us while there is time. 
 I would rather double your income if I saw you marry 
 any one that we could name here." 
 
 " I have enough as it is, if I may only be allowed to 
 know that it will not be capriciously withdrawn." The 
 archdeacon filled his glass unconsciously, and sipped 
 his wine, while he thought what 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 question. " May I un- 
 derstand, sir, that your threat is withdrawn, and that 
 my income is secure? "
 
 38 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " 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 walked away into the 
 drawing-room. That evening at the rectory was very 
 gloomy. The archdeacon 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, understanding well 
 what had passed, knew that nothing 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. 
 
 " Dear Henr}'-," said the mother to her son the next 
 morning ; " think much of yourself, and of your child, 
 and of us, before you take any great step in life." 
 
 " I will, mother," said he. Then he went out and put 
 on his wTapper, and got into his dog-cart, and drove 
 himself off to Silverbridge. He had not spoken to his 
 father since they were in the dining-room on the previ- 
 ous evening. When he started, the marchioness had 
 not yet come downstairs ; but at eleven she break- 
 fasted, and at twelve she also was taken away. Poor 
 Mrs. Grantly had not had much comfort from her 
 children's visits.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE clergyman's HOUSE AT HOGGLESTOCK. 
 
 Mrs. Crawley had walked from Hogglestock to 
 Silverbridge 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 tid- 
 ings she brought home with her to her husband were 
 very grievous. The magistrates would sit on the next 
 Thursday, — it was then Friday, — and Mr. Crawley had 
 better appear before them to answer the charge made 
 by Mr. Soames. He would be sers'ed with a summons, 
 which he could obey of his own accord. There had 
 been many points very closely discussed between 
 AValker and Mrs. Crawley, as to which there had been 
 great difficulty in the choice of words which should be 
 tender enough in regard \.v> 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 magis- 
 trates had already issued a warrant for his apprehen- 
 sion. Such in truth was the fact, but they had agreed 
 with Mr. Walker, that as there was no reasonable 
 ground for anticipating any attempt at escape on the 
 part of the reverend gentleman, the lawyer might use 
 what gentle means he could for ensuring the clergy- 
 man's attendance. Could Mrs. Crawley undertake to 
 
 39
 
 40 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 say that he would appear? Mrs. Crawley did under- 
 take either that her husband should appear on the 
 Thursday, or else that she would send over in the early 
 part of the week and declare her inability to ensure his 
 appearance. In that case it was understood the police- 
 man must come. Then Mr. Walker had suggested that 
 Mr. Crawley had better employ a lawyer. Upon this 
 Mrs. Crawley had looked beseechingly up into Mr. 
 Walker's face, and had asked him to undertake the 
 duty. He was of course obliged to explain that he 
 was already employed on the other side. Mr. Soames 
 had secured his services, and though he was wiUing to 
 do all in his power to mitigate the sufferings of the 
 family, he could not abandon the duty he had under- 
 taken. He named another attorney, however, and 
 then sent the poor woman home in his wife's carriage. 
 " I fear that unfortunate man is guilty. I fear he is," 
 Mr. Walker had said to his wife 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 hundred 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 December 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 the 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 passage as tlie house was entered, 
 and with him was their daughter Jane, a girl now
 
 THE clergyman's HOUSE AT HOGGLESTOCK. 41 
 
 nearly sixteen years of age. There was no light in the 
 room, and hardly more than a spark of fire showed it- 
 self in the grate. The father was sitting on one side 
 of the hearth, in an old arm-chair, and there he had 
 sat for the last hour without speaking. His daughter 
 had been in and out of the room, and had endeavoured 
 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, Crawley, striv- 
 ing 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 upstairs in two minutes." 
 Then, when Jane was gone, the wife made her way in 
 the dark over to her husband's side, and spoke a word 
 to him. " Josiah," she said, " will you not speak to 
 me? " 
 
 "What should 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 do not want his kindness. I want no man's 
 kindness. Mr, Walker is the attorney, I believe. 
 Kind, indeed! "
 
 42 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " I mean considerate. Josiah, let us do the best we 
 can in this trouble. We have had others 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 wretched, poverty-stricken room. By degrees 
 the carpet had disappeared, which had been laid down 
 some nine or ten years since, when they had first come 
 to Hogglestock, and which even then had not been 
 new. Now nothing but a poor fragment of it remained 
 in front of the fireplace. 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 towards the floor, the weakness of old age 
 having fallen into its legs. There were two or three 
 smaller tables about, but they stood propped 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 piece of furniture, which 
 was always called papa's "secretary," at which Mr. 
 Crawley customarily sat and wrote his sermons, and 
 did all work that was done by him within his house. 
 The man Avho had made it, some time in the last cen- 
 tury, had intended it to be a locked guardian for do- 
 mestic documents, and the receptacle for all that was 
 most private in the house of some paterfamilias. But 
 beneath 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 there two odd volumes of F.uripides, a
 
 ,v.V\<^ ft\ ti^x ^\ \ wK"
 
 "//;// 
 
 1(1 <■(■> !0 
 
 prison 
 
 (o-nii-ht ? "
 
 THE clergyman's HOUSE AT HOGGLESTOCK. 43 
 
 Greek Testament, an Odyssey, a duodecimo Pindar, 
 and a miniature Anacreon. There was half a Horace, 
 — the two first books of the Odes at the beginning, and 
 the De Arte Poetica at the end having disappeared. 
 There was a little bit of a volume of Cicero, and there 
 were Caesar's Commentaries, in two volumes, so stoutly 
 bound that they had defied the combined ill-usage of 
 time and the Crawley family. 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 be called, made soft by an old 
 cushion in the back, in which Mr. Crawley sat when 
 both he and his wife were in the room, and Mrs. Craw- 
 ley when he was absent. And there was an old horse- 
 hair sofa, — now almost denuded of its horsehair, — but 
 that, like the tables, required the assistance of a friendly 
 wall. Then there was half-a-dozen of other chairs, — 
 all of different sorts, — and they completed the furniture 
 of the room. It was not such a room as one would 
 wish to see inhabited by a beneficed clergyman of the 
 Church of England ; but they who know what money 
 will do and what it will not, will understand how easily 
 a man with a family, and with a hundred and thirty 
 pounds a year, may be brought to the need of inhabit- 
 ing such a chamber. When it is remembered that 
 three pounds of meat a day, at ninepence a pound, will 
 cost over forty pounds a year, there need be no difli- 
 culty in understanding that it may be so. Bread for 
 such a family must cost at least twenty-five pounds. 
 Clothes for five persons, of whom one must at any rate 
 wear the raiment of a gentleman, can hardly be found
 
 44 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 for less than ten pounds a year a head. Then there 
 remains fifteen pounds for tea, sugar, beer, wages, edu- 
 cation, amusements, and the hke. In such circum- 
 stances a gentleman can hardly pay much for the 
 renewal of his furniture! 
 
 Mrs. Crawley could not answer her husband's ques- 
 tion before her daughter, and was therefore obliged to 
 make another excuse for again sending her out of the 
 room. " Jane, dear," she said, " bring my things down 
 to the kitchen and I will change them by the fire. I 
 will be there in two minutes, when I have had a word 
 with your papa." The girl went immediately, and then 
 Mrs. Crawley answered her husband's question. " No, 
 my dear ; there is no question of your going to prison." 
 
 " But there will be." 
 
 " I have undertaken that you shall attend before 
 the 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 anybody to come and fetch me? " 
 
 " Nobody will come. Only you must promise 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 think I would rather that they fetched me. I 
 think that I will not go myself." 
 
 " And have pohcemen come for you into the parish ! 
 Mr. Walker has promised that he will send over his 
 phaeton. He 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 though I had not
 
 THE clergyman's HOUSE AT HOGGLESTOCK. 45 
 
 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 cannot be degraded worse than 
 I am. Everybody knows it." 
 
 " There is no disgrace without guilt," said his wife. 
 
 " Everybody thinks me guilty. I see it in their eyes. 
 The children know of it, and 1 hear their whispers in 
 the school, ' Mr. Crawley has taken some money.' I 
 heard the girl say it myself." 
 
 " What matters what 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 me as they would another. 
 I shall be here for them, — unless I am dead." 
 
 At this moment Jane reappeared, pressing her 
 mother to take oiT 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 mother and child discussed how 
 best they might prevail 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 cannot see 
 my way as yet." 
 
 " Papa cannot have done anything 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 intentionally spoken un- 
 truths. He is ever thinking of other things, about the 
 school, and his sermons, and he does not remember." 
 
 "And about how poor we are, mamma." 
 
 " He has much to occupy his mind, and he forgets
 
 46 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 things which dwell in the memory with other people. 
 He said that he had got this money from Mr. 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 cheque, — 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 anything. 
 The dean told me he would give him 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 could n'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 reply. The idea 
 that the cheque had been found by her husband, — 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 falsehood, or even 
 of direct dishonesty, if by so believing she could in her 
 own mind have found the means of reconciling her 
 husband's possession of the cheque with absolute truth 
 on his part. But she could not do so. Even though 
 Soames had, with devilish premeditated malice, slipped 
 the cheque into her husband's pocket, his having done
 
 THE CLERGYMAN'S HOUSE AT HOGGLESTOCK. 47 
 
 SO would not account for her husband's having used 
 the cheque when he found it there. She was driven 
 to make excuses for him which, valid as they might be 
 with herself, could not be vaUd with others. He had 
 said that Mr. Soames had paid the cheque to him. 
 That was clearly a mistake. He had said that the 
 cheque 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 believe 
 also that almost anything might be possible. Soames 
 may have been right, or he might have dropped, not 
 the book, but the cheque. 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 ^'illany on the part of 
 Soames was needful to her theory, Soames would be- 
 come to her a villain at once, — of the blackest dye. 
 Might it not be possible that the cheque having thus 
 fallen 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 pos- 
 sible to make others so believe? That there was some 
 mistake which would be easily explained were her hus- 
 band's mind lucid at all points, but which she could 
 not explain because of the darkness of his mind, she 
 was thoroughly convinced. But were she herself to 
 put forward such a defence on her husband's part, she 
 would, in doing so, be driven to say that he was a
 
 48 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 lunatic, — that he was incapable of managing the affairs 
 of himself or his family. It seemed to her that she 
 would be compelled to have him proved to be either a 
 thief or a madman. And }'et 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? The 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 
 making intelligible to the ignorant the promises of his 
 Saviour, ever got into a parish pulpit, or taught in a 
 parish school. The intellect of the man was as clear 
 as running water in all things not appertaining to his 
 daily Hfe and its dii^culties. He could be logical with 
 a vengeance, — so logical as to cause infinite trouble to 
 his wife, who, with all her good sense, was not logical. 
 And he had Greek at his fingers' ends, — as his daugh- 
 ter knew very well. And even to this day he would 
 sometimes recite to them English poetry, lines after 
 lines, stanzas upon stanzas, 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 deanery. 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 Batcman, main-
 
 THE clergyman's HOUSE AT HOGGLESTOCK. 49 
 
 taining the rhythm and the rhyme, and had repeated 
 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 magazine 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 much 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 jury, so that diey 
 might neither say that he was dishonest, nor yet that 
 he was mad? " Perhaps he picked it up, and had for- 
 gotten," her daughter said to her. Perhaps it was so, 
 but she might not as yet admit as much even to her 
 child. 
 
 " It is a mystery, dear, as yet, which, with God's aid, 
 will be unravelled. Of one thing we at least may be 
 sure ; that your papa has not wilfully done anything 
 wrong." 
 
 " Of coiu^se we are sure of that, mamma." 
 
 Mrs. Crawley had many troubles during the next 
 four or five days, of which the worst, perhaps, had 
 reference to the services of the Sunday which intervened 
 between the day of her visit to Silverbridge, and the 
 sitting of the magistrates. On the Satui-day it was 
 necessary that he should prepare his sermons, of which 
 he preached two on every Sunday, though his congre- 
 gation consisted only of farmers, brickmakers, and 
 agricultiu-al labourers who would willingly have dis- 
 pensed with the second. Mrs. Crawley proposed to 
 
 VOL. 1. — 4
 
 50 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 send over to Mr. Robarts, a neighbouring clergyman, 
 for the loan of a curate. 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 thinking 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 forgot- 
 ten all else in the world. 
 
 And on the Sunday morning he went into his school 
 before the hour of the church service, as had been his 
 wont, and taught there as though everything with him 
 was as usual. Some of the children were absent, hav- 
 ing heard of their teacher's tribulation, and having been 
 told probably that he would remit his work ; and for 
 these absent ones he sent in great anger. The poor 
 bairns came creeping in, for he was a mdn who by his 
 manners had been able to secure their obedience in 
 spite of his poverty. And he preached to the people 
 of his parish on that Sunday, as he had always preached ; 
 eagerly, clearly, with an eloquence fitted for the hearts 
 of such an audience. No one would have guessed 
 from his tones and gestures and appearance on that 
 occasion, that there was aught wrong with him, — un- 
 less there had been there some observer keen enough 
 to perceive that the greater care which he used, and 
 the special eagerness of his words, denoted a special 
 frame of mind. 
 
 After that, after those church services were over, he 
 sank again, and never roused himself till the dreaded 
 day had come.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 WHAT THE WORLD THOUGHT ABOUT IT. 
 
 Opinion in Silverbridge, at Barchester, and through- 
 out the county, was very much divided as to the guilt 
 or innocence of Mr. Crawley. Up to the time of Mrs. 
 Crawley's visit to Silverbridge, the affair had not been 
 much discussed. To give Mr. Soames his due, he 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 cheque was missing Lord Lufton 
 had sent him a second cheque for the money, and the 
 loss had thus fallen upon his lordship. The cheque 
 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 received it from 
 Mr. Soames, Mr. Soames had been forced to contra- 
 dict and to resent such an assertion. When Mr. Craw- 
 ley had afterwards said that the money had come to 
 him from the dean, and when the dean had shown that 
 this also was untrue, Mr. Soames, confident as he was 
 that he had dropped the pocket-book at Mr. Crawley's 
 house, could not but continue the investigation. He 
 had done so with as much silence as the nature of the 
 work admitted. But by the day of the magistrates' 
 meeting at Silverbridge the subject had become com- 
 mon through the county, and men's minds were very 
 much divided. 
 
 51
 
 52 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 All Hogglestock believed their parson to be inno- 
 cent ; but then all Hogglestock believed him to be 
 mad. At Silverbridge 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 be a thief. All the ladies in Silverbridge, too, 
 were sure of his innocence. It was to them impossible 
 that such a man should have stolen twenty pounds. 
 " My dear," said the eldest Miss Prettyman to poor 
 Grace Crawley, " in England, where the laws are good, 
 no gentleman 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 papa's heart," Grace had said, and she did 
 trouble herself. But the gentlemen in Silverbridge 
 were made of sterner stuff, and believed the man to be 
 guilty, clergyman and gentleman though he was. Mr. 
 Walker, who among the lights in Silverbridge was the 
 leading light, would not speak a word upon the sub- 
 ject to anybody; and then everybody, who was any- 
 body, knew that Mr. Walker was convinced of the 
 man's guilt. Had Mr. Walker beheved him to be in- 
 nocent, his tongue would have been ready enough. 
 John Walker, who was in the habit of 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 unmarried ladies ; for Mr. Winthrop was a 
 IxTchelor, 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 Dr.
 
 WHAT THE WORLD THOUGHT ABOUT IT. 53 
 
 Tempest, the rector of Silverbridge, did not hesitate to 
 declare his behef in the guilt of the incumbent of 
 Hogglestock. No man reverences a clergyman, as a 
 clergyman, so slightly as a brother clergyman. To 
 Dr. Tempest it appeared to be neither very strange 
 nor very terrible that Mr. Crawley should have stolen 
 tAventy pounds. " What is a man to do," he said, 
 "when he sees his children starving? He should not 
 have married on such a preferment as that." Mr. 
 Crawley had married, however, long before he got the 
 living of Hogglestock. 
 
 There were two Lady Luftons, — mother-in-law and 
 daughter-in-law, — who at this time were living together 
 at Framley Hall, Lord Lufton's seat in the county of 
 Barset, and they were both thoroughly convinced of 
 Mr. Crawley's innocence. The elder lady had lived 
 much among clergymen, and could hardly, I think, by 
 any means have been brought to believe in the guilt of 
 any man who had taken upon himself the orders of 
 the Church of England. She had also known Mr. 
 Crawley personally 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 in- 
 tensely in the wickedness of the outside world, of the 
 world which was far away from herself, and of which 
 she never saw anything ; but they who were near to 
 her, 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. They were brought into 
 the inner circle, and could hardly be expelled. She 
 was an old woman who thought all evil of those she 
 did not know, and all good of those whom she did 
 know ; and as she did know Mr. Crawley, she was
 
 54 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 quite sure he had not stolen Mr. Soames's twenty- 
 pounds. She did know Mr. Soames also ; and thus 
 there was a mystery for the unravelling of which she 
 was very anxious. And the young Lady Lufton was 
 equally as sure, and perhaps with better reason 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 present Lord Lufton's wife, had sojourned at one 
 time in Mr. Crawley's house, amidst the Crawley pov- 
 erty, living as they lived, and niirsing Mrs. Crawley 
 through an illness which had well-nigh been fatal to 
 her; and the younger Lady Lufton believed in Mr. 
 Crawley; — as Mr. Crawley also believed in her. 
 
 " It is quite impossible, my dear," the old woman 
 said to her daughter-in-law. 
 
 " Quite impossible, my lady." The dowager was 
 always called "my lady," both by her own daughter 
 and by her son's wife except in the presence of their 
 children, when she was addressed as "grandmamma." 
 " Think how well I knew him. It 's no use talking of 
 evidence. No 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 himself?" 
 said the younger lady, who was not herself very fond 
 of Mr. Soames. 
 
 " Ludovic says that he has only done what he was 
 obliged to do." The Ludovic spoken of was Lord 
 Lufton. 
 
 This took place in the morning ; but in the evening 
 the affair was again discussed at Framley Hall. In- 
 deed, for some days, there was hardly any other sub-
 
 WHAT THE WORLD THOUGHT ABOUT IT. 55 
 
 ject held to be worthy of discussion in the county. 
 Mr. Robarts, the clergyman of the parish and the 
 brother of the younger Lady Lufton, was dining at 
 the hall with his wife, and the three ladies had together 
 expressed their perfect conviction of the falseness of 
 the accusation. But when Lord Lufton and Mr. 
 Robarts were together after the ladies had left them 
 there was much less of this certainty expressed. " V>y 
 Jove," said Lord Lufton, " 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 cheque had passed 
 without remark." 
 
 " That was impossible. When the banker sent to 
 Soames, he was obliged to take the matter up." 
 
 " Of course he was. But I 'm sorry that it was so. 
 For the hfe of me I can't conceive how the cheque got 
 into Crawley's hands." 
 
 " I imagine that it had been lying in the house, 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 that another man's 
 property is his own? We send him to prison for mak- 
 ing 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 possible. On the evidence, as one sees it at 
 present, one is bound to say that it is a case for a jury."
 
 56 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " I believe that he is mad," said the 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 Fram- 
 ley 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 
 had nearly closed over his head, and Mr. Crawley had 
 given him some help in his way. When the gentlemen 
 had again found the ladies, they kept their own doubts 
 to themselves ; for at Framley Hall, as at present ten- 
 anted, female voices and female influences predomi- 
 nated over those which came from the other sex. 
 
 At Barchester, the cathedral city of the county in 
 which the Crawleys lived, opinion was violently 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 
 behoved a bishop's wife to do, and she had none of 
 that mingled weakness and ignorance which taught so 
 many ladies in Barsetshire 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 fre- 
 quently that Lady Lufton was a conceited old idiot, 
 and Lady Lufton would declare as frequently that 
 Mrs. Proudie 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
 
 WHAT THE WORLD THOUGHT ABOUT IT. 57 
 
 guilty of any crime. And as Mrs. Proudie believed, 
 so did the bi.shop believe. "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. 
 
 "Fiddlestick!" 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 convicted." 
 
 " But if he be acquitted, I cannot 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 in- 
 volved in debt ever since he has been there ; that you 
 have been pestered by letters from unfortunate trades- 
 men who cannot get their money from him? " 
 
 " That is true, my dear, certainly." 
 
 "And is that kind of thing to go on? He cannot 
 come to the palace as all clergymen should do, because 
 he has got no clothes to come in. I saw him once 
 about the lanes, and I never set my eyes on such an 
 object in my hfe! I would not believe that the man 
 was a clergyman till John told me. He is a disgrace 
 to the diocese, and he must be got rid of. I feel sure 
 of his guilt, and I hope he will be convicted. But if 
 he escape conviction, you must sequestrate the living 
 because of the debts. The income is enough to get 
 an excellent curate. It would just do for Thumble." 
 To all of which the bishop made no further reply, but 
 simply nodded his head and patted his apron. He 
 knew that he could not do exactly what his wife re- 
 quired of him ; but if it should so turn out that poor 
 Crawley was found to be guilty, then the matter would 
 be comparatively easy.
 
 58 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " It should be an example to us, that we should 
 look to our own steps, my dear," said the bishop. 
 
 " That 's all veiy well," said Mrs. 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 aheady heard what was said on the subject 
 at the house of Archdeacon Grantly. 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 which he entertained as to his son's in- 
 tended marriage with Grace Crawley tended to increase 
 the strength of his belief. Dr. Grantly had been a 
 very successful man of 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 anything 
 of misfortune should touch him, and mar the comely 
 roundness of his prosperity. He was very wealthy. 
 The wife of his bosom had been to him all that a wife 
 should be. His reputation in the clerical world stood 
 very high. He had lived all his life on terms of equal- 
 ity with the best of the gentry around him. His only 
 daughter had made a splendid mamage. His two 
 sons had hitherto done well in the world, not only as 
 regarded their happiness, but as to marriage also, and 
 as to social 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 rejoice 
 over him, — the Proudies who had been crushed to the
 
 WHAT THE WORLD THOUGHT ABOUT IT, 59 
 
 ground by the success of the Hartletop alliance ; and 
 how would the low-church curates who swarmed in 
 Barsetshire, gather together 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 arch- 
 deacon. " If Henry marines that girl my heart will 
 be broken." 
 
 But perhaps to no one except to the Crawleys them- 
 selves had the matter caused so much terrible anxiety 
 as to the archdeacon's son. He had told his father 
 that he had made no offer of marriage to Grace Craw- 
 ley, 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 makes such 
 offers simply necessary as the final closing of an ac- 
 cepted bargain. It was so at any rate between Major 
 Grantly and Miss Crawley, and Major Grantly ac- 
 knowledged to himself that it was so. He acknowl- 
 edged also to himself that as regarded Grace herself 
 he had no wish to get back from his implied intentions. 
 Nothing 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 con- 
 nection? He had a man's heart, and the poverty of 
 the Crawleys caused him no solicitude. But he shrank 
 from the contamination of a prison.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 GRACE CRAWLEY. 
 
 It has already been said that Grace Crawley was at 
 this time living with the two Miss Prettymans, who 
 kept a girls' school at Silverbridge. Two more benig- 
 nant ladies than the Miss Prettymans never presided 
 over such an establishment. The younger was fat, and 
 fresh, and fair, and seemed to be always running over 
 with the 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 gener- 
 ally that she was unable to take much active part in 
 the education of the 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 nothing 
 to hers ; that she was the most charitable, the most 
 loving, and the most conscientious of schoolmistresses. 
 This was Miss Annabella 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 
 
 60
 
 GRACE CRAWLEY. 6 I 
 
 air brought on neuralgia. She was therefore perhaps 
 taken to be magnificent, partly because she was un- 
 known. Miss Anne Prettyman, the younger, went 
 about frequently to tea-parties, — would go, indeed, to 
 any party to which she might be invited ; and was 
 known to have a pleasant taste for pound-cake and 
 sweetmeats. Being seen so much in the outer world, 
 she became 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 stories told? And all such 
 stories in Silverbridge were told with special reference 
 to Mr. Winthrop. 
 
 Miss Crawley, at present, lived with the Miss Pretty- 
 mans and assisted them in the school. This arrange- 
 ment had been going on 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 place of an ab- 
 sent superintendent, first for one month, then for an- 
 other, 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 fash- 
 ionable world of Silverbridge know that Grace Crawley 
 was a visitor with them, and not a teacher. " We pay 
 her no salary, or anything of that kind," said Miss 
 Anne Prettyman ; a statement, however, which was by 
 no means true, for during those four months the regu- 
 lar stipend had been paid to her ; and twice since then. 
 Miss Annabella Prettyman, who managed all the money
 
 62 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 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, there 
 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 his 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 approved 
 of Major Grantly's attentions. 
 
 But when this terrible affair came on about the 
 cheque which had been lost and found and traced to 
 Mr. Crawley's hands, Miss Anne Prettyman said noth- 
 ing further to Grace Crawley about Major Grantly. 
 It was not that she thought that Mr. Crawley was 
 guilty, but she knew enough of the world to be aware 
 that suspicion 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 right. He would never have gone back from 
 his word." " My dear," said Annabella, " I wish you 
 would not talk about popping. It is a terrible word." 
 " I shouldn't, to any one except you," said Anne. 
 
 There had come to Silverbridge some few months 
 since, on a visit to Mrs. Walker, a young lady from 
 Allington, in the neighbouring county, between whom 
 and Grace Crawley there had grown up from circum- 
 stances a warm friendship. Grace had a cousin in 
 London, — a clerk high up and well-to-do in a pubhc
 
 GRACE CRAWLEY. 63 
 
 office, a nephew 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 acknowledge more. Grace Crawley 
 had met the young lady at Silverbridge, and words had 
 been spoken about the cousin ; and though the 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 correspond. The name of 
 the lady was Miss Lily Dale, and the name of the wefl- 
 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 Crawley 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. 
 
 " Silverbridge, December, 186-. 
 
 " Dearest Lily, — I hardly know how to tell you what 
 has happened, it is so very terrible. But perhaps you 
 will have heard it already, as everybody is talking of it 
 here. It has got into the newspapers, and therefore 
 it cannot 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. 
 Soames, 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 penny that did
 
 64 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 not belong to him. You know how poor he is ; what 
 a hfe 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 letters) " is 
 monstrous. But, somehow, the circumstances 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 un- 
 fortunate. Everything 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, Mr. Walker, and 
 came to me afterwards 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 papa has 
 done nothing wrong ; but she says that the whole thing 
 is most mvsterious, and that she does not know how 
 to account for the money. Papa, you know, is not 
 like other people. He forgets things ; and is always 
 thinking, thinking, thinking of his great misfortunes. 
 Poor papa! My heart bleeds so when I remember 
 all his sorrows, that I hate myself for thinking about 
 myself. 
 
 " When mamma left me, — and it was then I first 
 knew that papa would really have to be tried, — I went 
 to Miss Annabella, and told her that I would go home. 
 She asked me why, and I said I would not disgrace 
 her house by staying in it. She got up and took me
 
 GRACE CRAWLEY. 65 
 
 in her arms, and there came a tear out of both her 
 dear old eyes, and she said that if anything evil came 
 to papa, — which she would not believe, as she knew 
 him to be a good man, — there should be a home in her 
 house not only for me, but for mamma and Jane. 
 Is n'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 remember that all people could not be like her, 
 who had nobody to look to but herself and her sister ; 
 and that at present I must task myself not to think of 
 that which I had been thinking of before. She did 
 not mention anybody's name, but of course I under- 
 stood very well what she meant ; and I suppose she is 
 right. I said nothing 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 then 1 did not say anything ; but of 
 course she 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 imprudent 
 she is. But it is all over now. Of course Miss Anna- 
 bella is right. He has got a great many people to 
 think of ; his father and mother, and his dariing 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 
 
 VOL. I. — 5
 
 66 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 OUT family are bom to be unfortunate, and then I tell 
 myself that I will never hope for anything again. 
 
 " Pray write to me soon. I feel as though nothing 
 on earth could comfort me, and yet I shall Uke to have 
 your letter. Dear, dear Lily, I am not even yet so 
 v.Tetched 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 us. Good- 
 bye, dearest Lily. 
 
 " Yoiu- affectionate friend, 
 
 " Grace Crawley." 
 
 " P.S. — I think I have made up my mind that I will 
 go back to Hogglestock at once if the magistrates 
 decide against papa. I think I should 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 Thursday, but it 
 will be better for our story that it should be given here 
 than postponed until the result of that meeting shall 
 have been told. Miss Dale's answer was as follows : — 
 
 " Allington, December, 186-. 
 
 " Dear Grace, — Your letter has made me very un- 
 happy. If it can at all comfort you to know that 
 mamma and I sympathise with you altogether, of 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
 
 GRACE CRAWLEY. 67 
 
 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 pity your 
 mother quite as much as I do him. 
 
 " As for Major Grantly, if he be such a man as I 
 took him to be from the httle I saw of him, all this 
 would make no difference to him. I am sure that it 
 ought to make none. Whether it should not make a 
 difference in you is another question. I think it should ; 
 and 1 think your answer to him should be that you 
 could not even consider any such proposition while 
 yovu" father was in so great trouble. I am so much 
 older than you, and seem to have had so much experi- 
 ence, 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 yotu: cousin all my life, almost ; and I 
 legard no one more kindly than I do him. When I 
 think 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 delighted 
 to have you here whenever it might suit you to come ; 
 and I add to this message my entreaty that you will 
 come at once. You say that you think you ought to 
 leave Miss Prettyman's for a while. I can well under- 
 stand 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
 
 68 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 mamma says, because I know your good sense. She 
 says that as the interest of the school may possibiy be 
 concerned, and as you have no regular engagement, 
 she thinks you ought to leave Silverbridge ; but she 
 says that it will be better that you come to us than that 
 you should go home. If you went home, people might 
 say that you had left in some sort of disgrace. Come 
 to us, and when all this has been put right, then you 
 go back to Silverbridge ; and then, if a certain per- 
 son speaks again, you can make a different answer. 
 Mamma quite understands that you are to come ; so 
 you have only got to ask your own mamma, and come 
 at once." 
 
 Tnis letter, as the reader will understand, did not 
 reach Grace Crawley till after the all-important Thurs- 
 day ; but before that day had come round, Grace had 
 told Miss Prettyman^ — had told both the Miss Pretty- 
 mans, — 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 father'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 
 Silverbridge in these days, as it would become her to 
 do if she retained her position. She did struggle gal- 
 lantly, and succeeded much more nearly than she was 
 herself aware. She was all but able to carry herself as 
 though no terrible accusation was being made against 
 her father. Of the struggle, however, she was not 
 herself the less conscious, and she told herself that on
 
 GRACE CRAWLEY. 69 
 
 that account also she must go. And then she must 
 go also because of Major 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 she should be away from Silverbridge. If 
 he spoke it she could only answer him by a negative ; 
 and if he were minded not to speak it, would it not be 
 better that she should leave herself the power of think- 
 ing that his silence had been caused by her absence, 
 and not by his 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. Dui"ing 
 these interviews an immense amount of business was 
 done, and the fortunes in hfe of some girls were said 
 to have been there made or marred ; as when, for in- 
 stance, Miss Crimpton had been advised to stay at 
 home with her uncle in England, instead of going out 
 with her sisters to India, both of which sisters were 
 married within three months of their landing at Bom- 
 bay. 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 effect- 
 ively 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-chair, my dear, and we can then talk 
 comfortably." The teachers, when they were closeted
 
 70 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 with Miss Prettyinan, were alwaj's asked to sit in the 
 arm-chair, whereas a small, straight-backed, imeasy 
 chair was kept for the use of the young ladies. And 
 there was, too, a stool of repentance, out against the 
 wall, very imcomfortable indeed for young ladies who 
 had not behaved themselves so prettily as young ladies 
 generally do. 
 
 Grace seated herself, and then began her speech 
 ver\' quickly. " Miss Prettyman," she said, " I have 
 made up my mind that I will go home, if you please." 
 
 " And why should you go home, Grace? Did I not 
 tell you that you should have a home here? " Miss 
 Prettyman had weak eyes, and was very small, and 
 had never possessed any claim to be called good-look- 
 ing. And she assumed nothing of majestical awe from 
 any adornment or studied amplification of the outward 
 woman by means of impressive trappings. The pos- 
 sessor of an unobsers'ant 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 othervs'ise than as a lady ha^'ing au- 
 thority in her own school. But within her own pre- 
 cincts, 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 Prettyman had asked, unconsciously acknowl- 
 edged the strength of the woman's manner. She 
 already stood rebuked for having proposed a plan 
 so ungracious, so unnecessary, and so unwise. 
 
 " I think I ought to be with mamma at present," 
 said Grace. 
 
 " Your mother has your sister with her." 
 
 " Yes, Miss Prettyman ; Jane is there."
 
 GRACE CRAWLEY. 7 1 
 
 " If there be no other reason, I cannot think that 
 that can be held to be a reason now. Of course your 
 mother would like to have you always ; 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 that 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, gathering her 
 courage, and collecting her words ; and after that she 
 spoke. " It is because of papa, and because of this 
 charge " 
 
 " But, Grace " 
 
 " I know what you are going to say. Miss Pretty- 
 man ; — 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 Prettjnnan ; I do indeed, but 
 I want to say this before you go on. I must go home, 
 and I know I ought. We are all disgraced, and I 
 won't stop here to disgrace the school. I know papa 
 has done nothing wrong ; but nevertheless we are dis- 
 graced. The police are to bring him in here on Thurs- 
 day, and ever}-body in Silverbridge will know it. It 
 cannot be right that I should be here teaching in the 
 school, while it is all going on : — and I won't. And, 
 Miss Prett}Tnan, I could n't do it, — indeed I could n't. 
 I can't bring myself to think of anxthing I am doing. 
 Indeed I can't : and then, Miss Prettyman, there are 
 other reasons." By the time she had proceeded thus
 
 72 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 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 to speak 
 through her tears. 
 
 " But I know," said Miss Prettyman. " I know 
 them all. I know all your reasons, and I tell you that 
 in my opinion you ought to remain where you are, and 
 not go away. The very reasons which to you are 
 reasons for yoiu- going, to me are 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 bear to have the 
 girls looking at me, and the servants." 
 
 Then Miss Prettyman paused awhile, thinking what 
 words of wisdom would be most appropriate in the 
 present conjuncture. But words of wisdom did not 
 seem to come easily to her, having for the moment 
 been banished by tenderness of heart. " Come here, 
 my love," she said at last. " Come here, Grace." 
 Slowly Grace got up from her seat and came round, 
 and stood by Miss Prettyman's elbow. Miss Pretty- 
 man pushed her chair a little back, and pushed herself 
 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 herself kneeling 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 Mi.ss Prettyman's 
 knuckles. " I love you as though you were my own,"
 
 GRACE CRAWLEY. 73 
 
 exclaimed the schoolmistress ; " and will you not trust 
 me, 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 
 anything that is in the least dishonourable." 
 
 " I know that you have not." 
 
 " No, nor has Anne." Miss Prettyman said this as 
 though no one in that house beyond herself and her 
 sister had a right to have any opinion 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 offend 
 you, I 'U— I '11 " 
 
 " They don't say anything. 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 enough, without having another 
 mouth to feed, and another head to shelter? You 
 have n't thought of that, Grace ! " 
 
 " Yes, I have." 
 
 " And as for the work, w'hilst you are not quite well 
 you shall not be troubled with teaching. I have some 
 old papers that want copying and settling, and you 
 shall sit here and do that just for an employment. 
 Anne knows that I 've long wanted to have it done, 
 and I '11 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 Prettyman's knee, and 
 still holding Miss Prettyman's hand. And then, at
 
 74 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF EARSET. 
 
 that moment, there came a tap at the door, gentle but 
 yet not humble, a tap which acknowledged, on the part 
 of the tapper, the supremacy in that room of the lady 
 who was sitting there, but which still claimed admit- 
 tance almost as a right. 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 her chair with a motion which 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 anything to 
 say," said Miss Prettyman, with an air which seemed 
 to be intended to assert her supremacy. But, in truth, 
 she was simply collecting the wisdom and dignity which 
 had been somewhat dissipated by her tenderness. 
 
 " I did not know that Grace Crawley was here," said 
 Miss Anne. 
 
 " Grace Crawley is here," said Miss Prettyman. 
 
 " What is the matter, Grace ? " said Miss 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 whose brow a heavy burden of 
 thought was lying, stopped her suddenly. " Grace, my 
 dear," she said, " go upstairs into your room, will you ? 
 — not across the hall to the school."
 
 CRACK CUAWLEY. 75 
 
 " And why should n't she go to the school ? " said 
 
 \f . --. 1 . "n,' rnz-nt, and then answered, — 
 
 unw; r. . ■ ' ' ^" make a reply w. 
 
 she knew to be indiscreet. " Because there is somcbofly 
 in the han." 
 
 " Go to your room, dear," said Miss Prcttyman. 
 And Grace went to her room, never ' 
 down towards the hall. "Who is i' Mi>> 
 
 Prctt)'man. 
 
 " Major Grantly is here, asking to see you," said 
 Miss Anne.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 MISS prettyman's private room. 
 
 Major Grantly, when threatened by his father 
 with pecuniary punishment, should he demean himself 
 by such a marriage as that he had proposed to himself, 
 had declared that he would offer his hand to Miss 
 Crawley on the next morning. This, however, he had 
 not done. He had not done it, partly because he 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 circumstances in which Grace 
 Crawley's father had placed himself. Henry Grantly 
 acknowledged, as he drove himself home on the morn- 
 ing after his dinner at the rectory, that in this matter 
 of his marriage he did owe much to his family. Should 
 he marry at all, he owed it to them to marry a lady. 
 And Grace Crawley, — so he told himself, — was a lady. 
 And he owed it to them to bring among them as his 
 wife a woman who should not disgrace him or them 
 by her education, manners, or even by her personal 
 appearance. In all these respects Grace Crawley was, 
 in his judgment, quite as good as they had a right to 
 expect her to be, and in some respects a great deal 
 superior to that type of womanhood with which they 
 had been most generally conversant. " If everybody 
 had her due, my sister is n't fit to hold a candle to her," 
 he said to himself. It must be acknowledged, there- 
 
 76
 
 MISS trettyman's private room. 77 
 
 fore, that he was really in love with Grace Crawley. 
 And he declared to himself, over and over again, that 
 his family had no right to demand that he should marry 
 a woman with money. The archdeacon's son by no 
 means despised money. How could he, having come 
 forth as a bird fledged from such a nest as the rectory 
 at Plumstead 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 Dunstable, — to that, and her 
 good-humour 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 by which 
 his family would be disgraced. Whether he was right 
 or wrong in supposing that he would disgrace his fam- 
 ily were he to marry the daughter of a convicted thief, 
 it is hardly necessary 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 offence of the father and the mother. 
 Even among the poor, who would willingly marry the 
 child of a man who had been hanged ? But he carried 
 the argument beyond this, thinking much of the mat- 
 ter, and endeavouring to think of it not only justly, 
 but generously. If the accusation against Crawley 
 were false, — if the man were being injured by an un- 
 just charge, — even if he, Grantly, could make himself 
 think that the girl's father had not stolen the money,
 
 78 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 then he would dare everything and go on. I do not 
 know that his argument 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 in- 
 nocent whether her father were guilty or not guilty. 
 If he were to be debarred from asking her for her hand 
 by his feehngs for his father and mother, he should 
 hardly have trusted to his own skill in ascertaining 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 Silverbridge whom he 
 presumed to be best informed on such matters, there 
 was a growing opinion that Mr. Crawley had stolen 
 the money. He was intimate with all the Walkers, 
 and was able to find out that Mrs. 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. Silverbridge, 
 generally, was endeavouring to dress itself in Mr. 
 Walker's glass, and to believe as Mr. Walker believed. 
 The ladies of Silverbridge, including the Miss Pretty- 
 mans, were aware that Mr. Walker had been very kind 
 both to Mr. and Mrs. Crawley, and argued from this 
 that Mr. Walker must think the man to be innocent. 
 But Henry Grantly, who did not dare to ask a direct 
 question of the solicitor, went cunningly to work, and 
 closeted 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
 
 MISS prettyman's private room. 
 
 79 
 
 her shoulders. She would have given a finger to be 
 able to whitewash Mr. Crawley in the major's estima- 
 tion. 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 words no opinion 
 was expressed. But there was the look of sorrow in 
 the woman's eye, thore wa; the absence of reference to 
 her husband's assurance thnt the man was innocent, 
 there was the air of settled grief which told of her own 
 conviction; — and the mr^jor left her, convinced that 
 Mrs. Walker believed Mr. Crawley to be guilty. 
 
 Then he went to Jarchester; not open-mouthed 
 with inquiry, but rather with open ears, and it seemed 
 to him that all men in Barchester were of one mind.' 
 There was a county-club in Barchester, and at this 
 county-club nine men out of every ten were talking 
 about Mr. Crawley. It was by no means neces.sary 
 hat a man should ask questions on the subject: 
 Opinion was expressed so freely that no such asking 
 was required ; and opinion in Barchester, — 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 innocent, even after he had said wrongly that the 
 cheque had been paid to him by Mr. Soames ; 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 cheque changed on his own behalf 
 is bound at least to show where he got the cheque. 
 Mr. Crawley had not onlv failed to do this, but had 
 given two false excuses. Henry Grantly, as he drove 
 home to Silverbridge on the Sunday afternoon, summed
 
 8o THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 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 Silverbridge 
 and called at Miss Prettyman's house. As he went 
 along his heart was warmer towards 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 had 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 her a right to expect that he would so bind him- 
 self. 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 altogether, he would probably have abstained from 
 saying anything at the present moment, — a wise man, 
 that is, in the ways and feelings of the world in such 
 matters. But, as there are men who will allow them- 
 selves all imaginable latitude in their treatment of 
 women, believing that the world will condone any 
 amount of fault of that nature, so are there other men, 
 and a class of men which on tlie whole is the more 
 numerous of the two, who are tremblingly alive to the 
 danger of censure on this head, — and to the danger of 
 censure not only from others, but from themselves 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 morning 
 after breakfast and walked to Silverbridge, and as he 
 walked he buiU various castles in the air. Why should 
 he not marry Grace, — if she would have him, — and
 
 MISS prettyman's private room. 8 1 
 
 take her away beyond the reach of her father's calam- 
 ity ? Why should he not throw over his own people 
 altogether, money, position, society, and all, and give 
 himself up to love ? Were he to do so, men might say 
 that he was foolish, but no one could hint that he was 
 dishonourable. His spirit was high enough to teach 
 him to think that such conduct on his part would have 
 in it something of magnificence ; but, yet, such was 
 not his purpose. In going to Miss Prettyman it was 
 his intention to apologise for not doing this magnificent 
 thing. His mind was quite made up. Nevertheless 
 he built those castles in the air. 
 
 It so happened that he encountered the younger 
 Miss Prettyman in the hall. It would not at all have 
 suited him to reveal to her the purport of his visit, or 
 ask her either to assist his suit or to receive his apolo- 
 gies. Miss Anne Prettyman was too common a per- 
 sonage in the Silverbridge world to be fit for such em- 
 ployment. Miss Anne Prettyman was, indeed, herself 
 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 receive 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 you on 
 business ; she will only be too proud. If you will be 
 kind enough to step in here for two minutes." Then 
 Miss Anne, having deposited the major in the little 
 parlour, ran upstairs 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 anything else. 
 
 VOl,. 1. — o
 
 82 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 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 the 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 supposed by your telling her not to go into 
 the hall. What has he come to say ? " 
 
 " How on earth can I tell you that, Annabella ? 
 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 would n'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 Hoggle- 
 stock," said Miss Prettyman. " But of course he must 
 come up now he is here. Would you mind telling 
 him ; — or shall I ring the bell ? " 
 
 " I '11 tell him. AVe 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 younger sis- 
 ter's voice as she made the last suggestion, which ought 
 to have melted the heart of the elder ; but it was un- 
 availing. "As he has asked to see me, I think you 
 had better not," said Annabella. Miss Anne Pretty- 
 man bore her cross meekly, offered no argument on the 
 subject, and returning to the little parlour where .she 
 liad left the major, brought him upstairs and ushered 
 him into her sister's room without even entering it 
 again, herself.
 
 MISS prettyman's private room. 83 
 
 Major Grantly was as intimately acquainted with 
 Miss Anne I'rettyman as a man under thirty may well 
 be with a lady nearer fifty than forty, who is not spe- 
 cially connected with him by any family tie; but of 
 Miss Pretty man he knew personally very much less. 
 Miss Prettyman, as has before been said, did not go 
 out, and was therefore not common to the eyes of the 
 Silverbridgians. She did occasionally see 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 be- 
 tween them there had hitherto existed none. He 
 might have spoken, perhaps, a dozen words to her in 
 his life. He had now more than a dozen to speak to 
 her, but he hardly knew how to commence them. 
 
 She had got up and curtseyed, and had then taken 
 his hand and asked him to sit down. " My sister 
 tells me that you want to see me," she said, in her 
 softest, mildest voice. 
 
 " I do, Miss Prettyman. I want to speak to you 
 about a matter that troubles me very much, — very 
 much indeed." 
 
 " Anything that I can do, Major Grantly " 
 
 " Thank you, yes. I know that you are very good, 
 or I should not have ventured to come to you. In- 
 deed I should n't trouble you now, of course, if it was 
 only about myself. I know very well what a great 
 friend you are to Miss Crawley." 
 
 " Yes, I am. We love Grace dearly here." 
 
 " So do I," said the major, bluntly ; " I love her 
 dearly, too." Then he paused, as though he thought 
 that Miss Prettyman ought to take up the speech. 
 But Miss Prettyman seemed to think differently, and
 
 84 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 he was obliged to go on. " I don't know whether 
 you have ever heard about it, or noticed it, or — or — 
 
 or " He felt that he was very awkward, and he 
 
 blushed. Major as he was, he blushed as he sat be- 
 fore the old woman, trying to tell his story, but not 
 knowing how to tell it. " The truth is. Miss Pretty- 
 man, I have done all but ask her to be my wife, and 
 now has come this terrible affair about her father." 
 
 "It is a terrible affair. Major Grantly; — very 
 terrible." 
 
 " By Jove, you may say that! " 
 
 " Of course Mr. Crawley is as innocent in the matter 
 as you or I are." 
 
 " You think so, Miss Prettyman ? " 
 
 " Think so ! I feel quite sure of it. What, a clergy- 
 man of the Church of England, a pious, hard-working 
 country clergyman, whom we have known among us 
 by his good works for years, suddenly turn thief, and 
 pilfer a few pounds! It is not possible. Major Grantly. 
 And the father of such a daughter, too! It is not 
 possible. It may do for men of business to think so, 
 lawyers and such hke, who are obliged to think in ac- 
 cordance with the evidence, as they call it ; but to my 
 mind the idea is monstrous. I don't know how he got 
 it, and I don't care ; but I 'm quite sure he did not 
 steal it. Who ever heard of anybody becoming so 
 base as that all at once ? " 
 
 The major was startled by her eloquence, and by 
 the indignant tone of voice in which it was expressed. 
 It seemed to tell him that she would give him no sym- 
 pathy in that which he had come to say to her, and 
 that she was prepared to upbraid him already in tliat 
 he was not prepared to do the magnificent thing of
 
 MISS prettyman's private room. 85 
 
 which he had thought when he had been building his 
 castles in the air. Why should he not do the magnifi- 
 cent thing ? Miss Prettyman's eloquence was so strong 
 that it half convinced him that the Barchester Club and 
 Mr. Walker had come to a wrong conclusion after all. 
 
 " And how does Miss Crawley bear it ? " he asked, 
 desirous of postponing for a while any declaration of 
 his own purpose. 
 
 " She is very unhappy, of course. Not that she 
 thinks evil of her father." 
 
 " Of course she does not think him guilty ? " 
 
 " Nobody thinks him so in this house, Major 
 Grantly," said the little woman, very imperiously. 
 " But Grace is, naturally enough, very sad ; — very sad 
 indeed. I do not think I can ask you to see her to- 
 day." 
 
 " I was not thinking of it," said the major. 
 
 " Poor, dear girl! it is a great trial for her. Do you 
 wish me to give her any message, Major Grantly ? " 
 
 The moment had now come in which he must say 
 that which he had come to say. The little woman 
 waited for an answer, and as he was there, within her 
 power as it were, he must speak. I fear that what he 
 said will not be approved by any strong-minded reader. 
 I fear that our lover will henceforth be considered by 
 such a one as being but a weak, wishy-washy man, 
 who had hardly any mind of his own to speak of ; — 
 that he was a man of no account, as the poor people 
 say. " Miss Prettyman, what message ought I to send 
 to her ? " he said. 
 
 " Nay, Major Grantly, how can I tell you that ? 
 How can I put words into your mouth ? " 
 
 " It is n't the words," he said ; " but the feelings."
 
 86 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " And how can I tell the feelings of your heart ? " 
 
 " Oh, as for that, I know what my feehngs are. I 
 do love her with all my heart ; — I do, indeed. A fort- 
 night ago I was only thinking whether she would accept 
 me when I asked her, — wondering whether I was too 
 old for her, and whether she would mind having Edith 
 to take care of." 
 
 " She is very fond of Edith, — very fond indeed." 
 
 " Is she ? " said the major, more distracted than 
 ever. Why should he not do the magnificent thing 
 after all ? " But it is a great charge for a young girl 
 when she marries." 
 
 " It is a great charge ; — a very great charge. It is 
 for you to think whether you should entrust so great a 
 charge to one so young." 
 
 " I have no fear about that at all." 
 
 " Nor should I have any, — as you ask me. We 
 have known Grace well, thoroughly, and are quite sure 
 that she will do her duty in that state of life to which 
 it may please God to call her." 
 
 The major was aware when this was said to him that 
 he had not come to Miss Prettyman for a character of 
 the girl he loved ; and yet he was not angry at receiv- 
 ing it. He was neither angry, nor even indifferent. 
 He accepted the character almost gratefully, though 
 he felt that he was being led away from his ])urpose. 
 He consoled himself for this, however, by remembering 
 that the path by which Miss Prettyman was now lead- 
 ing him, led to the magnificent, and to those pleasant 
 castles in the air which he had been buiUling as he 
 walked into Silverbridge. " I am quite sure lliat she 
 is all that you say," he replied. " Indeed, I had made 
 up my mind about that long ago."
 
 MISS prettyman's private room. 87 
 
 " And what can I do for you, Major Grantly ? " 
 
 " You think I ought not to see her ? " 
 
 " I will ask herself, if you please. I have such trust 
 in her judgment that I should leave her altgether to 
 her own discretion." 
 
 The magnificent thing must be done, and the major 
 made up his mind accordingly. Something of regret 
 came over his spirit as he thought of a father-in-law 
 disgi'aced and degraded, and of his own father broken- 
 hearted. But now there was hardly an alternative left 
 to him. And was it not the manly thing for him to 
 do ? He had loved the girl before this trouble had 
 come upon her, and was he not bound to accept the 
 burden which his love had brought with it ? "I will 
 see her," he said, " at once, if you will let me, and ask 
 her to be my wife. But I must see her alone." 
 
 Then Miss Prettyman paused. Hitherto she had 
 undoubtedly been playing her fish cautiously, or rather 
 her young friend's fish, — perhaps I may say cunningly. 
 She had descended to artifice on behalf of the girl 
 whom she loved, admired, and pitied. She had seen 
 some way into the man's mind, and had been partly 
 aware of his purpose, — of his infirmity of purpose, of 
 his double purpose. She had perceived that a word 
 from her might help Grace's chance, and had led the 
 man on till he had committed himself, at any rate to 
 her. In doing this she had been actuated by friend- 
 ship rather than by abstract principle. But now, when 
 the moment had come in which she must decide upon 
 some action, she paused. Was it right, for the sake 
 of either of them, that an offer of marriage should be 
 made at such a moment as this? It might be very 
 well, in regard to some future time, that the major
 
 88 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 should have so committed himself. She saw something 
 of the man's spirit, and beheved that, having gone so 
 far, having so far told his love, he would return to his 
 love hereafter, let the result of the Crawley trial be 
 what it might. But, — but, this could be no proper 
 time for love-making. Though Grace loved the man, 
 as Miss Prettyman knew well, — though Grace loved 
 the child, having allowed herself to long to call it her 
 own, — though such a mamage would be the making 
 of Grace's fortune as those who loved her could hardly 
 have hoped that it should ever have been made, she 
 would certainly refuse the man if he were to propose 
 to her now. She would refuse him, and then the man 
 would be free ; — free to change his mind if he thought 
 fit. Considering all these things, craftily in the exer- 
 cise of her friendship, too cunningly, I fear, to satisfy 
 the claims of a high morality, she resolved that the 
 major had better not see Miss Crawley at the present 
 moment. Miss Prettyman paused before she replied, 
 and, when she did speak. Major Grantly had risen 
 from his chair and was standing with his back to the 
 fire. " Major Grantly," she said, " you shall see her if 
 you please, and if she pleases ; but I doubt whether 
 her answer at such a moment as this would be that 
 which you would wish to receive." 
 
 " You think she would refuse me." 
 
 " I do not think that she would accept you now. 
 She would feel, — I am sure she would feel, that these 
 hours of her father's sorrow are not hours in which love 
 should be either offered or accepted. You shall, how- 
 ever, see her if you please." 
 
 The major allowed himself a moment for thought ; 
 and as he thought he sighed. Grace Crawley became
 
 MISS prettyman's private room. 89 
 
 more beautiful in his eyes than ever, was endowed by 
 these words from Miss Prettyman with new charms 
 and brighter virtues than he had seen before. Let 
 come what might he would ask her to be his wife 
 on some future day, if he did not so ask her now. 
 For the present, perhaps, he had better be guided by 
 Miss Prettyman. " Then I will not see her," he said. 
 
 " I think that will be the wiser course." 
 
 " Of course you knew before this that I — loved 
 her? " 
 
 " I thought so. Major Grantly." 
 
 "And that I intended to ask her to be my wife? " 
 
 " Well ; since you put the question to me so plainly, 
 I must confess that as Grace's friend I should not 
 (juite have let things go on as they have gone, — though 
 I am not at all disposed to interfere with any girl 
 whcm I believe to be pure and good as I know her to 
 be,- -but still I should hardly have been justified in 
 letting things go as they have gone, if I had not be- 
 liev:;d that such was your purpose." 
 
 " I wanted to set myself right with you, Miss 
 Prcityman." 
 
 " You are right with me — quite right ; " and she got 
 up and gave him her hand. " You are a fine, noble- 
 hearted gentleman, and I hope that our Grace may 
 live to be your happy wife, and the mother of your 
 dailing child, and the mother of other children. I do 
 not see how a woman could have a happier lot in life." 
 
 "And will you give Grace my love? " 
 
 " I will tell her at any rate that you have been here, 
 and that you have inquired after her with the great- 
 est kindness. She will understand what that means 
 without any word of love."
 
 90 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " Can I do anything for her, — or for her father ; I 
 mean in the way of — money? I don't mind mentioning 
 it to you, Miss Prettyman." 
 
 " I will tell her that you are to do it, if anything can 
 be done. For myself I feel no doubt that the mystery 
 will be cleared up at last ; and then, if you will come 
 here, we shall be so glad to see you; — I shall, at least." 
 
 Then the major went, and Miss Prettyman herself 
 actually descended with him into the hall, and bade 
 him farewell most affectionately before her sister and 
 two of the maids who came out to open the door. 
 Miss Anne Prettyman, when she saw the great friend- 
 ship with which the major was dismissed, could not 
 contain herself, but asked most impudent questions, 
 in a whisper indeed, but in such a whisper that any 
 sharp-eared maid-servant could hear and understand 
 them. " Is it settled," she asked, when her sister had 
 ascended only the first flight of stairs; — "has he 
 popped? " The look with which the elder sister pun- 
 ished and dismayed the younger, I would not have 
 borne for twenty pounds. She simply looked, and said 
 nothing, but passed on. When she had regained her 
 room she rang the bell, and desired the servant to ask 
 Miss Crawley to be good enough to step to her. Poor 
 Miss Anne retired discomfited into the solitude of one 
 of the lower rooms, and sat for some minutes all alone, 
 recovering from the shock of her sister's anger. "At 
 any rate he has n't popped," she said to herself, as she 
 made her way back to the school. 
 
 After that Miss Prettyman and Miss Crawley were 
 closeted together for about an hour. What passed 
 between them need not be repeated here word for 
 word ; but it may be understood that Miss Prettyman
 
 MISS prettyman's private room. 9X 
 
 said no more than she ought to have said, and that 
 Grace understood all that she ought to have under- 
 stood. " No man ever behaved with more consider- 
 ate friendship, or more like a gentleman," said Miss 
 Prettyman. 
 
 " I am sure he is very good, and I am so glad he 
 did not ask to see me," said Grace. Then Grace went 
 away, and Miss Prettyman sat awhile in thought, con- 
 sidering what she had done, not without some stings of 
 conscience. 
 
 Major Grantly, as he walked home, was not alto- 
 gether satisfied with himself, though he gave himself 
 credit for some diplomacy which I do not think he 
 deserved. He felt that Miss Prettyman and the world 
 in general, should the world in general ever hear any- 
 thing about it, would give him credit for having be- 
 haved well ; and that he had obtained this credit with- 
 out committing himself to the necessity of marrying the 
 daughter of a thief, should things turn out badly in 
 regard to the father. But, — and this but robbed him 
 of all the pleasure which comes from real success, — 
 but he had not treated Grace Crawley with the perfect 
 generosity which love owes, and he was in some degree 
 ashamed of himself. He felt, however, that he might 
 probably have Grace, should he choose to ask for her 
 when this trouble .should have passed by. "And I 
 will," he said to himself, as he entered the gate of his 
 own paddock, and saw his child in her perambulator 
 before the nurse. "And I will ask her, sooner or later, 
 let things go as they may." Then he took the peram- 
 bulator under his own charge for half-an-hour, to the 
 satisfaction of the nurse, of the child, and of himself.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 MR. CRAWLEY IS TAKEN TO SILVERBRIDGE. 
 
 It had become necessary on the Monday morning 
 that Mrs. Crawley should obtain from her husband an 
 undertaking that he would present himself before the 
 magistrates at Silverbridge on the Thursday. She had 
 been made to understand that the magistrates were 
 sinning against the strict rule of the law in not issuing 
 a warrant at once for Mr. Crawley's apprehension; 
 and that they were so sinning at the instance of Mr. 
 Walker, — at whose instance they would have commit- 
 ted almost any sin practicable by a board of English 
 magistrates, so great was their faith in him ; and she 
 knew that she was bound to answer her engagement. 
 She had also another task to perform — that, namely, 
 of persuading him to employ an attorney for his de- 
 fence ; and she was prepared with the name of an at- 
 torney, one Mr. Mason, also of Silverbridge, who had 
 been recommended to her by Mr. Walker. But when 
 she came to the performance of these two tasks on the 
 Monday morning, she found that she was unable to 
 accomplish either of them. Mr. Crawley first declared 
 that he would have nothing to do with any attorney. 
 As to that he seemed to have made up his mind before- 
 hand, and she saw at once that she had no hope of 
 shaking him. But when she found that he was equally 
 obstinate in the other matter, and that he declared that 
 
 92
 
 MR. CRAWLEY IS TAKEN TO SILVERBRIDGE. 93 
 
 he would not go before the magistrates unless he were 
 made to do so, — unless the policeman came and fetched 
 him, then she almost sank beneath the burden of her 
 troubles, and for a while was disposed to let things go 
 as they would. 
 
 On the Sunday the poor man had exerted himself to 
 get through his Sunday duties, and he had succeeded. 
 He had succeeded so well that his wife had thought 
 that things might yet come right with him, that he 
 would remember, before it was too late, the true history 
 of that unhappy bit of paper, and that he was rising 
 above that half-madness which for months past had 
 afflicted him. On the Sunday evening, when he was 
 tired with his work, she thought it best to say nothing 
 to him about the magistrates and the business of Thurs- 
 day. But on the Monday morning she commenced 
 her task, feeling that she owed it to Mr. Walker to lose 
 no more time. He was very decided in his manners, 
 and made her understand that he would employ no 
 lawyer on his own behalf. "Why should I want a 
 lawyer? I have done nothing ^vrong," he said. Then 
 she tried to make him understand that many who may 
 have done nothing Avrong require a lawyer's aid. "And 
 who is to pay him? " he asked. To this she replied, 
 unfortunately, that there would be no need of thinking 
 of that at once. "And I am to get further into debt ! " 
 he said. " I am to put myself right before the world 
 by incurring debts which I know I can never pay? 
 When it has been a question of food for the children I 
 have been weak, but I will not be weak in such a mat- 
 ter as this. I will have no lawyer." She did not re- 
 gard this denial on his part as very material, though 
 she would fain have followed Mr. Walker's advice had
 
 94 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 she been able ; but when, later in the day, he declared 
 that the police should fetch him, then her spirit gave 
 way. Early in the morning he seemed to assent to the 
 expediency of going into Silverbridge on the Thursday, 
 and it was not till after he had worked himself into a 
 rage about the proposed attorney that he utterly re- 
 fused to make the journey. During the whole day, 
 however, his state was such as almost to break his 
 wife's heart. He would do nothing. He would not 
 go to the school, nor even stir beyond the house-door. 
 He would not open a book. He would not eat, nor 
 would he even sit at table or say the accustomed grace 
 when the scanty midday meal was placed upon the 
 table. " Nothing is blessed to me," he said, when his 
 wife pressed him to say the words for their child's sake. 
 " Shall I say that I thank God when my heart is 
 thankless? Shall I serve my child by a lie?" Then 
 for hours he sat in the same position, in the old arm- 
 chair, hanging over the fire speechless, sleepless, think- 
 ing ever, as she well knew, of the injustice of the world. 
 She hardly dared to speak to him, so great was the 
 bitterness of his words when he was goaded to reply. 
 At last, late in the evening, feeling that it would be her 
 duty to send in to Mr. Walker early on the following 
 morning, she laid her hand gently on his shoulder and 
 asked him for his promise. " I may tell Mr. Walker 
 that you will be there on Thursday? " 
 
 " No," he said, shouting at her. " No. I will have 
 no such message sent." She started back, trembling. 
 Not that she was accustomed to tremble at his ways, 
 or to show that she feared him in his paroxysms, but 
 that his voice had been louder than she had before 
 known it. " I will liokl no intercourse with them
 
 MR. CRAWLEY IS TAKEN TO SILVERBRIDGE, 95 
 
 at Silverbridge in this matter. Do you hear me, 
 Mary?" 
 
 " I hear you, Josiah ; but I must keep my word to 
 Mr. Walker. I promised that I would send to him." 
 
 " Tell him, then, that I will not stir a foot out of 
 this house on Thursday of my own accord. On 
 Thursday I shall be here ; and here I will remain all 
 day, — unless they take me hence by force." 
 
 " But, Josiah " 
 
 " Will you obey me, or shall I walk into Silverbridge 
 myself and tell the man that I will not come to him? " 
 Then he arose from his cliair and stretched forth his 
 hand to his hat as though he was going forth immedi- 
 ately, on his way to Silverbridge. The night was now 
 pitch dark, and the rain was faUing, and abroad he 
 would encounter all the severity of the pitiless winter. 
 Still it might have been better that he should have 
 gone. The exercise and the fresh air, even the wet 
 and the mud, would have served to bring back his 
 mind to reason. But his wife thought of the misery 
 of the journey, of his scanty clothing, of his worn 
 boots, of the need there was to preserve the raiment 
 which he wore ; and she remembered that he was fast- 
 ing, — that he had eaten nothing since the morning, and 
 that he was not fit to be alone. She stopped him, 
 therefore, before he could reach the door. 
 
 "Your bidding shall be done," she said, — "of 
 course." 
 
 " Tell them, then, that they must seek me here if 
 they want me." 
 
 " But, Josiah, think of the parish, — of the people 
 who respect you. For their sakes let it not be said 
 that you were taken away by policemen."
 
 96 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 "Was St. Paul not bound in prison? Did he think 
 of what the people might see? " 
 
 " If it were necessary, I would encourage you to 
 bear it without a murmm\" 
 
 "It is necessary, whether you murmur, or do not 
 murmur. Murmur, indeed! Why does not your 
 voice ascend to heaven with one loud wail against the 
 cruelty of man? " Then he went forth from the room 
 into an empty chamber on the other side of the pas- 
 sage ; and his wife, when she followed him there after 
 a few minutes, found him on his knees, with his fore- 
 head against the floor, and with his hands clutching at 
 the scanty hairs of his head. Often before had she 
 seen him so, on the same spot, half grovelling, half 
 prostrate in prayer, reviling in his agony all things 
 around him, — nay, nearly all things above him, — and 
 yet striving to reconcile himself to his Creator by the 
 humiliation of confession. 
 
 It might be better with him now if only he could 
 bring himself to some softness of heart. Softly she 
 closed the door, and placing the candle on the mantel- 
 shelf, softly she knelt beside him, and softly touched 
 his hands with hers. He did not stir nor utter a word, 
 but seemed to clutch at his thin locks more violently 
 than before. Then she kneeling there, aloud, but with 
 low voice, with her thin hands clasped, uttered a prayer 
 in which she asked her God to remove from her hus- 
 band the bitterness of that hour. He listened till she 
 had finished, and then he rose slowly to his feet. " It 
 is in vain," said he. " It is all in vain. It is all in 
 vain." Then he returned back to the parlour, and 
 seating himself again in the arm-chair, remained there 
 without speaking till past midnight. At last, when
 
 MR. CRAWLEY IS TAKEN TO SILVERBRIDGE. 97 
 
 she told him that she herself was very cold, and re- 
 minded him that for the last hour there had been no 
 fire, still speechless, he went up with her to their bed. 
 
 Early on the following morning she contrived to let 
 him know that she was about to send a neighbour's 
 son over with a note to Mr. Walker, fearing to urge 
 him further to change his mind ; but hoping that he 
 might express his purpose of doing so when he heard 
 that the letter was to be sent ; but he took no notice 
 whatever of her words. At this moment he was read- 
 ing Greek with his daughter, or rather rebuking her 
 because she could not be induced to read Greek. 
 
 " Oh, papa," the poor girl said, " don't scold me 
 now. I am so unhappy because of all this." 
 
 " And am not I unhappy? " he said, as he closed the 
 book. " My God, what have I done against thee, that 
 my hues should be cast in such terrible places? " 
 
 The letter was sent to Mr. Walker. "He knows 
 himself to be innocent," said the poor wife, writing 
 what best excuse she knew how to make, " and thinks 
 that he should take no step himself in such a matter. 
 He will not employ a lawyer, and he says that he 
 should prefer that he should be sent for, if the law re- 
 quires his presence at Silverbridge on Thursday." All 
 this she wrote, as though she felt that she ought to 
 employ a high tone in defending her husband's pur- 
 pose ; but she broke down altogether in the few words 
 of the postscript : " Indeed, indeed I have done what 
 I could!" Mr. Walker understood it all, both the 
 high tone and the subsequent fall. 
 
 On the Thursday morning, at about ten o'clock, a 
 fly stopped at the gate of the Hogglestock Parsonage, 
 and out of it there came two men. One was dressed 
 
 VOL, I. — 7
 
 98 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 in ordinary black clothes, and seemed from his bearing 
 to be a respectable man of the middle class of life. 
 He was, however, the superintendent of police for the 
 Silverbridge district. The other man was a poHceman, 
 pure and simple, with the helmet-looking hat and all 
 the ordinary half-miUtary and wholly disagreeable out- 
 ward adjuncts of the profession. " Wilkins," said the 
 superintendent, " likely enough I shall want you, for 
 they tell me the gent is uncommon strange. But if I 
 don't call you when I come out, just open the door like 
 a servant, and mount up on the box when we 're in. 
 And don't speak nor say nothing." Then the senior 
 pohceman entered the house. 
 
 He found Mrs. Crawley sitting in the parlour with 
 her bonnet and shawl on, and Mr. Crawley in the arm- 
 chair, leaning over the fire. " I suppose we had better 
 go with you," said Mrs. Crawley directly the door was 
 opened ; for of course she had seen the arrival of the 
 fly from the window. 
 
 " The gentleman had better come with us, if he '11 
 be so kind," said Thompson. " I 've brought a close 
 carriage for him." 
 
 " But I may go with him ? " said the wife, with 
 frightened voice. " I may accompany my husband. 
 He is not well, sir, and wants assistance." 
 
 Thompson thought about it for a moment before he 
 spoke. There was room in the fly for only two, or if 
 for three, still he knew his place better than to thrust 
 himself inside together with his prisoner and his pris- 
 oner's wife. He had been specially asked by Mr. 
 Walker to be very civil. Only one could sit on the 
 box with the driver, and if the request was conceded 
 the poor poUceman must walk back. The walk, how-
 
 MR. CRAWLEY IS TAKEN TO SILVERBRIDGE. 99 
 
 ever, would not kill the policeman. "All right, 
 ma'am," said I'hompson ; — " that is, if the gentleman 
 will just pass his word not to get out till I ask him." 
 " He will not! He will not! " said Mrs. Crawley. 
 " I will pass my word for nothing," said Mr. 
 Crawley. 
 
 Upon hearing this, Thompson assumed a very long 
 face, and shook his head as he turned his eyes first 
 towards the husband and then towards the wife, and 
 shrugged his shoulders, and compressing his hps, blew 
 out his breath, as though in this way he might blow off 
 some of the mingled sorrow and indignation with which 
 the gentleman's words afflicted him. 
 
 Mrs. Crawley rose and came close to him. " You 
 may take my word for it, he will not stir. You may 
 indeed. He thinks it incumbent on him not to give 
 any undertaking himself, because he feels himself to 
 be so harshly used." 
 
 " I don't know about harshness," said Thompson, 
 
 brindling up. "A close carriage brought and " 
 
 " I will walk. If I am made to go, I will walk," 
 shouted Mr. Crawley. 
 
 " I did not allude to you, — or to Mr. Walker," said 
 the poor wife. " I know you have been most kind. I 
 meant the harshness of the circumstances. Of course 
 he is innocent, and you must feel for him." 
 
 " Yes, I feel for him, and for you too, ma'am." 
 "That is all I meant. He knows his own inno- 
 cence, and therefore he is unwilling to give way in 
 anything." 
 
 " Of course he knows hisself, that 's certain. But 
 he 'd better come in the can-iage if only because of the 
 dirt and slush."
 
 lOO THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " He will go in the carriage ; and I will go with him. 
 There will be room there for you, sir." 
 
 Thompson looked up at the rain, and told himself 
 that it was very cold. Then he remembered Mr. 
 Walker's injunction, and bethought himself that Mrs. 
 Crawley, in spite of her poverty, was a lady. He 
 conceived even unconsciously the idea that something 
 was due to her because of her poverty. "I '11 go with 
 the driver," said he, " but he '11 only give hisself a deal 
 of trouble if he attempts to get out." 
 
 " He won't ; he won't," said Mrs. Crawley. " And 
 I thank you with all my heart." 
 
 " Come along, then," said Thompson. 
 
 She went up to her husband, hat in hand, and, look- 
 ing round to see that she was not watched, put the 
 hat on his head, and then lifted him as it were from 
 his chair. He did not refuse to be led, and allowing 
 her to throw round his shoulders the old cloak which 
 was hanging in the passage, he passed out, and was 
 the first to seat himself in the Silverbridge fly. His 
 wife followed him, and did not hear the blandishments 
 with which Thompson instructed his myrmidon to fol- 
 low tlirough the mud on foot. Slowly they made their 
 way through the lanes, and it was nearly twelve when 
 the fly was driven into the yard of the George and 
 Vulture at Silverbridge. 
 
 Silverbridge, though it was blessed with a mayor and 
 corporation, and was blessed also with a Member of 
 Parliament all to itself, was not blessed with any court- 
 house. The magistrates were therefore compelled to 
 sit in the big room at the George and Vulture, in which 
 the county balls were celebrated, and the meeting of 
 the West Barsetshire freemasons was held. That part
 
 MR. CRAWLEY IS TAKEN TO SILVERBRIDGE, lOI 
 
 of the country was, no doubt, very much ashamed of 
 its backwardness in this respect, but as yet nothing had 
 been done to remedy the evil. Thompson and his fly 
 were therefore driven into the yard of the Inn, and 
 Mr. and Mrs. Crawley were ushered by him up into 
 a little bed-chamber close adjoining to the big room 
 in which the magistrates were already assembled. 
 " There 's a bit of fire here," said Thompson, " and 
 you can make yourselves a little warm." He himself 
 was shivering with the cold. " When the gents is 
 ready in there, I '11 just come and fetch you." 
 
 " I may go in with him? " said Mrs. Crawley. 
 
 " I '11 have a chair for you at the end of the table, 
 just nigh to him," said Thompson. "You can slip 
 into it and say nothing to nobody." Then he left 
 them and went away to the magistrates. 
 
 Mr. Crawley had not spoken a word since he had 
 entered the vehicle. Nor had she said much to him, 
 but had sat with him holding his hand in hers. Now 
 he spoke to her, — "Where is it that we are?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " At Silverbridge, dearest." 
 
 " But what is this chamber? And why are we here? " 
 
 " We are to wait here till the magistrates are ready. 
 They are in the next room." 
 
 "But this is the Inn?" 
 
 " Yes, dear, it is the Inn." 
 
 "And I see crowds of people about." There were 
 crowds of people about. There had been men in the 
 yard, and others standing about on the stairs, and the 
 public room was full of men who were curious to see 
 the clergyman who had stolen twenty pounds, and to 
 hear what would be the result of the case before the
 
 102 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 magistrates. He must be committed ; so, at least, 
 said everybody ; but then there would be the question 
 of bail. Would the magistrates let him out on bail, 
 and who would be the bailmen? " Why are the peo- 
 ple here? " said Mr. Crawley. 
 
 " I suppose it is the custom when the magistrates 
 are sitting," said his wife. 
 
 "They have come to see the degradation of a 
 clergyman," said he ; — " and they will not be disap- 
 pointed." 
 
 " Nothing can degrade but guilt," said his wife. 
 
 "Yes, — misfortune can degrade, and poverty. A 
 man is degraded when the cares of the world press so 
 heavily upon him that he cannot rouse himself. They 
 have come to look at me as though I were a hunted 
 beast." 
 
 "It is but their custom always on such days." 
 
 " They have not always a clergyman before them as 
 a criminal." Then he was silent for a while, while she 
 was chafing his cold hands. " Would that I were 
 dead, before they had brought me to this! Would 
 that I were dead!" 
 
 " Is it not right, dear, that we should all bear what 
 He sends us? " 
 
 " Would that I were dead ! " he repeated. " The 
 load is too heavy for me to bear, and I would that I 
 were dead ! " 
 
 The time seemed to be very long before Thompson 
 returned and asked them to accompany him into the 
 big room. When he did so, Mr. Crawley grasped hold 
 of his chair as though he had resolved that he would 
 not go. But his wife whispered a word to him, and 
 he obeyed her. " He will follow me," she said to the
 
 MR. CRAWLEY IS TAKEN TO SILVERBRIDGE. IO3 
 
 policeman. And in that way they went from the small 
 room into the large one. Thompson went first ; Mrs. 
 Crawley with her veil down came next ; and the 
 wretched man followed his wife, with his eyes fixed 
 upon the ground and his hands clasped together upon 
 his breast. He could at first have seen nothing, and 
 could hardly have known where he was when they 
 placed him in a chair. She, with a better courage, 
 contrived to look round through her veil, and saw that 
 there was a long board or table covered with green 
 cloth, and that six or seven gentlemen were sitting at 
 one end of it, while there seemed to be a crowd stand- 
 ing along the sides and about the room. Her husband 
 was seated at the other end of the table, near the cor- 
 ner, and round the corner, — so that she might be close 
 to him, — her chair had been placed. On the other 
 side of him there was another chair, now empty, in- 
 tended for any professional gentleman whom he might 
 choose to employ. 
 
 There were five magistrates sitting there. Lord 
 Lufton, from Framley, was in the chair; — a handsome 
 man, still young, who was very popular in the county. 
 The cheque which had been cashed had borne his sig- 
 nature, and he had consequently expressed his intention 
 of not sitting at the board ; but Mr. Walker, desirous 
 of having him there, had overruled him, showing him 
 that the loss was not his loss. The cheque, if stolen, 
 had not been stolen from him. He was not the prose- 
 cutor. " No, by Jove," said Lord Lufton ; " if I could 
 quash the whole thing, I 'd do it at once!" 
 
 " You can't do that, my lord, but you may help us 
 at the board," said Mr. Walker. 
 
 Then there was the Hon. George De Courcy, Lord
 
 I04 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAPSET. 
 
 De Courcy's brother, from Castle Courcy. Lord De 
 Conrcy did not live in the county, but his brother did 
 so, and endeavoured to maintain the glory of the fam- 
 ily by the discretion of his conduct. He was not, per- 
 haps, among 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 this, obeying 
 Mr. Walker in all things. Dr. Tempest was also there, 
 the rector of the parish, he being both magistrate and 
 clergyman. There were many in Silverbridge who 
 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 what was said about him in 
 Silverbridge. He had become so accustomed to the 
 hfe he led as to like to be disliked, and to be en- 
 amoured of unpopularity. So when Mr. AValker had 
 ventured to suggest to him that, perhaps, he might not 
 choose to be there, he had laughed Mr. Walker to 
 scorn. " Of course I shall be there," he said. " I am 
 interested in the case, — very much interested. Of 
 course I shall be there." And had not Lord Lufton 
 been present he would have made himself more con- 
 spicuous by taking the chair. Mr. Fothergill was the 
 fourth. Mr. Fothergill was man of business to the 
 Duke of Omnium, who was the great owner of property 
 in and about Silverbridge, and he was the most active 
 magistrate in that part of the county. He was a sharp 
 man, and not at all likely to have any predisposition 
 in favour of a clergyman. The fifth was Dr. Thome, 
 of Chaldicotes, a gentleman whose name has been 
 already mentioned in these pages. He had been for 
 many years a medical man practising in a little village
 
 MR. CRAWLEY IS TAKEN TO SILVERBRIDGE. 1 05 
 
 in the further end of the county ; but it had come to 
 be his fate, late in hfe, to marry a great heiress, with 
 whose money the ancient house and domain of Chaldi- 
 cotes had been purchased from the Sowerbys. Since 
 then Dr. Thome had done his duty well as a country 
 gentleman, — not, however, without some little want of 
 smoothness between him and the duke's people. 
 
 Chaldicotes lay next to the duke's territory, and the 
 duke had wished to buy Chaldicotes. When Chaldi- 
 cotes 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 Mr. Fothergill. 
 Hence it had come to pass that there had not always 
 been smoothness between the duke's people and the 
 Chaldicotes people. It was now rumoured that Dr. 
 Thorne intended to stand for the county on the next 
 vacancy, and that did not tend to make things 
 smoother. On the right hand of Lord Lufton sat Lord 
 George and Mr, Fothergill, and beyond Mr. Fothergill 
 sat Mr. Walker, and beyond Mr. Walker sat Mr. 
 Walker's clerk. On the left hand of the chairman 
 were Dr. Tempest and Dr. Thorne, and a httle lower 
 down was Mr. Zachary Winthrop, who held the situa- 
 tion of clerk to the magistrates. Many people in Sil- 
 verbridge said that this was all wrong, as Mr, Winthrop 
 was partner with Mr. Walker, who was always em- 
 ployed before the magistrates if there was any employ- 
 ment going for an attorney. For this, however, Mr. 
 Walker cared very little. He had so much of his own 
 way in Silverbridge, that he was supposed to care 
 nothing for anybody. 
 
 There were many other gentlemen in the room, and 
 some who knew Mr. Crawley with more or less inti-
 
 I06 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 macy. He, however, took notice of no one, and when 
 one friend, who had really known him well, came up 
 behind and spoke to him gently leaning over his chair, 
 the poor man hardly recognised 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. Robarts, 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 '11 tell you why 
 I have come. I suppose this inquiry will finish the 
 whole affair and clear up whatever may be the diffi- 
 culty. But should it not do so, it may be just possible, 
 Mrs. Crawley, that something may be said about bail. 
 I don't understand much about it, and I dare say you 
 do not either ; but if there should be anything of that 
 sort, let Mr. Crawley name me. A brother clergyman 
 will be best, and I '11 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 attorney standing 
 behind him, Mr. Mason. " I '11 go to him," said 
 Walker, "and try to arrange it." So Mr. Walker 
 seated himself in the empty chair beside Mr. Crawley, 
 and endeavoured to explain to the wretched man, that 
 he would do well to allow Mr. Mason to assist him. 
 Mr. Crawley seemed to Hsten 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
 
 MR. CRAWLEY IS TAKEN TO SILVERBRIDGE. 1 07 
 
 for it." Mr. Mason made a quick movement forward, 
 intending to explain that that consideration need offer 
 no impediment, but was stopped by fiu-ther speech 
 from Mr. Crawley. " I will have no one to help me," 
 said he, standing upright, and for the first time remov- 
 ing 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 in- 
 vited more than once by Lord Lufton to do so. 
 
 We need not go through all the evidence that was 
 brought to bear upon the question. It was proved 
 that money for the cheque was paid to Mr. Crawley's 
 messenger, and that this money was given to Mr. 
 Crawley. When there occiured some little delay in 
 the chain of evidence necessary to show that Mr. 
 Crawley had signed and sent the cheque and got the 
 money, he became impatient. " Why do you trouble 
 the man?" he said. "I had the cheque, 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 cheque came back from the London bank ; how 
 at first they had both thought that Mr. Crawley could 
 of course explain the matter, and how he had explained 
 it by a statement which was manifestly untrue. Then 
 there was evidence to prove that the cheque 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 remembering sums. But I saw that I had
 
 Io8 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 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 so 
 much spirit, but with so much reason, that his wife 
 began to hope that the importance of the occasion had 
 brought back the clearness of his mind, and that he 
 would, even now, be able to place himself right as the 
 inquiry went on. Then it was explained that Mr. 
 Crawley had stated that the cheque had been given to 
 him by Dean Arabin, as soon as it was shown that it 
 could not have been given to him by Mr. Soames. In 
 reference to this, Mr. Walker was obhged to explain 
 that application 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 which this fifty pounds had con- 
 sisted had been traced back to Mr. Crawley, and that 
 they had had no connection with the cheque or with 
 the money which had been given for the cheque at the 
 bank. 
 
 Mr. Soames stated that he had lost the cheque with 
 a pocket-book ; that he had certainly lost it on the day 
 on which he had called on Mr. Crawley at Hoggle- 
 stock; and that he missed his pocket-book on his 
 journey back from Hogglestock 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. He had written 
 and sent to Mr. Crawley to inquire, but had been as- 
 sured that nothing had been fond. There had been 
 no other property of value in the pocket-book, — noth- 
 ing but a few visiting-cards and a memorandum, and
 
 "/ laas driven by shame to keep it.''
 
 wWi^'i'* xaw \"
 
 MR. CRAWLEY IS TAKEN TO SILVERBRIDGE. 1 09 
 
 he had therefore stopped the cheque 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 cheque. The question was 
 first put by Lord Lufton ; but it soon fell into Mr. 
 Walker's hands, who certainly 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 
 to 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 pressed 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 enclosure, " so that the touch of the 
 coin might not add to my disgrace in taking his alms," 
 said the wretched man, thus speaking openly and freely 
 in his agony of the shame which he had striven so per- 
 sistently to hide. He had not seen the dean's moneys 
 as they had been given, and he had thought that the 
 cheque 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
 
 no THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 the magistrates had no alternative but to commit the 
 gentleman. To this Lord Lufton demurred, and with 
 him Dr. Thome. 
 
 " I believe, as I am sitting here," said Lord Lufton, 
 " that he has told the truth, and that he does not know 
 any more than I do from whence the cheque came." 
 
 " I am quite siu-e he does not," said Dr. Thorne. 
 
 Lord George remarked that it was the " queerest go 
 he had ever come across." Dr. Tempest merely shook 
 his head. Mr. Fothergill pointed out that even sup- 
 posing the gentleman's statement to be true, it by no 
 means went towards establishing the gentleman's inno- 
 cence. The cheque had been traced to the gentle- 
 man's hands, and the gentleman was bound to show 
 how it had come into his possession. Even supposing 
 that the gentleman had found the cheque in his house, 
 which was likely enough, he was not thereby justified in 
 changing it, and applying the proceeds to his own pur- 
 poses. Mr. Walker told them that Mr. Fothergill was 
 right, and that the only excuse to be made for Mr. 
 Crawley 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 magistrate, turned his 
 back at once upon the duke's agent ; but within three 
 minutes afterwards he had submitted to the same 
 instructions from Mr. Walker. 
 
 Mr. Crawley had again seated himself, anil during
 
 MR. CRAWLEY IS TAKEN TO SILVERBRIDGE. Ill 
 
 this period of the affair 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 touch- 
 ing him with her hand, and waiting behind her veil till 
 she should be made to understand what was the de- 
 cision of the magistrates. This was at last communi- 
 cated to her, — and to him, — in a whisper by Mr. 
 Walker. Mr. Crawley must understand that he was 
 committed to take his trial at Earchester, at the next 
 assizes, which would 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 bailmen were ready, and that the bail-bond was 
 prepared. The bailmen were to be the Rev. Mr. 
 Robarts and Major Grantly. In five minutes the bond 
 was signed and Mr. Crawley was at liberty to go away, 
 a free man, — till the Earchester Assizes should come 
 round in April. 
 
 Of all that was going on at this time Mr. Crawley 
 knew httle or nothing, and Mrs. Crawley 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 wretched wife. 
 Eut what comfort or 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 them.
 
 112 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 They were taken home again in the fly, returning 
 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 yoiu: head and trust." 
 
 "There is a way out of it," he said. "There is a 
 Avay. There is but one way." When he had so 
 spoken she said no more, but resolved that her eye 
 should never be off him, no, — not for a moment. 
 Then, when she had gotten him once more into that 
 front parlour, she threw her arms round him and kissed 
 him.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 GRACE CRAWLEY GOES TO ALLINGTON. 
 
 The tidings of what had been done by the magis- 
 trates at their petty sessions was communicated the 
 same night to Grace Crawley by Miss PrettjTnan, 
 Miss Anne Prettyman had heard the news within five 
 minutes of the execution of the bail-bond, and had 
 rushed to her sister with information as to the event. 
 " They have found him guilty ; they have, indeed. 
 They have convicted him, — or whatever it is, because 
 he could n't say where he got it." " You do not mean 
 that they have sent him tc^ prison? " " No; — not to 
 prison ; not as yet, that is. I don't understand it alto- 
 gether ; but he 's to be tried 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 learned that Mr. 
 Crawley had not been sent away scathless, but had 
 been condemned, as it were, to a public trial at the 
 assi2es. And yet she would have done anything in her 
 power to save Grace Crawley, or even to save her 
 father. And it must be explained that Miss Anne 
 Prettyman was supposed to be specially efficient in 
 teaching Roman histon,- to her pupils, although she 
 
 VOL. I. — 8 113
 
 114 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 was SO manifestly ignorant of the course of law in the 
 country in which she lived. " Committed him," said 
 Miss Prettyman, correcting 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 Major 
 Grantly is to be the bailman, and there is to be another 
 trial at Barchester." " There cannot 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." " Exacdy ; — that 's just 
 it." Had Lord Lufton appeared as praetor, and had 
 Thompson walked before him as lictor, carrying the 
 fasces, Miss Anne would have known more about it. 
 
 The sad tidings were not told to Grace till the even- 
 ing. Mrs. Crawley, when the inquiry was o^'er before 
 the magistrates, would fain have had herself driven to 
 the Miss Prettymans' school that she might see her 
 daughter ; but she felt tliat to be impossible while her 
 husband was in her charge. The father would of 
 course have gone to his child, had the visit been sug- 
 gested to him ; but that would have caused another 
 terrible scene ; and the mother, considering it all in her 
 mind, thought it better to abstain. Miss Prettyman 
 did her best to make poor Grace think that the affair 
 had gone so far favourably, — did her best, that is, witli- 
 out saying anything 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
 
 GRACE CRAWLEY GOES TO ALLINGTON. I 1 5 
 
 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." 
 
 " But they were always harder for papa and mamma 
 than for anybody else." In answer to this, Miss 
 Prettyman made some remarks intended to be wise and 
 kind at the same time. Grace, whose eyes were laden 
 with tears, made no immediate reply to this, but re- 
 verted to her former statement, that she must go home. 
 " I cannot remain, Miss Prettyman ; I am so unhappy." 
 
 "Will you be more happy at home? " 
 
 " I can bear it better there." 
 
 The poor girl soon learned from the intended con- 
 solations of those around her, from the ill-considered 
 kindnesses of the pupils, and from words which fell 
 from the servants, that her father had in fact been 
 judged to be guilty as far as judgment had as yet gone. 
 " They do say, miss, it 's only because he had n't a 
 lawyer," said the housekeeper. 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 nothing about 
 her poor father and his peculiarities, and from twelve 
 jurymen who would be shopkeepers out of Barchester? 
 It would kill her father, and then it would kill her 
 mother ; and after that it would kill her 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 anything that she might be able to earn,
 
 Il6 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 she knew that she could not go on teaching. It had 
 come to be acknowledged by both the Miss Pretty- 
 mans that any teaching on her part for the present was 
 impossible. She would go home and perish with the 
 rest of them. There was no room left for hope to her, 
 or to any of her 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 beheved 
 to be among the most devoted of God's servants! 
 He was accused of a paltry theft, and the magistrates 
 and lawyers and pohcemen among them had decided 
 that the accusation was true ! How could she look 
 the girls in the face after that, or attempt to hold her 
 own among the teachers! 
 
 On the next morning there came the 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 
 have n't sixpence to pay for anything," she said, burst- 
 ing out into tears ; "and I have n't a right to ask for it." 
 Then the statements which Miss Prettyman made in 
 her eagerness to cover this latter misfortune.were de- 
 cidedly false. There was so much money owing to 
 Grace, she said ; money for this, money for that, 
 money for anything or nothing! Ten pounds would 
 hardly clear the account. " Nobody owes me any- 
 thing ; but if you '11 lend me five shillings! " said Grace 
 in her agony. Miss Prettyman, as she made her way 
 through this difficulty, thought of Major Grantly and 
 his love. It would have been of no use, she knew. 
 Had she brought them together on that Monday, 
 Grace would have said nothing to him. Indeed, such
 
 GRACE CRAWLEY GOES TO ALLINGTON. 1 17 
 
 a meeting at such a time would have been improper. 
 But, regarding Major Grantly, as she did, in the light 
 of a millionaire, — for the wealth of the archdeacon 
 was notorious, — she could not but think it a pity that 
 poor Grace should be begging for five shillings. " You 
 need not at any rate trouble yourself about money, 
 Grace," said Miss Prettyman. " What is a pound or 
 two more or less between you and me? It is almost 
 unkind of you to think about it. Is that letter in your 
 hand anything for me to see, my dear? " Then Grace 
 explained that she did not wish to show Miss Dale's 
 letter, but that Miss Dale had asked her to go to 
 Allington. "And you will go," said Miss Prettyman. 
 " It will be the best thing for you, and the best thing 
 for your mother." 
 
 It was at last decided that Grace should go to her 
 friend at Allington, and to AUington she went. She 
 returned home for a day or two, and was persuaded 
 by her mother to accept the invitation that had been 
 given her. At Hogglestock, 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, though 
 they were in truth troubles, 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 am- 
 biguous words, of Major Grartly as a gentleman whom 
 she had met at Framley and whom she had described 
 as being " very nice."
 
 Il8 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 In old days, long ago, Lucy Robarts, the present 
 Lady Lufton, sister of the Reverend Mark Robarts the 
 parson of Framley, had sojourned for a while under 
 Mr. Crawley's roof at Hogglestock. Peculiar circum- 
 stances, which need not, perhaps, be told here, had 
 given occasion for this visit. She had then resolved, 
 — for her future 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 anything had come to be very diffi- 
 cult through a certain indiscretion on Lord Lufton's 
 part. Lord Lufton had offered assistance, pecuniary 
 assistance, to Mr. Crawley, which Mr. Crawley had re- 
 jected with outspoken anger. What was Lord Lufton 
 to him that his lordship should dare to come to him 
 with his paltry money in his hand? But after a while, 
 Lady Lufton, exercising some cunning in the operations 
 of her friendship, had persuaded her sister-in-law at the 
 Framley parsonage to have Grace Crawley over there 
 as a visitor, — and there she had been during the sum- 
 mer holidays previous to the commencement of our 
 story. And there, at Framley, she had become ac- 
 quainted with ALijor Grantly, who was staying with 
 Lord Lufton at Framley Court. She had then said 
 something to her mother about Major Grantly, some- 
 thing ambiguous, something about his being " very 
 nice," and the mother had thought how great was the 
 pity that her daughter, who was " nice " too in her esti- 
 mation, should have so few of those adjuncts to assist 
 her which come from full pockets. She had thought 
 no more about it then ; but now she felt herself con- 
 strained to think more. " I don't quite understand
 
 GRACE CRAWLEY GOES TO ALLINGTON. II9 
 
 why he should have come to Miss Prettyman on Mon- 
 day," 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 you tell him? " 
 
 "I told him nothing, mamma." 
 
 "And did he ask to see you on Monday? " 
 
 " No, mamma ; 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 cro.ss-examination no 
 further, but made up her mind that it would be better 
 that her girl should be away from her wretched home 
 during this period of her hfe. If it were written in the 
 book of fate that one of her children should be ex- 
 empted from the series of misfortunes which seemed 
 to fall, one after another, almost as a matter of course, 
 upon her husband, 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 
 offered to her, it might probably be well that Grace 
 should be as little at home as possible. Mrs. Crawley 
 had heard nothing but good of Major Grantly ; but 
 she knew that the Grantlys were proud rich people, — 
 who lived with their heads high up in the county, — 
 and it could hardly be that a son of the archdeacon
 
 I20 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 would like to take his bride direct from Hogglestock 
 Parsonage. 
 
 It was settled that Grace should go to AUington 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 she started. None but they who 
 have themselves been poor gentry, — gentry so poor as 
 not to know how to raise a shiUing, — can understand 
 the peculiar 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 be cold and have no fuel, to be 
 tlu-eatened with distraint for one's few chairs and 
 tables, and with the loss of the roof over one's head, — 
 all these miseries, which, if they do not positively reach, 
 are so frequently near to reaching the normal poor, 
 are, no doubt, the severest of the trials to which hu- 
 manity is subjected. They threaten life, — or, if not 
 life, then hberty, — reducing the abject one to a choice 
 between captivity and starvation. By hook or crook, 
 the poor gentleman or poor lady, — let the one or the 
 other be ever so poor, — does not often come to the 
 last extremity of the workhouse. There are such cases, 
 but they are exceptional. Mrs. Crawley, through all 
 her sufferings, had never yet found her cupboard to 
 be absolutely bare, or the bread-pan to be actually 
 empty. But there are pangs to which, at the time, 
 starvation itself would seem to be preferable. The 
 angry eyes of unpaid tradesmen, savage with an anger 
 which one knows to be justifiable ; the taunt of the 
 poor servant who wants her wages ; the gradual relin- 
 quishment of habits which the soft nurture of earlier,
 
 GRACE CRAWLEY GOES TO ALLINGTON. 121 
 
 kinder years had made second nature ; the wan cheeks 
 of the wife whose malady demands wine ; the rags of 
 the husband whose outward occupations demand de- 
 cency ; the neglected cliildren, who 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 will not wane, the growing doubt 
 whether it be not better to bow the head, and acknowl- 
 edge to all the world chat nothing of the pride of station 
 is left, — that the hand is open 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 journey ? 
 
 " I don't think they '11 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 is very nice, mamma ; but I shan't mind her 
 so much as her mother, because she knows it all. I 
 have told her everything." 
 
 " 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 Silverbridge." 
 
 " I hope papa will not ask about it," said Mrs.
 
 122 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 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 Miss 
 Prettyman. Who can tell of the mending and patch- 
 ing, of the weary wearing midnight hours of needle- 
 work which were accomplished before the poor girl 
 went, so that she might not reach her friend's house 
 in actual rags ? And when the work was ended, what 
 was there to show for it ? I do not think that the idea of 
 the bare bodkin, as regarded herself, ever flitted across 
 Mrs. Crawley's brain, — she being one of those who are 
 very strong to endui^e ; but it must have occurred to 
 her very often that the repose of the grave is sweet, and 
 that there cometh after death a levelling and making 
 even of things, which would at last cure all her evils. 
 
 Grace no doubt looked forward to a levelling and 
 making even of things, — or perhaps even to something 
 more prosperous than that, which should come to her 
 relief on this side of the grave. She could not but 
 have high hopes in regard to her future destiny. Al- 
 though, as has been said, she understood no more than 
 she ought to have understood from Miss Pretty man's 
 account of the conversation with Major Grantly, 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 thoroughly 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 giave. 
 
 " Tut, tut," said Miss Prettyman as Grace in vain 
 tried to conceal her tears up in the private sanctum. 
 "You ought to know me by tliis time, and to have
 
 GRACE CRAWLEY GOES TO ALLINGTON. 1 23 
 
 learned that I can understand things." The tears had 
 flown in return not only for the five gold sovereigns 
 which Miss Prettyman had pressed into her hand, but 
 on account of the prettiest, soft, grey 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 Major Grantly 
 on a Christmas morning. Grace Crawley did not ex- 
 pect to be seen out walking by her Major Grantly, but 
 nevertheless she liked the cloak. By the power of her 
 practical 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 prettiest cloak in all the world! 
 
 Grace was met at the Guestwick railway-station by 
 her friend Lilian Dale, and was driven over to Ailing- 
 ton 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 poverty, and
 
 124 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 was very glad that it should 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. From the moment that 
 we both talked ourselves into eagerness about it, — 
 while I was writing my letter, you know, we resolved 
 that it must be so." 
 
 " I 'm 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 labour I delight in shall 
 physic 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 circumstances. 
 Her father had not indeed 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, endeavoured 
 to talk her friend into easiness ; but she feared to be- 
 gin upon the one subject, and before the drive was 
 over they were, both of them, too cold for much con- 
 versation. " There 's mamma," said Miss Dale as they 
 drove up, turning out of the street of the 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
 
 GRACE CRAWLEY GOES TO ALLINGTON. 1 25 
 
 not mother and daughter, but two loving old ladies, 
 living together in peace and harmony. We do have 
 our quarrels, — whether the chicken shall be roast or 
 boiled, but never anything 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 Bernard 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 '11 console themselves with skating," said 
 Mrs. Dale. 
 
 " Have you ever observed, Grace," said Miss Dale, 
 " how much amusement gentlemen require, and how 
 imperative it is that some other game should be pro- 
 vided 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 amuse- 
 ment. Once or twice in a year, perhaps, something is 
 done for them. There is an arrow-shooting party, or 
 a ball, or a picnic. But the catering for men's sport 
 is never-ending, and is always paramount to everything 
 else. And yet the pet game of the day never goes off 
 properly. In partridge time, the partridges 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 brushes. 
 Then comes a nipping frost, and skating is proclaimed ; 
 but the ice is always rough, and the woodcocks have 
 deserted the country. And as for salmon ! When the
 
 126 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 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 their friends. That 's about it, mamma ; 
 is it not ? " 
 
 " You know more about it than I do, my dear." 
 
 " Because I have to listen to Bernard, as you never 
 will do. We 've got such a Mr. Green down here, 
 Grace. He 's such a duck of a man, — such top-boots 
 and all the rest of it. And yet they whisper to me that 
 he does n't ride always 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 Cliristopher has just had a new table put up." 
 
 " I never saw a billiard-table yet," said Grace. 
 
 " Then Mr. Green shall teach you. He '11 do any- 
 thing that you ask him. If you don't approve the 
 colour of the ball, he 'II go to London at once to get 
 you another one. Only you must be very careful 
 about saying that you like anything before him, as 
 he '11 be sure to have it for you the next day. Mamma 
 happened to say that she wanted a fourpenny 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 was 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 Bernard. He 's Captain Dale, you 
 know. But he prefers to be called Mr. Dale, because 
 he has left the army, and has set up as junior squire
 
 GRACE CRAWLEY GOES TO ALLINGTON. 127 
 
 of the parish. Uncle Christopher is the real squire ; 
 only Bernard does all the work. And now you know 
 all about us. I 'm afraid you '11 find us dull enough, 
 — unless you can take a fancy to Mr. Green." 
 " Does Mr. Green live here ? " asked Grace. 
 " No ; he does not live here. I never heard of his 
 living anywhere. He was something once, but I don't 
 know what ; and I don't think he 's anything now in 
 particular. But he 's Bernard's friend, and like most 
 men, as one sees them, he never has much to do. 
 Does Major Grantly ever go forth to fight his country's 
 batdes ? " This last question she asked in a low whis- 
 per, 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." 
 " We 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 powers. 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. 
 
 DINNER AT FRAMLEY COURT. 
 
 Lord Lufton, as he drove home to Framley after 
 the meeting of the magistrates at Silverbridge, discussed 
 the matter with his brother-in-law, Mark Robarts, the 
 clergyman. Lord Lufton was driving a dog-cart, and 
 went along the road at the rate of twelve miles an 
 hour. " I '11 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 vehe- 
 mently that he did n'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." 
 
 "Anybody must have beheved him, — except old 
 Tempest, who never beheves anybody, and Fothergill, 
 who always suspects everybody. The truth is, that he 
 had found the cheque and put it by, and did not re- 
 member anything about it." 
 
 " But, Lufton, surely that would amount to steal- 
 ing it." 
 
 " Yes, if it was n't that he is such a poor, cracked, 
 crazy creature, with his mind all abroad. I think 
 
 128
 
 DINNER AT FRAMLEY COURT. 1 29 
 
 Soames did drop his book in his house. I 'm sure 
 Soamt's would not say so unless he was quite confident. 
 Somebody has picked it up, and in some way the 
 cheque has got into Crawley'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 as that, you can't 
 judge of him as you do of others." 
 
 " But a jury must judge of him as it would of 
 others." 
 
 " And therefore there should be a lawyer to tell the 
 jury what to do. They should have somebody up out 
 of the parish to show that he is beside himself half his 
 time. His wife would be the best person, only it would 
 be hard lines on her." 
 
 " Very hard. And after all he would only escape 
 by being shown to be mad." 
 
 "And he is mad." 
 
 " Mrs. Proudie would come upon him in such a case 
 as that, and sequester his living." 
 
 " And what will Mrs. Proudie do when he 's a con- 
 victed thief ? Simply unfrock him, and take away his 
 living altogether. Nothing on earth 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 what Walker told us we must do. A mag- 
 istrate 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, Mark, you must talk it over with 
 the women, and see what can be done for them. Lucy 
 
 VOL. I. — 9
 
 130 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 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 having been 
 a very long family friendship between old Lady Luf- 
 ton and the Grantlys, and Dr. Thome, with his wife, 
 from Chaldicotes, also dined at Framley. There was 
 also there another clergyman from Barchester, Mr. 
 Champion, one of the prebendaries of the cathedral. 
 There were only three now who had houses in the city 
 since the retrenchments of the Ecclesiastical Commis- 
 sion had come into full force. And this Mr. Champion 
 Avas dear to the Dowager Lady Lufton, because he 
 carried on worthily 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, considered that 
 she was bound to keep up, ^ven to the knife, till Dr. 
 Proudie and all his 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, but when so saying, 
 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 palace." For the 
 archdeacon's father had been Bishop of Barchester be- 
 fore Dr. Proudie. What mode of getting rid 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 might be done. If only the bishop 
 could have been found to have stolen a cheque for
 
 DINNER AT FRAMLEY COURT. 131 
 
 twenty pounds instead of poor Mr. Crawley, Lady 
 Lufton would, I think, have been satisfied. 
 
 In the course of these battles Framley Court would 
 sometimes assume a clerical aspect, — have a prevail- 
 ing hue, as it were, of black coats, which was not alto- 
 gether to the taste of Lord Lufton, and as to which 
 he would make complaint to his wife, and to Mark 
 Robarts, 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 parish." 
 
 " That 's all very well ; and of course she '11 do as 
 she likes. She may ask whom she pleases here, and I 
 shan'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 finished, — 
 or nearly finished, if all that his wife and mother said 
 vv^as true. And if they could have their way, it never 
 would be finished. And so, in order that Lord Lufton 
 might not be actually driven away by the turmoils of 
 ecclesiastical contest, the younger Lady Lufton would 
 endeavour to moderate both the wrath and the zeal of 
 the elder one, and would struggle against the coming 
 clergymen. On this day, however, three sat at the 
 board at Framley, and Lady Lufton, in her justifica- 
 tion to her son, swore that the invitation had been 
 given by her daughter-in-law. " You know, my dear," 
 the dowager said to Lord Lufton, " something must be 
 done for these poor Crawleys ; and as the dean is away 
 Lucy wants to speak to the archdeacon about them."
 
 132 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 "And the archdeacon could not subscribe his ten- 
 pound note without having Mr. Champion to back 
 him ? " 
 
 " My dear Ludovic, you do put it in such a way." 
 
 " Never mind, mother. I 've no special dislike to 
 Champion ; only as you are not paid five thousand a 
 year for your trouble, it is rather hard that you should 
 have to do all the work of opposition bishop in the 
 diocese." 
 
 It was felt by them all, — including Lord Lufton him- 
 self, who became so interested in the matter as to for- 
 give the black coats before the evening was over, — that 
 this matter of Mr. Crawley's committal was very seri- 
 ous, and demanded the full energies of their party. It 
 was known to them all that the feeling at the palace 
 was inimical to Mr. Crawley. "That she-Beelzebub 
 hates him for his poverty, and because Arabin brought 
 him into the diocese," said the archdeacon, 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 
 gentlemen 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 offence ; 
 but he would not have ventured to use such words 
 aloud in the presence of ladies. 
 
 " You forget, archdeacon," said Dr. Thome, laugh- 
 ing, " 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 the name, I '11 unsay it." It 
 may therefore be supposed that Dr. Thome, and Mrs.
 
 DINNER AT FRAMLEY COURT. 1 33 
 
 Thorne, and the archdeacon, knew each other inti- 
 mately, and understood each other's feeUngs on these 
 matters. 
 
 It was quite true that the palace party was inimical 
 to Mr. Crawley. Mr. Crawley undoubtedly was poor, 
 and had not been so submissive to episcopal authority 
 as it behoves any clergyman 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 
 bishop's wife to stand almost on end, and had taken 
 as much upon himself as though his hving had been 
 worth twelve hundred a year. Mrs. Proudie, almost 
 as energetic in her language as the archdeacon, had 
 called him a beggarly perpetual curate. " We must 
 have perpetual curates, my dear," the bishop had said. 
 " They should know their places then. But what can 
 you expect of a creature from the deanery ? All 
 that ought to be altered. The dean should have no 
 patronage in the diocese. No dean should have any 
 patronage. It is an abuse from the beginning to the 
 end. Dean Arabin, if he had any conscience, would 
 be doing the duty at Hogglestock himself." How the 
 bishop strove to teach his wife, with mildest words, 
 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 dia- 
 logues took place at the palace is recorded simply to 
 show that the palatial feeling in Barchester ran counter 
 to Mr. Crawley. 
 
 And this was cause enough, if no other cause ex- 
 isted, for partiality to Mr. Crawley at Framley Court,
 
 134 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET, 
 
 But, as has been partly explained, there existed, if pos- 
 sible, even stronger ground than this for adherence to 
 the Crawley cause. The younger Lady Lufton had 
 known the Crawleys intimately, and the elder Lady 
 Lufton had reckoned them among the neighbouring 
 clerical families of her acquaintance. Both these ladies 
 were therefore staunch in their defence of Mr. Craw- 
 ley. The archdeacon himself had his own reasons, — 
 reasons which for the present he kept altogether wathin 
 his own bosom, — for wishing that Mr. Crawley had 
 never entered the diocese. Whether the perpetual 
 ciu-ate 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 the palace. 
 
 " I don't beheve it for a moment," he said, as he 
 took his place on the rug before the fire in the draw- 
 ing-room when the gentlemen came in from their wine. 
 The ladies understood at once what it was that he 
 could n't believe. Mr. Crawley had for the moment 
 so usurped the county that nobody thought of talking 
 of anything else. 
 
 "How is it, then," said Mrs. Thome, "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 lawyer," said 
 Dr. Thome. 
 
 " Ladies will never understand that magistrates must 
 act in accordance with the law," said Lord Lufton. 
 
 " But you all say he 's not guilty," said Mrs. Rob- 
 arts. 
 
 " The fact is, that the magistrates cannot try the
 
 DINNER AT FRAMLEY COURT. 135 
 
 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, instead of speaking for himself." 
 
 " Why did n't somebody make him have an attor- 
 ney ? " 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. Thome. 
 
 "And yet you committed him," said his wife. 
 " What can we do for him ? Can't we pay the bail and 
 send him off to America ? " 
 
 "A jury will never find him guilty," said Lord Luf- 
 ton. 
 
 "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 appropriated the cheque through tempo- 
 rary obliquity of judgment, — obhquity of judgment and 
 forgetfulness as to the source from whence the cheque 
 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 Proudiean 
 party, they would doubtless have been ver}' 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 wickedness of the bishop's wife, and w^ould have 
 declared the appropriator to have been as very a thief 
 as ever picked a pocket or opened a till ; — but they 
 were unanimous in their acquittal of Mr. Crawley. It
 
 136 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 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 re- 
 press his energy. 
 
 " Their bills are all paid by this new chaplain they Ve 
 got, and he is made to claim discount on every leg of 
 mutton," said the archdeacon. Arguing from which 
 fact, — or from which assertion, he came to the conclu- 
 sion that no Barchester jury would find Mr. Crawley 
 guilty. 
 
 But it was agreed on all sides that it would not be 
 well to trust to the unassisted friendship of the Bar- 
 chester tradesmen. JNIr. Crawley must be provided 
 with legal assistance, and this must be furnished to him 
 whether he should be willing or unwilling to receive 
 it. That there would be a difficulty was acknowledged. 
 Mr. Crawley was known to be a man not easy of per- 
 suasion, with a will of his own, with a great energy of 
 obstinacy on points which he chose to take up as be- 
 ing of importance to his calling, or to his own profes- 
 sional status. He had pleaded his own cause before 
 the magistrates, and it might be that he would insist 
 on doing the same thing before the judge. At last 
 Mr. Robarts, the clergyman of Framley, was deputed 
 from the knot of Crawlcian advocates assembled in 
 Lady Lufton's drawing-room, to undertake the duty 
 of seeing Mr. Crawley, and of explaining to him that
 
 DINNER AT FRAMLEY COURJL. 1 37 
 
 his proper defence was regarded as a matter appertain- 
 ing to the clergy and gentry generally of that part of 
 the country, and that for the sake of the clergy and 
 gentry the defence must of course be properly con- 
 ducted. In such circumstances the expense of the de- 
 fence would of course be borne by the clergy and 
 gentry concerned. It was thought that Mr. Robarts 
 could put the matter to Mr. Crawley with such a mix- 
 ture of the strength of manly friendship and the soft- 
 ness of clerical persuasion, as to overcome the recog- 
 nized difficulties of the task.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE BISHOP SENDS HIS INHIBITION. 
 
 Tidings of Mr. Crawley's fate reached the palace 
 at Barchester on the afternoon of the day on which 
 the magistrates had committed him. All such tidings 
 travel very quickly, conveyed by imperceptible wires, 
 and distributed by indefatigable message boys whom 
 Rumour seems to supply for the purpose. Barchester 
 is twenty miles from Silverbridge by road, and more 
 than forty by railway. I doubt whether any one was 
 commissioned to send the news along the actual tele- 
 graph, and yet Mrs. Proudie knew it before four 
 o'clock. But she did not know it quite accurately. 
 " Bishop," she said, standing at her husband's study- 
 door, " they have committed that man to gaol. There 
 was no help for them unless they had forsworn them- 
 selves." 
 
 " Not forsworn themselves, my dear," said the 
 bishop, striving, as was usual with him, by some meek 
 and ineffectual word to teach his wife that she was 
 occasionally led by her energy into error. He never 
 persisted in the lessons when he found, as was usual, 
 that they were taken amiss. 
 
 "I say forsworn themselves!" said Mrs. Proudie; 
 " and now what do you mean to do ? This is Thurs- 
 day, and of course the man must not be allowed to 
 
 138
 
 THE BISHOP SENDS HIS INHIBITION. I39 
 
 desecrate the church of Hogglestock by performing 
 the Sunday services." 
 
 "If he has been committed, my dear, and is in 
 prison " 
 
 " I said nothing about prison, bishop." 
 
 " Gaol, my dear." 
 
 " I say they have committed him to gaol. So my 
 informant tells me. But of course all the Plumstead 
 and Framley set will move heaven and earth to get 
 him out, so that he may be there as a disgrace to the 
 diocese. I wonder how the dean will feel when he 
 hears of it! I do, indeed. For the dean, though he 
 is an idle, useless man, with no church principles, and 
 no real piety, still he has a conscience. I think he 
 has a conscience." 
 
 " I 'm sure he has, my dear." 
 
 "Well; — let us hope so. And if he has a con- 
 science, what must be his feelings when he hears that 
 this creature whom he brought into the diocese has 
 been committed to gaol along with common felons." 
 
 " Not with felons, my dear ; at least I should think 
 not." 
 
 " I say with common felons ! A downright robbery 
 of twenty pounds, just as though he had broken into 
 the bank! And so he did, with sly artifice, which is 
 worse in such hands than a crowbar. And now what 
 are we to do ? Here is Thursday, and something must 
 be done before Sunday for the souls of those poor 
 benighted creatures at Hogglestock." Mrs. Proudie 
 was ready for the battle, and was even now sniffing the 
 blood afar-off. " I believe it 's a hundred and thirty 
 pounds a year," she said, before the bishop had col- 
 lected his thoughts sufficiently for a reply.
 
 140 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " I think we must find out, first of all, whether he is 
 really to be shut up in prison," said the bishop. 
 
 " And suppose he is not to be shut up ? Suppose 
 they have been weak, or untrue to their duty — and 
 from what we know of the magistrates of Barsetshire, 
 there is too much reason to suppose that they will 
 have been so ; suppose they have let him out, is he to 
 go about like a roaring hon, — among the souls of the 
 people ? " 
 
 The bishop shook in his shoes. When Mrs. Proudie 
 began to talk of the souls of the people he always 
 shook in his shoes. She had an eloquent way of rais- 
 ing her voice over the word souls that was quahfied 
 to make any ordinary man shake in his shoes. The 
 bishop was a conscientious 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 magis- 
 trates, and then let out upon bail, he should not be 
 regarded now, in these days before his trial, as a con- 
 victed thief. But to explain all this to Mrs. Proudie 
 was beyond his power. He knew well that she would 
 not hear a word in mitigation of Mr. Crawley's pre- 
 sumed off'ence. Mr. Crawley belonged to the other 
 party, and Mrs. Proudie was a thorough-going partisan. 
 I know a man, — an excellent fellow, who, being him- 
 self a strong politician, constantly expresses a belief 
 that all politicians opposed to him are thieves, child- 
 murderers, parricides, lovers of incest, demons upon 
 the earth. He is a strong partisan, but not, I think.
 
 THE BISHOP SENDS HIS INHIBITION. 14 1 
 
 SO Strong as Mrs. Proudie. He says that he believes 
 all evil of his opponents ; but she really believed the 
 evil. The archdeacon had called Mrs. Proudie a she- 
 Beelzebub ; but that was a simple ebullition of mortal 
 hatred. He believed her to be simply a vulgar, inter- 
 fering, brazen-faced virago. Mrs. Proudie in truth 
 believed that the archdeacon was an actual emanation 
 from Satan, sent to those parts to devour souls, — as 
 she would call it, — and that she herself was an emana- 
 tion of another sort, sent from another source expressly 
 to Barchester, to prevent such devouring, as far 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 believed religiously ; — and yet what could he do ? 
 If he attempted to explain, she would stop him before 
 he had got through the first half of his first sentence. 
 
 " If he is out on bail " commenced the bishop. 
 
 " Of course he will be out on bail." 
 
 " Then I think he should feel " 
 
 " Feci ! 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 Mrs. Proudie; and 
 she vociferated the words in such a tone that the bishop 
 resolved that he would for the future let the word con-
 
 142 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 victed pass without notice. After all she was only 
 using the phrase in a peculiar sense given to it by 
 herself. 
 
 " It won't be proper, certainly, that he should do 
 the services," suggested the bishop. 
 
 " Proper! It would be a scandal to the whole dio- 
 cese. How could he raise his head as he pronounced 
 the eighth commandment ? That must be at least 
 prevented." 
 
 The bishop, who was seated, fretted himself in his 
 chair, mo\'ing about with little movements. He knew 
 that there was a misery coming upon him ; and, as far 
 as he could see, it might become a great misery, a 
 huge blistering sore upon him. When miseries came 
 to him, as they did not infrequently, he would uncon- 
 sciously endeavour to fathom them and weigh them, 
 and then, with some gallantry, resolve to bear them, if 
 he could find that their depth and weight were not 
 too great for his powers of endurance. He would let 
 the cold wind whistle by him, putting up the collar of 
 his coat, and would encounter the winter weather with- 
 out 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 off his legs, when the earth 
 beneath him became too hot for his poor tender feet, 
 — what could he do then ? There had been with him 
 such periods of misery, during which he had wailed 
 inwardly and had confessed to himself tliat the wife 
 of liis i)os()m was too murli for him. Now the storm 
 seemed to be coming very roughly. It would be de- 
 manded of him that he should exercise certain episco- 
 pal authority which he knew did not belong to him.
 
 THE BISHOP SENDS HIS INHIBITION, 143 
 
 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 him- 
 self 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 Proud ie 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 circum- 
 stanced he should not appear in the reading-desk." 
 
 " Of course he must not appear in the reading-desk. 
 That scandal must at any rate be inhibited." Now 
 the bishop did not at all hke the use of the word in- 
 hibited, understanding well that Mrs. Proudie intended 
 it to be understood as implying some episcopal com- 
 mand 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 letter the 
 first thing in the morning." 
 
 " Will not the post be better ? " 
 
 " No, bishop ; certainly not." 
 
 " He would get it sooner, if I ^vrite 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
 
 144 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 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. Thum- 
 ble, if we decide that Mr. Thumble shall undertake 
 the duty " 
 
 " We have decided that Mr. Thumble should under- 
 take the duty. That is decided." 
 
 " But I do not think he should trouble himself to 
 look for lodgings at Hogglestock. He can go over on 
 the Sundays." 
 
 " And who is to do the parish work ? Would you have 
 that man, a convicted thief, to look after the schools, 
 and visit the sick, and perhaps attend the dying ? " 
 
 " There will be a great difficulty ; there will indeed," 
 said the bishop, becoming very unhappy, and feeling 
 that he was driven by circumstances either to assert 
 his own knowledge or teach his wife something of the 
 law with reference to his position as a bishop. " Who 
 is to pay Mr. Thumble ? " 
 
 "The income of the parish mu.st be sequestrated, 
 and he must be paid out of that. Of course he must 
 have the income while he does the work." 
 
 " But, my dear, I cannot sequestrate the man's in- 
 come." 
 
 " I don't believe it, bishop. If the bi.shop cannot 
 sequestrate it, who can ? But you are always timid in 
 exercising the authority put into your hands for wise 
 purposes. Not secjuestrate the income of a man who 
 has been proved to be a thief! You leave that to us, 
 and we will manage it." The " us " here named com- 
 prised Mrs. Proudie and the bishop's managing chaplain.
 
 THE BISHOP SENDS HIS INHIBITION. 145 
 
 Then the bishop was left alone for an hour to write 
 the letter which Mr. Thumble was to carry over to 
 Mr. Crawley, — and after a while he did write it. Be- 
 fore he commenced the task, however, he sat for some 
 moments in his arm-chair close by the fireside, asking 
 himself whether it might not be possible for him to 
 overcome his enemy in this matter. How would it go 
 with him suppose he were to leave the letter unwritten, 
 and send in a message by his chaplain to Mrs. Proudie, 
 saying that as Mr. Crawley was out on bail, the parish 
 might be left for the present without episcopal interfer- 
 ence ? She could not make him interfere. She could 
 not force him to write the letter. So, at least, he said 
 to himself. But as he said it, he almost thought that 
 she could do these things. In the last thirty years, or 
 more, she had ever contrived by .some power latent in 
 her to have her will effected. But what would hap- 
 pen, if now, even now, he were to rebel ? That he 
 would personally become very uncomfortable, he was 
 well aware, but he thought that he could bear that. 
 The food would become bad, — mere ashes between his 
 teeth ; the daily modicum of wine would lose its flavour ; 
 the chimneys would all smoke ; the wind would come 
 from the east, and the servants would not answer the 
 bell. Little miseries of that kind would crowd upon 
 him. He had arrived at a time of life in which such 
 miseries make such men very miserable ; but yet he 
 thought that he could endure them. And what other 
 wretchedness would come to him ? She would scold 
 him, frightfully, loudly, scornfully, and worse than all, 
 continually. But of this he had so much habitually, 
 that anything added might be borne also ; — if only he 
 could be sure that the scoldings should go on in pri- 
 
 YOL. I. — 10
 
 146 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 vate, that the world of the palace should not be allowed 
 to hear the revilings to which he would be subjected. 
 But to be scolded publicly was the great evil which he 
 dreaded beyond all evils. He was well aware that the 
 palace would know his misfortune, that it was known, 
 and freely discussed by all, from the examining chap- 
 lain 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 dis- 
 played. But when that voice was heard aloud along 
 the corridors of the palace, and when he was summoned 
 imperiously by the woman, calling for her bishop, so 
 that all Barchester heard it, and when he was com- 
 pelled to creep forth from his study, at the sound of 
 that summons, with distressed face, and shaking hands, 
 and short, hurrying steps, — a being to be pitied even 
 by a deacon, — not venturing to assume an air of mas- 
 terdom should he chance to meet a housemaid on the 
 stairs, — then, at such moments as that, he would feel 
 that any submission was better than the misery which 
 he suffered. And he well knew that should he now 
 rebel, the whole house would be in a turmoil. He 
 would be bishoped here, 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 his desk and wrote the letter. 
 The letter was as follows : — 
 
 " Tlie Palace, Barchester, December, 186 — . 
 " Reverend Sir," — (he left out the dear, because he 
 knew that if he inserted it he would be compelled to 
 write the letter over again) — " I have heard to-day,
 
 THE BISHOP SENDS HIS INHIBITION. 1 47 
 
 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 parsonage-house at Hogglestock, and 
 that the magistrates of Silverbridge have committed 
 you to take your trial at the next assizes at Barchester, 
 on a charge of theft. 
 
 " Far be it from me to prejudge the case. You will 
 understand, reverend sir, that I express no opinion 
 whatever as to your guilt or innocence in this matter. 
 If you have been guilty, may the Lord give you grace 
 to repent of your great sin, and to make such amends 
 as may come from immediate 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 bishop, to explain 
 to you that, circumstanced as you are, you cannot 
 with decency perform the church services of your par- 
 ish. I have that confidence in you that I doubt not 
 you will agree with me in this, and be gi-ateful to me 
 for reheving you so far from the immediate perplex- 
 ities of your position. I have, therefore, appointed the 
 Rev. Caleb Thumble to perform the duties of incum- 
 bent of Hogglestock till such time as a jury shall have 
 decided upon your case at Barchester ; and in order 
 that you may at once become acquainted with Mr. 
 Thumble, as will be most convenient that you should 
 do, I will commission him to deliver this letter into 
 your hand personally to-morrow, trusting that you will 
 receive him with that brotherly spirit in which he is 
 sent upon this painful mission.
 
 148 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " Touching the remuneration to which ]\Ir. Thumble 
 will become entitled for his temporary ministrations 
 in the parish of Hogglestock, I do not at present lay 
 down any strict injunction. He must, at any rate, be 
 paid at a rate not less than that ordinarily afforded for 
 a curate. 
 
 " I will once again express my fervent hope that the 
 Lord may bring you to see the true state of your own 
 soul, and that He may fill you with the grace of re- 
 pentance, so that the bitter waters of the present hour 
 may not pass over your head and destroy you. 
 " I have the honour to be, 
 
 " Reverend Sir, 
 " Your faithful servant in Christ, 
 
 "T. Barnum."* 
 
 The bishop had hardly finished his letter Avhen Mrs. 
 Proudie returned to the study, followed by the Rev. 
 Caleb Thumble. Mr. Thumble was a little man, about 
 forty years of age, who had a wife and children living 
 in Barchester, and who existed on such chance clerical 
 crumbs as might fall from the table of the bishop's 
 patronage. People in Barchester said that Mrs. 
 Thumble was a cousin of Mrs. Proudie's ; but as 
 Mrs. Proudie stoutly denied the connection it may be 
 supposed that the people of Barchester were wrong. 
 Had Mr. Thumble's wife in truth been a cousin, Mrs. 
 Proudie would surely have provided for him during 
 the many years in which the diocese had been in her 
 hands. No such provision had been made, and Mr. 
 
 * Baronum Castruni having been the old Roman name from 
 whicli the modern Barchester is derived, the bishops of the dio- 
 cese h.ave always signed themselves Barnum.
 
 THE BISHOP SENDS HIS INHIBITION. 149 
 
 Thumble, who liad now been living in the diocese for 
 three years, had received nothing else from the bishop 
 than such chance employment 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 remunerated for his work 
 at the rate of about five shillings a service. 
 
 The bishop handed his letter to his wife, observing 
 in an off-hand kind of way that she might as well see 
 what he said. " Of course I shall read it," said Mrs. 
 Proudie. And the bishop winced visibly, because 
 Mr. Thumble was present. " Quite right," said Mrs. 
 Proudie, " quite right to let him know that you knew 
 that he had been arrested, — actually arrested by the 
 police." 
 
 " I thought it proper to mention that, because of the 
 scandal," said the bishop. 
 
 " Oh, it has been terrible in the city," said Mr. 
 Thumble. 
 
 " Never mind, Mr. Thumble," said Mrs. Proudie. 
 " Never mind that at present." Then she continued 
 to read the letter. "What's this? Confession! That 
 must come out, bishop. It will never do that you 
 should recommend confession to anybody, under any 
 circumstances." 
 
 " But, my dear " 
 
 " It must come out, bishop." 
 
 " My lord has not meant auricular confession," 
 suggested Mr. Thumble. Then Mrs. Proudie turned 
 round and looked at Mr. Thumble, and Mr. Thumble
 
 150 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 nearly sank amidst the tables and chairs. " I beg 
 your pardon, Mrs. Proudie," he said. " I did n't 
 mean to intrude." 
 
 " The word must come out, bishop," repeated Mrs. 
 Proudie. "There should be no stumbling-blocks pre- 
 pared 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-morrow. You should 
 be there not later than ten, certainly." Then she 
 j)aused until Mr. Thumble had given the required 
 promise. "And we request that you will be very firm 
 in the mission which is confided to you, a mission 
 which, as of course you see, is of a very delicate and 
 important natiue. You must be firm." 
 
 " I will endeavour," said Mr. Thumble. 
 
 " The bishop and I both feel that this most unfortu- 
 nate man must not under any circumstances be allowed 
 to perform the services of the church while this charge 
 is hanging over him, — a charge as to the truth of which 
 no sane man can entertain a doubt." 
 
 " I 'm afraid not, Mrs. Proudie," said Mr. Thumble. 
 
 " The bishop and I, therefore, are most anxious that 
 you should make Mr. Crawley understand at once — at 
 once," and the lady, as she spoke, lifted up her 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. Thumble prom- 
 ised obedience and went his way.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 MR. CRAWLEY SEEKS FOR SYMPATHY. 
 
 Matters went very badly indeed in the parsonage- 
 house at Hogglestock. On the Friday morning, the 
 morning of the day after his committal, Mr. Crawley 
 got up very early, long before the daylight, and dress- 
 ing himself in the dark, groped his way downstairs. 
 His wife having vainly striven to persuade him to re- 
 main where he was, followed him into the cold room 
 below with a lighted candle. She found him standing 
 with his hat on and with his old cloak, as though he 
 were prepared to go out. " Why do you do this ? " she 
 said. " You will make yourself ill with the cold and 
 the night air ; and then you, and I too, will be worse 
 than we now are." 
 
 " We cannot be worse. You cannot be worse, and 
 for me it does not signify. Let 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 yoiir 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 ? " 
 
 151
 
 152 
 
 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " 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 les- 
 son of endurance to others ? Come, love. Lay down 
 your hat. It cannot be fitting that you should go out 
 into the wet and cold of the raw morning." 
 
 For a moment he hesitated, but as she raised her 
 hand to take his cloak from him he drew back from 
 her, and would not permit it. " I shall find those up 
 whom I want to see," he said. " I must visit my flock, 
 and I dare not go through the parish by daylight lest 
 they hoot after me as a thief." 
 
 " Not one in Hogglestock would say a word to 
 insult you." 
 
 " Would they not ? The very children in the school 
 whisper at me. Let me pass, I say. It has not as yet 
 come to that, that I should be stopped in my egress 
 and ingress. They have — bailed me ; and while their 
 bail lasts, I may go where I will." 
 
 "Oh, Josiah, what words to me! Have I ever 
 stopped your liberty ? Would I not give my life to 
 secure it ? " 
 
 " Let me go, then, now. I tell you that I have 
 business in hand." 
 
 " But I will go with you ! I will be ready in an 
 instant." 
 
 " You go ? Why should you go ? Arc there not the 
 children for you to mind ? "
 
 MR. CRAWLEY SEEKS FOR SYMPATHY. 153 
 
 " 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 com- 
 mand you to tell me what is it that you fear? " He 
 had now taken hold of her by the shoulder, slightly 
 thrusting her from him, so that he might see her face 
 by the dim Hght of the single candle. " Speak, I say. 
 A\'hat is it that you think 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 towards you," she said, " with 
 all and everything in it." 
 
 " I know your heart well, but I want to know your 
 mind. Why would you persuade me not to go out 
 among my poor ? " 
 
 " Because it will be bad for you to be out alone in 
 the dark lanes, in the mud and wet, thinking of your 
 sorrow. You will brood over it till you lose your senses 
 through the intensity of yoiu* grief. You will stand 
 out in the cold air, forgetful of everything around 
 you, till your limbs will be numbed, and your blood 
 chilled, " 
 
 " And then ? " 
 
 " Oh, Josiah, do not hold me like that, and look at 
 me so angrily."
 
 154 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " 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 himself from morning till night 
 among the poor, he would be better so, — his trouble 
 would be easier of endurance, — than with any other 
 employment which he could adopt. What she most 
 dreaded was that he should sit idle over the fire and do 
 nothing. When he was so seated she could read his 
 mind, as though it was open to her as a book. She 
 had been quite right when she had accused him of 
 over-indulgence in his grief. He did give way to it 
 till it became a luxury to him, — a luxury which she 
 would not have had the heart to deny him had she not 
 felt it to be of all luxuries the most pernicious. Dur- 
 ing these long hours, in which he would sit speechless, 
 doing nothing, he was telling himself from minute to 
 minute that of all God's creatures he was the most 
 heavily afflicted, and was revelling in the sense of the 
 injustice done to him. He was recalling all the facts
 
 MR. CRAWLEY SEEKS FOR SYMPATHY. 1 55 
 
 of his life, his education, which had been costly, and, 
 as regarded knowledge, successful ; his vocation to the 
 church, when in his youth he had determined to devote 
 himself to the service of his Saviour, disregarding pro- 
 motion or the favour of men ; the short, sweet days of 
 his early love, in which he had devoted himself again, 
 — thinking nothing of self, but everything of her ; his 
 diligent working, in which he had ever done his very 
 utmost for the parish in which he was placed, and 
 always his best for the poorest ; the success of other 
 men who had been his compeers, and, as he too often 
 told himself, intellectually his inferiors ; then of his 
 children, who had been carried off from his love to the 
 churchyard, — over whose graves he himself had stood, 
 reading out the pathetic words of the funeral service 
 with unswerving voice and a bleeding heart ; and then 
 of his children still living, Avho loved their mother so 
 much better than they loved him. And he would re- 
 call all the circumstances of his poverty, — how he had 
 been driven to accept alms, to fly from creditors, to 
 hide himself, to see his chairs and tables seized before 
 the eyes of those over whom he had been set as their 
 spiritual pastor. And in it all, I think, there was noth- 
 ing so bitter to the man as the derogation from the 
 spiritual grandeur of his position as priest among men, 
 which came as one necessary result from his poverty. 
 St. Paul could go forth without money in his pvu-se, or 
 shoes to his feet, or two suits to his back, and his pov- 
 erty never stood in the way of his preaching, or hin- 
 dered the veneration of the faithful. St. Paul, indeed, 
 was called upon to bear stripes, was flung into prison, 
 encountered terrible dangers. But Mr. Crawley, — so 
 he told himself, — could have encountered all that with-
 
 156 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 out flinching. The stripes and scorn of the unfaithful 
 would have been nothing to him, if only the faithful 
 would have believed in him, poor as he was, as they 
 would have believed in him had he been rich! Even 
 they whom he had most loved treated him almost with 
 derision, because he was now different from them. 
 Dean Arabin had laughed at him because he had per- 
 sisted in walking ten miles through the mud instead of 
 being conveyed in the dean's carriage ; and yet, after 
 that, he had been driven to accept the dean's char- 
 ity! No one respected him. No one! His very wife 
 thought that he was a lunatic. And now he had been 
 publicly branded as a thief ; and in all likelihood would 
 end his days in a gaol ! Such were always his thoughts 
 as he sat idle, silent, moody, over the fire ; and his wife 
 well knew their currents. It would certainly be better 
 that he should drive himself to some employment, if 
 any employment could be found possible to him. 
 
 When she had been alone for a few minutes, Mrs. 
 Crawley got up from her chair, and going into the 
 kitchen, hghted 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." 
 
 "Oil, mamma, poor mamma! Why is papa up so 
 early ? " 
 
 "He has gone out to visit some of the brickmakers 
 before they go to their work. It is better for him to 
 be employed."
 
 MR. CRAWLEY SEEKS FOR SYMPATHY. I 57 
 
 " 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 
 rapid steps to a portion of his parish nearly two miles 
 distant from his house, through which was carried a 
 canal, affording Avater communication in some intricate 
 way both to London 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 combin- 
 ing with the canal to make brickmaking a suitable 
 trade. The workmen there assembled were not, for 
 the most part, native-born Hogglestockians, or folk 
 descended from Hogglestockian parents. They had 
 come thither from unknown regions, as labourers of 
 that class do come when they are needed. Some 
 young men from that and neighbouring parishes had 
 joined themselves to the colony, allured by wages, and 
 disregarding the menaces of the neighbouring farmers ; 
 but they were all in appearance and manners nearer 
 akin to the race of navvies than to ordinary rural 
 labourers. They had a bad name in the country ; but 
 it may be that their name was worse than their deserts. 
 The farmers hated them, and consequently they hated 
 the farmers. They had a beershop, and a grocer's 
 shop, and a huckster's shop for their own accommo- 
 dation, and were consequently vilified by the small old- 
 established tradesmen around them. They got drunk 
 occasionally, but I doubt whether they drank more 
 than did the farmers themselves on market-day. They 
 fought among themselves sometimes, but they forgave 
 each other freely, and seemed to have no objection to
 
 158 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 black eyes. I fear that they were not always good to 
 their wives, nor were their wives always good to them ; 
 but it should be remembered that among the poor, 
 especially when they live in clusters, such misfortunes 
 cannot be hidden as they may be amidst the decent be- 
 longings of more wealthy people. That they worked 
 very hard was certain ; and it was certain also that 
 very few of their number ever came upon the poor- 
 rates. What became of the old brickmakers no one 
 knew. Who ever sees a worn-out aged navvie ? 
 
 Mr. Crawley, ever since his first coming into Hog- 
 glestock, had been very busy among these brickmakers, 
 and by no means without success. Indeed, the farm- 
 ers had quarrelled with him because the brickmakers 
 had so crowded the narrow 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," ar- 
 gued one farmer, — not altogether unnaturally, behev- 
 ing as he did that Mr. Crawley was paid by tithes out 
 of his own pocket. But Mr. Crawley had done his 
 best to make the brickmakers welcome at the church, 
 scandalising the farmers by causing them to sit or stand 
 in any portion of the church which was hitherto unap- 
 propriated. He had been constant in his personal 
 visits to them, and had felt himself to be more a St, 
 Paul with them than with any other of his neighbours 
 around him. 
 
 It was a cold morning, but the rain of the preceding 
 evening had given way to frost, and the air, though 
 sharp, was dry. The ground under the feet was crisp, 
 having felt the wind and frost, and was no longer 
 clogged with mud. In his present state of mind the 
 walk was good for our poor pastor, and exhilarated
 
 MR. CRAWLEY SEEKS FOR SYMPATHY. 159 
 
 him ; but still, as he went, he thought always of his in- 
 juries. His own wife believed that he was about to 
 commit suicide, and for so believing he was very angry 
 with her ; and yet, as he well knew, the idea of mak- 
 ing away with himself had flitted through his own mind 
 a dozen times. Not from his own wife could he get 
 real sympathy. He would see what he could do with 
 a certain brickmaker of his acquaintance. 
 
 " Are you here, Dan ? " he said, knocking at the 
 door of a cottage which stood alone, close to the tow- 
 ing-path of the canal, and close also to a forlorn corner 
 of the muddy, watery, ugly, disordered brickfield. It 
 was now just past six o'clock, and the men would be 
 rising, as in midwinter they commenced their work at 
 seven. The cottage was an unalluring, straight brick- 
 built tenement, seeming as though intended to be one 
 of a row which had never progressed beyond Number 
 One. A voice answered from the interior, inquiring 
 who was the visitor, to which Mr. Crawley replied by 
 giving his name. Then the key was turned in the 
 lock, and Dan Morris, the brickmaker, appeared with 
 a candle in his hand. He had been engaged in light- 
 ing the fire, with a view to his own breakfast. " Where 
 is your wife, Dan ? " asked Mr. Crawley. The man 
 answered by pointing with a short poker, which he 
 held in his hand, to the bed, which was half screened 
 from the room by a ragged curtain, which hung from 
 the ceiling half-way down to the floor. " And are the 
 Darvels here ? " asked Mr. Crawley. Then Morris, 
 again using the poker, pointed upwards, showing that 
 the Darvels were still in their own allotted abode up- 
 stairs. 
 
 "You 're early out, Muster Crawley," said Morris,
 
 l60 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 and then he went on with his fire. " Drat the sticks, 
 if they bean't as wut as the old 'un hisself. Get up, 
 old woman, and do you do it, for I can't. They wun't 
 kindle for me, nohow." But the old woman, having 
 well noted the presence of Mr. Crawley, thought it 
 better to remain where she was. 
 
 Mr. Crawley sat himself down by the obstinate fire, 
 and began to arrange the sticks. " Dan, Dan," said a 
 voice from the bed, " sure you would n't let his rever- 
 ence trouble himself with the fire." 
 
 " How be I to keep him from it if he chooses ? I 
 did n't ax him." Then Morris stood by and watched, 
 and after a while Mr. Crawley succeeded in his at- 
 tempt. 
 
 " How could it bum when you had not given the 
 small spark a current of air to help it ? " said Mr. 
 Crawley. 
 
 " In course not," said the woman, "but he be such 
 a stoopid." 
 
 The husband said no word in acknowledgment of 
 this compliment, nor did he thank Mr. Crawley for 
 what he had done, nor appear as though he intended 
 to take any notice of him. He was going on with his 
 work when Mr. Crawley again interrupted him. 
 
 " How did you get back from Silverbridge yester- 
 day, Dan? " 
 
 " Footed it, — all the blessed way." 
 
 " It 's only eight miles." 
 
 " And I footed it there, and that 's sixteen. And I 
 paid one-and-sixpence for beer and grub ; — s' help me, 
 I did." 
 
 " Dan!" said the voice from the bed, rebuking him 
 for the impropriety of his language.
 
 MR. CRAWLEY SEEKS FOR SYMPATHY. l6l 
 
 " Well ; I beg pardon, but I did. And they guv 
 me two bob ; — just two plain shillings, by " 
 
 "Dan!" 
 
 " And I 'd 've arned three-and-six here at brickmak- 
 ing, easy ; that 's what I would. How 's a poor man 
 to live that way ? They '11 not cotch me at Barchester 
 'Sizes at that price ; they may be sure o' that. Look 
 there, — that 's what I 've got for my day." And he 
 put his hand into his breeches' pocket and fetched 
 out a sixpence. " How 's a man to fill his belly out 
 of that ? Damnation! " 
 
 "Dan!" 
 
 " Well, what did I say ? Hold your jaw, will you, 
 and not be halloaing at me that way ? I know what 
 I 'm a-saying of, and what I 'm a-doing of." 
 
 " I wish they 'd given you something more with all 
 my heart," said Crawley. 
 
 " We knows that," 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 pubhc-house, I 'd 've taken it better. But six- 
 pence! " 
 
 Then there was a pause. " And what have they 
 given to me ? " said Mr. Crawley, when the man's ill- 
 humour about his sixpence had so far subsided as to 
 allow of his busying himself again about the premises. 
 
 " Yes, indeed ; — yes, indeed," said the woman. 
 " Yes, yes, we feel that ; we do indeed, Mr. Crawley." 
 
 " I tell you what, sir ; for another sixpence, I 'd 've 
 sworn you 'd never guv' me the paper at all ; and so 
 I will now, if it bean't too late ; — sixpence or no six- 
 pence. What do I care ? d — them." 
 
 VOL. I. — 11
 
 1 62 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 "Dan!" 
 
 " And why should n't I ? They hain't got brains 
 enough among them to winny the truth from the lies 
 — not among the lot of 'em, I '11 swear afore the 
 judge that you did n't give it me at all, if that '11 do 
 any good." 
 
 " Man, do you think I would have you perjure 
 yourself, even if that would do me a service ? And 
 do you think that any man was ever served by a 
 lie ? " 
 
 " Faix, among them chaps it don't do to tell them 
 too much of the truth. Look at that!" And he 
 brought out the sixpence again from his breeches' 
 pocket. "And look at your reverence. Only that 
 they 've let you out for a while, they 've been nigh as 
 hard on you as though you were one of us." 
 
 " If they think that I stole it, they have been right," 
 said Mr. Crawley. 
 
 " It 's been along of that chap Soames," said the 
 woman. " The lord would 've paid the money out of 
 his own pocket and never said not a word." 
 
 " If they think that I 've been a thief, they have 
 done right," repeated Mr. Crawley. " But how can 
 they think so ? How can they think so ? Have I 
 lived like a thief among them ? " 
 
 " For the matter o' that, if a man ain't paid for his 
 work by them as is his employers, he must pay hisself. 
 Them 's my notions. Look at that ! " Whereupon 
 he again pulled out the sixpence, and held it forth in 
 the palm of his hand. 
 
 " You believe, then," said Mr. Crawley, speaking 
 very slowly, " that I did steal the money ? Speak out, 
 Dan ; I shall not be angry. As you go you are honest
 
 MR. CRAWLEY SEEKS FOR SYMPATHY. 1 63 
 
 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 athought the hke 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 attend- 
 ing to the woman. " You can understand that no 
 good can come of a lie." Dan Morris scratched his 
 head. " Speak out, man, when I tell you," said Mr. 
 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 is n't born,"" said the woman. 
 
 " No ; I won't, — say nothing of the kind," said Dan. 
 
 " Speak out the truth," said Crawley. 
 
 " They do say, among 'em," said Dan, " that you 
 picked it up, and then got a woolgathering in your 
 head till you did n't rightly know where it come from." 
 Then he paused. " And after a bit you guv' it me to 
 get the money. Did n't you, now ? " 
 
 " I did." 
 
 " And 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 Hoggle- 
 stock; 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, Mr. Crawley rose from his chair 
 and hurried out of the cottage, waiting no further 
 reply from Dan Morris or his wife. And as he made
 
 1 64 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 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 anywhere. Even Dan 
 Morris, the brickmaker, thought that he was a thief. ^ 
 
 " And am I a thief ? " he said to himself, standing in 
 the middle of the road, with his hands up to his fore- 
 head.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE bishop's angel. 
 
 It was nearly nine before Mr. Crawley got back to 
 his house, and found his wife and daughter waiting 
 breakfast for him. " I should not wonder if Grace 
 were over here to-day," said Mrs. Crawley. " She 'd 
 better remain where she is," said he. After this the 
 meal passed almost without a word. When it was 
 over, Jane, at a sign from her mother, went up to her 
 father and asked him whether she should read with 
 him. " Not now," he said, " not just now. I must 
 rest my brain before it will be fit for any work." Then 
 he got into the chair over the fire, and his wife began 
 to fear that he would remain there all 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. Proudie's episcopal messages were sent 
 backwards and forwards through a twelve-mile ride 
 
 165
 
 1 66 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 round Barchester ; and so many were the lady's re- 
 quirements that the poor animal by no means eat the 
 hay of idleness. Mr. Thumble had suggested to Mrs. 
 Proudie, after their interview with the bishop and the 
 giving up of the letter to the clerical messenger's 
 charge, that before hiring a gig from the Dragon of 
 Wantley, he should be glad to know, — looking as he 
 always did to " Mary Anne and the children," — whence 
 the price of the gig was to be returned to him. Mrs. 
 Proudie had frowned at him, — not with all the austerity 
 of frowning which she could use when really angered, 
 but simply with a frown which gave her some httle time 
 for thought, and would enable her to continue the re- 
 buke if, after thinking, she should find that rebuke was 
 needed. But mature consideration showed her that 
 Mr. Thumble's caution was not without reason. Were 
 the bishop energetic, or even the bishop's managing 
 chaplain as energetic as he should be, Mr. Crawley 
 might, as Mrs. Proudie felt assured, be made in some 
 way to pay for a conveyance for Mr. Thumble. But 
 the energy was lacking, and the price of the gig, if the 
 gig were ordered, would certainly fall ultimately upon 
 the bishop's shoulders. This was very sad. Mrs. 
 Proudie had often grieved over the necessary expendi- 
 ture of episcopal surveillance, and had been heard to 
 declare her opinion that a liberal allowance for secret 
 service should be made in every diocese. AVhat better 
 could the Ecclesiastical Commissioners do with all 
 those rich revenues which they had stolen from the 
 bishops! But there was no such liberal allowance at 
 present, and, therefore, Mrs. Proudie, after having 
 frowned at Mr. Thumble for some seconds, desired him 
 to take the grey cob. Now, Mr. Thumble had ridden
 
 THE bishop's angel. 167 
 
 the grey cob before, and would much have preferred 
 a gig. But even the grey cob was better than a gig at 
 his own cost. 
 
 " Mamma, there 's a man at the gate wanting to 
 come in," said Jane. " I think he is a clergj'man." 
 
 Mr. Crawley immediately raised his head, though 
 he did not at once leave his chair. Mrs, Crawley 
 went to the window, and recognised the reverend 
 visitor. " My dear, it is that Mr. Thumble who is so 
 much with the bishop." 
 
 " What does Mr. Thumble want with me ? " 
 
 " Nay, my dear; he will tell you that himself." But 
 Mrs. Crawley, though she answered him with a voice 
 intended to be cheerful, greatly feared the coming of 
 this messenger from the palace. She perceived at 
 once that the bishop was about to interfere with her 
 husband in consequence of that which the magistrates 
 had done yesterday. 
 
 " Mamma, he does n't know what to do with his 
 pony," said Jane. 
 
 "Tell him to tie it to the rail," said Mr. Crawley. " If 
 he has expected to find menials here, as he has them at 
 the palace, he will be wrong. If he wants to come in 
 here, let him tie the beast to the rail." So Jane went 
 out and sent a message to Mr. Thumble by the girl, 
 and Mr. Thumble did tie the pony to the rail, and fol- 
 lowed 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 believed 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.
 
 1 68 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 Though he knew Mr. Thumble's person he was not 
 acquainted with him, and therefore he simply bowed 
 to the visitor, — bowing more than once or twice with 
 a cold coiutesy which did not put Mr. Thumble alto- 
 gether at his ease. " My name is Mr. Thumble," said 
 the visitor, — " The Reverend Caleb Thumble ; '" and 
 he held the bishop's letter in his hand. Mr. Crawley 
 seemed to take no notice of the letter, but motioned 
 Mr. Thumble with his hand into the room. 
 
 " I suppose you have come over from Barchester this 
 morning ? " said Mrs. Crawley. 
 
 "Yes, madam, — from the palace." Mr. Thumble, 
 though a humble man in positions in which he felt that 
 humihty would become liim, — a humble man to his 
 betters, as he himself would have expressed it, — had 
 still about him something of that pride which naturally 
 belonged to those clergymen who were closely attached 
 to the palace at Barchester. Had he been sent on a 
 message to Plumstead, — could any such message from 
 Barchester palace have been possible, — he would have 
 been properly humble in his demeanour to the arch- 
 deacon, or to Mrs. Grantly had he been admitted to 
 the august presence of that lady ; but he was aware that 
 humility would not become him on his present mis- 
 sion ; he had been expressly ordered to be firm by 
 Mrs. Proudie, and firm he meant to be ; and therefore, 
 in communicating to Mrs. Crawley the fact that he 
 had come from the palace, he did load the tone of his 
 voice with something of 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. Nay, the battle had begun. Nor
 
 THE bishop's angel. 1 69 
 
 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 dispu- 
 tation with any other clergyman on any subject what- 
 ever. " What does the palace want with me? " And 
 as Mr. Crawley asked the question he stood erect, and 
 looked Mr. Thumble full in the face. Mr. Thumble 
 called to mind the fact that Mr. Crawley was a very 
 poor man indeed, — so poor that he owed money all 
 round the country to butchers and bakers, — and the 
 other fact, that he, Mr. Thumble himself, did not owe 
 any money to any one, his wife luckily having a little 
 income of her own ; and, strengthened by these re- 
 membrances, he endeavoured to bear Mr. Crawley's 
 attack with gallantry. 
 
 "Of course, Mr. Crawley, you are aware that this 
 unfortunate affair at Silverbridge " 
 
 " I am not prepared, sir, to discuss the unfortunate 
 affair at Silverbridge with a stranger. If you are the 
 bearer of any message to me from the bishop of Bar- 
 chester, perhaps you will deliver it." 
 
 " I have brought a letter," said Mr. Thumble. Then 
 Mr. Crawley stretched out his hand without a word, 
 and taking the letter with him to the window, read it 
 very slowly. When he had made himself master of its 
 contents, he refolded the letter, placed it again in the 
 envelope, and returned to the spot where Mr. Thum- 
 ble was standing. " I will answer the bishop's letter," 
 he said ; " I will answer it of course, as it is fitting that 
 I should do. Shall I ask you to wait for my reply, or 
 shall I send it by course of post ? " 
 
 " I think, Mr. Crawley, as the bishop wishes me to 
 imdertake the duty "
 
 170 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET, 
 
 "You will not undertake the duty, Mr. Thumble. 
 You need not trouble yourself, for I shall not surren- 
 der my pulpit to you." 
 
 " But the bishop " 
 
 " I care nothing for the bishop in this matter." So 
 much he spoke in anger, and then he corrected himself. 
 " I crave the bishop's pardon, and yours as his mes- 
 senger, if in the heat occasioned by my sti'ong feehngs 
 I have said aught which may savour of irreverence 
 towards his lordship's office. I respect his lordship's 
 high position as bishop of this diocese, and I bow to his 
 commands in all things lawful. But I must not bow to 
 him in things unlawful, nor must I abandon my duty 
 before God at his bidding, unless his bidding be given 
 in accordance with the canons of the Chui-ch 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 assistance, I will perform. 
 Nor will I allow any clergyman to interfere with me 
 in the performance of those sacred offices, — no, not 
 though the bishop himself should be present with the 
 object of enforcing his illegal command." Mr. Craw- 
 ley spoke these words without hesitation, even with 
 eloquence, standing upright, and with something of a 
 noble anger gleaming over his poor wan face ; and I 
 think, that while speaking them, he was happier than 
 he had been for many a long day. 
 
 Mr. Thumble listened to him patiently, standing with 
 one foot a little in advance of the other, with one hand 
 folded over the other, with his head rather on one side, 
 and with his eyes fixed on the corner where the wall 
 and ceiling joined each other. He had been told to be
 
 THE BISHOPS ANGEL; 171 
 
 firm, and he was considering how he might best dis- 
 play firmness. He thought that he remembered some 
 story of two parsons fighting for one pulpit, and he 
 thought also that he should not himself like to incur 
 the scandal of such a proceeding in the diocese. As 
 to the law in the matter he knew nothing himself ; but 
 he presumed that a bishop would probably know the 
 law better than a perpetual curate. That Mrs. Proudie 
 was intemperate and imperious, he was aware. Had 
 the message come from her alone, he might have felt 
 that even for her sake he had better give way. But as 
 the despotic arrogance of the lady had been in this 
 case backed by the timid presence and hesitating 
 words of her lord, Mr. Thumble thought that he must 
 have the law on his side. " I think you will find, Mr. 
 Crawley," said he, " that the bishop's inhibition is 
 strictly legal." He had picked up the powerful word 
 from Mrs. Proudie, and flattered himself that it might 
 be of use to him in carrying his purpose. 
 
 " It is illegal," said Mr. Crawley, speaking somewhat 
 louder than before, "and will be absolutely futile. 
 As you pleaded to me that you yourself and your 
 own personal convenience were concerned in this mat- 
 ter, I have made known my intentions to you, which 
 otherwise I should have made known only to the 
 bishop. If you please, we will discuss the subject no 
 fiu-ther." 
 
 " 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
 
 172 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 indebted to you for carrying back my reply, or whether 
 I shall send it by course of post ? " Mr. Thumble con- 
 sidered 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, hav- 
 ing perceived that Mr. Crawley, though with language 
 cautiously worded, had spoken of him as a mere mes- 
 senger. 
 
 " I think," he said, " that I may, perhaps, best further 
 the object which we must all have in view, that namely 
 of providing properly for the Sunday services of the 
 church of Hogglestock, by taking your reply personally 
 to the bishop." 
 
 " That provision is my care, and need trouble no one 
 else," said Mr. Crawley, in a loud voice. Then, be- 
 fore seating himself at his old desk, he stood awhile, 
 pondering, with his back turned to his visitor. " I have 
 to ask your pardon, sir," said he, looking round for 
 a moment, " because, by reason of the extreme poverty 
 of this house, my wife is unable to offer to you that 
 ho.spitality 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 
 de.sk, and commenced his letter. 
 
 Mr. Thumble felt himself to be awkwardly placed. 
 Had there been no third person in the room he could 
 have sat down in Mr. Crawley's arm-chair, and waited 
 patiently till the letter should be finished. But Mrs.
 
 THE BISHOPS ANGEL. I 73 
 
 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 was given to indulge in sentiment, had 
 been touched by the man's appeal to his own poverty, 
 and he felt, moreover, that Mrs. Crawley must have 
 been deeply moved by her husband's position with ref- 
 erence to the bishop's order. It was quite out of the 
 question that he should speak of that, as Mr. Crawley 
 would, he was well aware, immediately turn upon him. 
 At last he thought of a subject, and spoke with a voice 
 intended to be pleasant. 
 
 " That was the schoolhouse I passed, probably, just 
 as I came here ? " Mrs. Crawley told him that it was 
 the schoolhouse. "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 Mr. Thumble. 
 
 " I, — I am the certified teacher," said Mr. Crawley, 
 turning round upon him from his chair. 
 
 " Oh, ah, yes," said Mr. Thumble ; and after that 
 Mr. Thumble asked no more questions about the Hog- 
 glestock school. Soon afterwards Mrs. Crawley left 
 the room, seeing the difficulty under which Mr. Thum- 
 ble was labouring and feeling sure that her presence 
 would not now be necessary. Mr. Crawley's letter was 
 written quickly, though every now and then he would 
 sit for a moment with his pen poised in the air, search- 
 ing his memory for a word. But the words came 
 to him easily, and before an hour was over he had 
 handed his letter to Mr. Thumble. The letter was as 
 follows :
 
 174 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " The Parsonage, Hogglestock, Dec. i86 — . 
 
 " Right Reverend Lord, — I have received the letter 
 of yesterday's date which your lordship has done me 
 the honour of sending to me by the hands of the Rev- 
 erend Mr. Thumble, and I avail myself of that gentle- 
 man'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 way my reply to your lord- 
 ship's injunctions may be in your hands with less delay 
 than would attend the regular course of the mail-post. 
 
 " It is with deep regret that I feel myself constrained 
 to inform your lordship that I cannot obey the com- 
 mand which you have laid upon me with reference 
 to the services of my church in this parish. I cannot 
 permit Mr. Thumble, or any other delegate from your 
 lordship, to usurp my place in my pulpit. I would not 
 have you to think, if I can possibly dispel such thoughts 
 from your mind, that I disregard your high office, or 
 that I am deficient in that respectful obedience to the 
 bishop set over me which is due to the authority of the 
 Crown as the head of the church in these realms ; but 
 in this, as in all questions of obedience, he who is re- 
 quired to obey must examine the extent of the authority 
 exercised by him who demands obedience. Your lord- 
 ship might possibly call upon me, using your voice as 
 bishop of the diocese, to abandon altogether the free- 
 hold rights which are now mine in this perpetual curacy. 
 The judge of a.ssize, before whom I shall soon stand 
 for my trial, might command me to retire to prison 
 without a verdict given by the jury. The magistrates 
 who committed me so lately as yesterday, upon whose 
 decision in that respect your lordship has taken action 
 against me so quickly, might have equally strained their
 
 THE BISHOPS ANGEL. I 75 
 
 authority. But in no case, in this land, is he that is 
 subject bound to obey, further than where the law 
 gives authority and exacts obedience. It is not in the 
 power of the Crown itself to inhibit me from the per- 
 formance of my ordinary' duties in this parish by any 
 such missive as that sent to me by your lordship. If 
 your lordship think it right to stop my mouth as a 
 clergyman in your diocese, you must proceed to do so 
 in an ecclesiastical court in accordance with the laws, 
 and will succeed in your object, or fail, in accordance 
 with the evidences as to ministerial fitness or unfitness, 
 which may be produced respecting me before the 
 proper tribunal. 
 
 " I will allow that much attention is due from a 
 clergyman to pastoral advice given to him by his 
 bishop. On that head I must first express to your 
 lordship my full understanding that your letter has not 
 been intended to convey advice, but an order ; — an 
 inhibition, as your messenger, the Reverend Mr, Thum- 
 ble, has expressed it. There might be a case certainly 
 in which I should submit myself to counsel, though I 
 should resist command. No counsel, however, has 
 been given, — except indeed that I should receive your 
 messenger in a proper spirit, which I hope I have done. 
 No other advice has been given me, and therefore there 
 is now no such case as that I have imagined. But in 
 this matter, my lord, I could not have accepted advice 
 from living man, no, not though the hands of the 
 apostles themselves had made him bishop who tendered 
 it to me, and had set him over me for my guidance. 
 I am in a terrible strait. Trouble, and sorrow, and 
 danger are upon me and mine. It may well be, as 
 your lordship says, that the bitter waters of the present
 
 176 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 hour may pass over my head and destroy me. I thank 
 your lordship for teUing me whither I am to look for 
 assistance. Truly I know not whether there is any to 
 be found for me on earth. But the deeper my troubles, 
 the greater my sorrow, the more pressing 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 con- 
 demn me, I have not condemned myself. Were I to 
 abandon my pulpit, unless forced to do so by legal 
 means, I should in doing so be putting a plea of guilty 
 against myself upon the record. This, my lord, I will 
 not do. 
 
 " I have the honour to be, my lord, 
 
 " Your lordship's most obedient servant, 
 
 "JosiAH Crawley." 
 
 When he had finished writing his letter he read it 
 over slowly, and then handed it to Mr. Thumble. The 
 act of writing, and the current of the thoughts through 
 his brain, and the feeling that in every word written he 
 was getting the better of the bishop, — all this joined to 
 a certain manly delight in warfare against authority, 
 lighted up the man's face and gave to his eyes an ex- 
 pression which had been long wanting to them. His 
 wife at that moment came into the room, and he looked 
 at her with an air of triumph as he handed the letter 
 to Mr. Thumble. " If you will give that to his lordship 
 with an assurance of my duty to his lordship in all 
 things proper, I will thank you kindly, craving your 
 pardon for the great delay to which you have been 
 subjected." 
 
 " As to the delay, that is nothing," said Mr. Thumble.
 
 THE bishop's angel. 1 77 
 
 " It has been much ; but you as a clergyman will 
 feel that it has been incumbent on me to speak my mind 
 fully." 
 
 " Oh, yes ; of course." Mr. Crawley was standing 
 up, as also was Mrs. Crawley. It was evident to Mr. 
 Thumble that they both expected that he should go. 
 But he had been 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 him that Mr. Crawley had had the play 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 certainly incumbent upon him, 
 before he went, to speak up, not only for the bishop, 
 but for himself also. " Mr. Crawley," he said, " hitherto 
 I have listened to you patiently." 
 
 " Nay," said Mr. Crawley, smiling, " you have indeed 
 been patient, and I thank you ; but my words have 
 been written, not spoken." 
 
 " You have told me that you intend to disobey the 
 bishop's inhibition." 
 
 " I have told the bishop so certainly." 
 
 " May I ask you now to listen to me for a few min- 
 utes? " 
 
 Mr. Crawley, still smiling, still having in his eyes 
 the unwonted triumph which had lighted them up, 
 paused a moment, and then answered him. " Rever- 
 end sir, you must excuse me if I say no, — not on this 
 subject." 
 
 " You will not let me speak ? " 
 
 " No ; not on this matter, which is very private to 
 
 me. What should you think if I went into your house 
 VOL. I. — 12
 
 178 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 and inquired of you as to those things which were par- 
 ticularly near to you ? " 
 
 " But the bishop sent me." 
 
 " Though ten bishops had sent you, — a council of 
 archbishops if you will ! " Mr. Thumble 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 anything personally objec- 
 tionable to yourself. I will regard you as one of the 
 angels of the church." Mr. Thumble, when he heard 
 this, began to be sure that Mr. Crawley was mad ; he 
 knew of no angels that could ride about the Barsetshire 
 lanes on grey ponies. " And as such I will respect you ; 
 but I cannot discuss with you the matter of the bishop's 
 message." 
 
 " Oh, very well. I will tell his lordship." 
 
 " I will pray you to do so." 
 
 " And his lordship, should he so decide, will arm me 
 with such power on my next coming as will enable me 
 to carry out his lordship's wishes." 
 
 " His lordship will abide by the law, — as will you 
 also." In speaking these last words he stood with the 
 door in his hand, and Mr. Thumble, not knowing how 
 to increase or even to maintain his firmness, thought 
 it best to pass out, and mount his grey pony and ride 
 away. 
 
 "The poor man thought that you were laughing at
 
 THE BISHOPS ANGEL, 
 
 179 
 
 him when you called him an angel of the church," said 
 Mrs, Crawley, coming up to him and smiling on him. 
 " Had I told him he was simply a messenger, he 
 would have taken it worse! Poor fool! When they 
 have rid themselves of me they may put him here, in 
 my church ; but not yet, — not yet. Where is Jane ? 
 Tell her that I am ready to commence the Seven 
 against Thebes with her," Then Jane was immediately 
 sent for out of the school, and the Seven against 
 Thebes was commenced with great energy. Often 
 during the next hour and a half Mrs. Crawley from 
 the kitchen would hear him reading out, or rather say- 
 ing 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 afterwards she regarded 
 Mr. Thumble as an "angel,"
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 MAJOR GRANTLY CONSULTS A FRIEND. 
 
 Grace Crawley passed through Silverbridge on her 
 way to AlHngton on the Monday, and on the Tuesday 
 morning Major Grandy received a very short note from 
 Miss Prettyman, telhng 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 AUington. 
 " Yours truly, 
 
 " Annabella Prettyman." 
 
 The note said no more than that. Major Grandy 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 a lady with whom he is in love. And he re- 
 garded Miss Prettyman with favourable eyes, — as a dis- 
 creet and friendly woman. Nevertheless, he was not 
 altogether happy. The very fact that Miss Prettyman 
 should write to him on such a subject made him feel that 
 he was bound to Grace Crawley. He knew enough of 
 himself to be sure that he could not give her up with- 
 out making himself miserable. And yet, as regarded 
 her father, things were going from bad to worse. 
 F^verybody now said that the evidence was so strong 
 against Mr. Crawley as to leave hardly a doubt of his 
 
 180
 
 MAJOR GRANTLY CONSULTS A FRIEND. iSl 
 
 guilt. Even the ladies in Silverbridge were beginning 
 to give up his cause, acknowledging that the money 
 could not have come rightfully into his hands, and ex- 
 cusing 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. Walker remarked that such little mistakes 
 were the customary causes of men being taken to prison, 
 the ladies of Silverbridge did not know how to answer 
 him. It had come to be their opinion that Mr. Crawley 
 was affected with a partial lunacy, which ought to be 
 forgiven in one to whom the world had been so cruel ; 
 and when young Mr. Walker endeavoured to explain 
 to them that a man must be sane altogether or mad 
 altogether, and that Mr. Crawley must, if sane, be 
 locked up as a thief, and if mad, locked up as a mad- 
 man, they sighed, and were convinced that until the 
 world should have been improved by a new infusion 
 of romance and a stronger feeling of poetic justice, 
 Mr. John Walker was right. 
 
 And the result of this general opinion made its way 
 out to Major Grantly, and made its way, also, to the 
 archdeacon at Plumstead. As to the major, in giving 
 him his due, it must be explained that the more certain 
 he became of the father's guilt, the more certain also 
 he became of the daughter's merits. It was very hard. 
 The whole thing was cruelly hard. It was cruelly hard 
 upon him that he should be brought into this trouble 
 and be forced to take upon himself the armour of a 
 knight-errant for the redress of the wrong on the part 
 of the young lady. But when alone in his house, or 
 with his child, he declared to himself that he would do
 
 1 82 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 SO. It might well be that he could not live in Barset- 
 shire after he had married Mr. Crawley's daughter. 
 He had inherited from his father enough of that long- 
 ing for ascendancy among those around him to make 
 him feel that in such circumstances he would be 
 wretched. But he would be made more wretched by 
 the self-knowledge that he had behaved badly to the 
 girl he loved ; and the world beyond Barsetshire was 
 open to him. He would take her with him to Canada, 
 to New Zealand, or to some other far-away country, 
 and there begin his life again. Should his father choose 
 to punish him for so doing by disinheriting him, they 
 would be poor enough ; but in his present frame of 
 mind, the major was able to regard such poverty as 
 honourable and not altogether disagreeable. 
 
 He had been out shooting all day at Chaldicotes, 
 with Dr. Thome and a party who were staying in the 
 house there, and had been talking about Mr. Crawley, 
 first with one man and then with another. Lord Luf- 
 ton had been there, and young Gresham from Gresh- 
 amsbury, and Mr. Robarts the clergyman, and news 
 had come among them of the attempt made by the 
 bishop to stop Mr. Crawley from preaching. Mr. 
 Robarts had been of opinion that Mr. Crawley should 
 have given way ; and Lord Lufton, who shared his 
 mother's intense dislike of everything that came from 
 the palace, had sworn that he was right to resist. The 
 sympathy of the whole party had been with Mr. 
 Crawley ; — but they had all agreed that he had stolen 
 the money. 
 
 " I fear he '11 have to give way to the bishop at 
 last," Lord Lufton had said. 
 
 " And what on earth will become of his children ? "
 
 MAJOR GRANTLY CONSULTS A FRIEND. 1 83 
 
 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 himself to fall in love with 
 her when her father shall have been found guilty of 
 stealing a cheque for twenty pounds." 
 
 " We must do something for the whole family," said 
 the lord. " I say, Thome, you have n't half the game 
 here that there used to be in poor old Sowerby's time." 
 
 " Have n't I ? " said the doctor. " You see Sowerby 
 had been at it all his days, and never did anything else. 
 I only began late in life." 
 
 The major had intended to stay and dine at Chaldi- 
 cotes, 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. Thome had de- 
 clared that no man could allow himself to fall in love 
 with her. But what if a man had fallen in love with 
 her beforehand ? What if a man had not only fallen 
 in love, but spoken of his love ? Had he been alone 
 with the doctor, he would, I think, have told him the 
 whole of his trouble ; for in all the county there was 
 no man whom he would sooner have trusted with his 
 secret. This Dr. Thorne was known far and wide for 
 his soft heart, his open hand, and his well-sustained 
 indifference to the world's opinions on most of those 
 social matters with which the world meddles; and 
 therefore the words which he had spoken had more 
 weight with Major Grantly than they would have had 
 from other lips. As he drove home he almost made 
 up his mind that he would consult Dr. Thorne upon 
 the matter. There were many younger men with 
 whom he was very intimate, — Frank Gresham, for 
 instance, and Lord Lufton himself ; but this was an
 
 184 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 affair which he hardly knew how to discuss with a 
 young man. To Dr. Thome he thought that he could 
 bring himself to tell the whole story. 
 
 In the evening there came to him a messenger from 
 Plumstead, with a letter from his father and some pres- 
 ent 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 com^se ; but 
 that would have given to his letter a certain air and 
 tone which he had not wished it to bear. After some 
 message from the major's mother, and some allusion 
 to Edith, the archdeacon struck off upon the matter 
 that was near his heart. 
 
 " I fear it is all up with that unfortunate man at 
 Hogglestock," he said, " From what I hear of the 
 evidence which came out before the magistrates, there 
 can, I think, be no doubt as to his guilt. Have you 
 heard that the bishop sent over on the following day 
 to stop him from preaching ? He did so, and sent 
 again on the Sunday. But Crawley would not give 
 way, and so far I respect the man ; for as a matter of 
 course, whatever the bishop did, or attempted to do, 
 he would do with an extreme of bad taste, probably 
 with gross ignorance as to his own duty and as to the 
 duty of the man under him. I am told that on the 
 first day Crawley turned out of his house the messen- 
 ger sent to him, — some stray clergyman whom Mrs. 
 Proudie keeps about the house ; and that on the Sun- 
 day the stairs to the reading-desk and pulpit were 
 occupied by a lot of brickmakers, among whom the 
 parson from Barchester did not venture to attempt to 
 make his way, although he was fortified by the pres- 
 ence of one of the cathedral vergers and by one of the
 
 MAJOR GRANTLY CONSULTS A FRIEND. 185 
 
 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 pity Crawley from my heart. Poor, 
 unfortunate man! The general opinion 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 you to come over 
 to us before the end of the wxek, and to bring Edith. 
 Your grandfather will be here, and he is becoming so 
 infirm that he will never come to us for another Christ- 
 mas. Of course you will stay over the new year." 
 
 Though the letter was full of Mr. Crawley and his 
 affairs, there was not a word in it about Grace. This, 
 however, was quite natural. Major Grantly perfectly 
 well understood his father's anxiety to carry his point 
 without seeming to allude to the disagreeable subject. 
 " My father is very clever," he said to himself, " very 
 clever. But he is n't so clever but one can see how 
 clever he is." 
 
 On the next day he went into Silverbridge, intending 
 to call on Miss Prettyman. He had not quite made 
 up his mind what he would say to Miss Prettyman ; 
 nor was he called upon to do so, as he never got as 
 far as that lady's house. While walking up the High 
 Street he saw Mrs. Thome in her carriage, and, as a 
 matter of course, he stopped to speak to her. He 
 knew Mrs. Thome 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 yester- 
 day. Why did you not come up to dinner ? We had 
 a room ready for you and everything."
 
 l86 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " I was not qviite well, Mrs. Thome." 
 
 "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 '11 get over it. 
 It won't be mortal with her. But do tell me. Major 
 Grantly, what are we to think about this poor Mr. Craw- 
 ley? It was so good of you to be one of his bailmen." 
 
 " He would have foimd twenty in Silverbridge, if he 
 had wanted them." 
 
 " And do you hear that he has defied the bishop ? 
 I do so like him for that. Not but what poor Mrs. 
 Proudie is the dearest friend I have in the world, and 
 I 'm always fighting a battle with old Lady Lufton on 
 her behalf. But one hkes to see one's friends worsted 
 sometimes, you know." 
 
 " I don't quite understand what did happen at Hog- 
 glestock on Sunday," said the major. 
 
 " Some say he had the bishop's chaplain put under 
 the pump. I don't believe that ; but there is no doubt 
 that when the poor fellow tried to get into the pulpit, 
 they took him and carried him neck and heels out of 
 the church. But tell me, Major Grantly, what is to 
 become of the family ? " 
 
 " Heaven knows! " 
 
 " Is it not sad ? And that eldest girl is so nice ! 
 They tell me that she is perfect, — not only in beauty, 
 but in manners and accomplishments. Everybody 
 says that she talks Greek just as well as she does Eng- 
 lish, and that she understands philosophy from the top 
 to the bottom." 
 
 " At any rate, she is so good and so lovely that one 
 cannot but pity her now," said the major.
 
 MAJOR GRANTLY CONSULTS A FRIEND. 187 
 
 " You know her, then, Major Grantly ? By-the-bye, 
 of course you do, as you were staying with her at 
 Framley." 
 
 " Yes, I know her." 
 
 " What is to become of her ? I 'm going your way. 
 You might as well get into the carriage, and I 'U drive 
 you home. If he is sent to prison, — and they say he 
 must be sent to prison, — what is to become of them ? " 
 Then Major Grantly did get into the carriage, and, 
 before he got out again, he had told Mrs. Thome the 
 whole story of his love. 
 
 She listened to him with the closest attention ; only 
 interrupting him now and then with little words, 
 intended to signify her approval. He, as he told his 
 tale, did not look her in the face, but sat with his eyes 
 fixed upon her muff. " And now," he said, glancing 
 up at her almost for die first time as he finished his 
 speech, " and now, Mrs. Thorne, what am I to do ? " 
 
 " Marry her, of course," said she, raising her hand 
 aloft and bringing it down heavily upon his knee as 
 she gave her decisive reply. 
 
 " H — sh — h," he exclaimed, looking back in dismay 
 towards the servants. 
 
 " Oh, they never hear anything up there. They 're 
 thinking about the last pot of porter they had, or the 
 next they 're to get. Deary me, I am so glad! Of 
 course you *11 marry her." 
 
 " You forget my father." 
 
 " No, I don't. What has a father to do with it ? 
 You 're old enough to please yoiu"self without asking 
 any father. Besides, Lord bless me, the archdeacon 
 is n't the man to bear malice. He '11 storm and 
 threaten and stop the supplies for a month or so.
 
 1 88 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 Then he '11 double them, and take your wife to his 
 bosom, and kiss her and bless her, and all that kind 
 of thing. We all know what parental wrath means 
 in such cases as that." 
 
 " But my sister " 
 
 " As for your sister, don't talk to me about her. I 
 don't care two straws about your sister. You must 
 excuse me, Major Grantly, but Lady Hartletop is 
 really too big for my powers of \asion." 
 
 "And Edith, — of course, Mrs. Thome, 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 con- 
 nected with a convicted thief." 
 
 " No, Major Grantly ; but a man does wish to marry 
 the girl that he loves. At least, I suppose so. And 
 what man ever was able to give a more touching proof 
 of his affection than you can do now ? If I were you, 
 I 'd be at Allington before twelve o'clock to-morrow, 
 — I would indeed. What does it matter about the 
 trumpery cheque ? Everybody knows it was a mistake, 
 if he did take it. And surely you would not punish 
 her for that." 
 
 " No, — no ; but I don't suppose she 'd think it a 
 punishment." 
 
 " You go and ask her, then. And I '11 tell you 
 what. If she has n't a house of her own to be married 
 from, she shall be married from Chaldicotes. We '11 
 have such a breakfast! And I '11 make as much of 
 her as if she were the daughter of my old friend the 
 bishop himself ; — I will indeed." 
 
 This was Mrs. Thome's advice. Before it was com- 
 I)lfted, Major Grantly had been carried half-way to 
 Chaldicotes. When he left his impetuous friend he
 
 MAJOR GRANTLY CONSULTS A FRIEND. 1 89 
 
 was too prudent to make any promise, but he declared 
 that what she had said should have much weight with 
 him. 
 
 " You won't mention it to anybody ? " said the major. 
 
 " Certainly not, without your leave," said Mrs. 
 Thome. " Don't you know that I 'm the soul of 
 honour ? "
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 UP IN LONDON. 
 
 Some kind and attentive reader may perhaps re- 
 member that Miss Grace Crawley, in a letter written 
 by her to her friend Miss Lily Dale, said a word or 
 two of a certain John. " If it can only be as John 
 wishes it!" And the same reader, if there be one so 
 kind and attentive, may also remember that Miss Lily 
 Dale had declared, in reply, that "about that other 
 subject she would rather say nothing," — and then she 
 had added, " When one thinks of going beyond friend- 
 ship, — if one tries to do so, — there are so many bar- 
 riers ! " 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 question, — 
 a certain Mr. John Eames, living in London, a bach- 
 elor, 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, Hving in 
 London, where he was supposed by his friends in the 
 country to have made his mark, and to be something 
 a little out of the common way. But I do not know 
 that he was very much out of the common way, except 
 in the fact that he had had some few thousand pounds 
 
 190
 
 UP IN LONDON. igi 
 
 left him by an old nobleman, who had been in no way- 
 related to him ; but who had regarded him with great 
 affection, and who had died some two years since. 
 Before this, John Eames had not been a very poor 
 man, as he filled the comfortable official position of 
 private secretary to the Chief Commissioner of the 
 Income-tax Board, and drew a salary of three hundred 
 and fifty pounds a year from the resources of his 
 country ; but when, in addition to this source of official 
 wealth, he became known as the undoubted possessor 
 of a hundred and twenty-eight shares in one of the 
 most prosperous joint-stock banks in the metropolis, 
 which property had been left to him free of legacy 
 duty by the lamented nobleman aboved 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 com- 
 mon way. His mother, who lived in the country, was 
 obedient to his slightest word, never venturing to im- 
 pose upon him any sign of parental authority ; 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, affectionate, 
 unmarried brothers, with sufficient incomes, are gods 
 upon earth. 
 
 And even up in London l\Ir. John Eames was some- 
 body. He was so especially at his office ; although, 
 indeed, it was remembered by many a man how raw a 
 lad he had been when he first came there, not so very 
 many years ago ; and how they had laughed at him 
 and played him tricks ; and how he had customarily 
 been known to be without a shilling for the last week.
 
 192 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 before pay-day, during which period he would borrow 
 sixpence here and a shilling there with great energy, 
 from men who now felt themselves to be honoured 
 when he smiled upon them. Little stories of his former 
 days would often be told of him behind his back ; but 
 they were not told with ill-nature, because he was very 
 constant in referring to the same matters himself. And 
 it was acknowledged by every one at the office, that 
 neither the friendship of the nobleman, nor the fact of 
 the private secretaryship, nor the acquisition of his 
 wealth, had made him proud to his old companions or 
 forgetful of old friendships. To the young men, lads 
 who had lately been appointed, he was perhaps a httle 
 cold ; but then it was only reasonable to conceive that 
 such a one as Mr. John Eames was now could not be 
 expected to make an intimate acquaintance with every 
 new clerk that might be brought into the office. Since 
 competitive examinations had come into vogue there 
 was no knowing who might be introduced ; and it was 
 understood generally through the establishment, — and 
 I may almost say by the civil service at large, so wide 
 was his fame, — that Mr. Eames was very averse to the 
 whole theory of competition. The " Devil take the 
 hindmost " scheme, he called it ; and would then go on 
 to explain that hindmost candidates were often the best 
 gentlemen, and that, in this way, the Devil got the pick 
 of the flock. And he was respected the more for this 
 opinion, because it was known that on this subject he 
 had fought some hard battles with the chief commis- 
 sioner. The chief commissioner was a great believer 
 in competition, wrote papers about it, which he read 
 aloud to various bodies of the civil service, — not at all 
 to their delight, — which he got to be printed here and
 
 UP IN LONDON. 193 
 
 there, and which 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 young clerks, 
 who was discussing this singular state of things with 
 his brethren at the office. "When a chap has got 
 money, he may do what he likes. Johnny has got lots 
 of money, you know." The young clerk in question 
 was by no means on intimate terms with Mr. Eames, 
 but there had grown up in the office a way of calling 
 him Johnny behind his back, which had probably 
 come down from the early days of his scrapes, and his 
 poverty. 
 
 Now the entire life of Mr. John Eames was pervaded 
 by a great secret ; and although he never, in those 
 days, alluded to the subject in conversation with any 
 man belonging to the office, yet the secret was known 
 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 embellish- 
 ments from the imaginations of the gentlemen of the 
 Income-tax Office. It was said of him that he had 
 been in love from his early boyhood, that at sixteen he 
 had been engaged, under the sanction of the nobleman 
 now deceased and of the young lady's parents, that 
 
 VOL. I. — 13
 
 194 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 contracts of betrothals had been drawn up, and things 
 done very unusual in private famihes in these days, and 
 that then there had come a stranger into the neigh- 
 bourhood just as the young lady was beginning to 
 reflect whether she had a heart of her own or not, and 
 that she had thrown her parents, and the noble lord, 
 and the contract, and poor Johnny Eames to the 
 
 winds, and had . Here the story took different 
 
 directions as told by different men. Some said that 
 the lady had gone off with the stranger, and that there 
 had been' a clandestine marriage, which afterwards 
 tvimed out to be no marriage at all ; others, that the 
 stranger suddenly took himself off, and was no more 
 seen by the young lady ; others, that he owned at last 
 to having another wife, — and so on. The stranger 
 was very well known to be one Mr. Crosbie, belonging 
 to another public office ; and there were circumstances 
 in his life, only half known, which gave rise to these 
 various rumours. But there was one thing certain, one 
 point as to which no clerk in the Income-tax Office 
 had a doubt, one fact which had conduced much to 
 the high position which Mr. John Eames now held in 
 the estimation of his brother clerks, — he had given this 
 Mr. Crosbie such a thrashing that no man had ever 
 received such treatment before and had lived through 
 it. Wonderful stories were told about that thrashing, 
 so that it was believed, even by the least enthusiastic 
 in such matters, that the poor victim had only dragged 
 on a crippled existence since the encounter. " For 
 nine weeks he never said a word nor eat a mouthful," 
 said one young clerk to a younger clerk who was just 
 entering the office ; " and even now he can't speak 
 above a whisper, and has to take all his food in pap."
 
 UP IN LONDON. 195 
 
 It will be seen, therefore, that Mr. John Eames had 
 about him much of the heroic. 
 
 That he was still in love, and in love with the same 
 lady, was known to every one in the office. When 
 it was declared of him that in the way of amatory 
 expressions he had never in his life opened his mouth 
 to another woman, there were those in the office who 
 knew that 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 children, and living on a small in- 
 come, he did not go out much among his friends, — 
 could have told a very different 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 acknowledged signs of unrequited 
 affection. In his manner he was rather jovial than 
 otherwise, and seemed to live a happy, somewhat lux- 
 urious 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 "bar- 
 riers," she had probably seen her way over most of 
 them. But this was not so ; nor did John Eames 
 himself at all beheve that the barriers were in a way 
 to be overcome. I will not say that he had given the
 
 196 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 whole thing up as a bad job, because it was the law 
 of his hfe 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 de- 
 clared to Miss Dale herself and to Miss Dale's mother 
 and to all the Dale people who had ever been inter- 
 ested in the matter. And there was an old lady Uving 
 in Miss Dale's neighbourhood, the sister of the lord 
 who had left Johnny Eames the bank shares, who al- 
 ways fought his battles for him, and kept a close look- 
 out, fully resolved that John Eames should be rewarded 
 at last. This old lady was connected with the Dales 
 by family ties, and therefore had means of close ob- 
 ser\'ation. She was in constant correspondence with 
 John Eames, and never failed to acquaint him when 
 any of the barriers were, in her judgment, giving way. 
 The nature of some of the barriers may possibly be 
 made intelligible to my readers by the following letter 
 from Lady Julia De Guest to her young friend : 
 
 " Guest wick Cottage, December 186 — . 
 " My dear John, — I am much obliged to you for 
 going to Jones's. I send stamps for two shillings and 
 fourpence, which is what I owe you. It used only 
 to be two shillings and twopence, but they say 
 everything has got to be dearer now, and I suppose 
 pills as well as other things. Only think of Pritchard 
 coming to me, and saying she wanted her wages raised, 
 after hving with me for twenty years! I was very 
 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 a year more.
 
 UP IN LONDON. 197 
 
 " I saw dear Lily just for a moment on Sunday, and 
 upon my word I think she grows prettier every year. 
 She had a young friend with her, — a Miss Crawley, — 
 who, I believe, is the cousin I have heard you speak 
 of. What is this sad story about her father, the 
 clergyman ? Mind you tell me all about it. 
 
 " It is quite true what I told you about the De 
 Courcys. Old Lady De Courcy is in London, and 
 Mr. Crosbie is going to law with her about his wife's 
 money. He has been at it in one way or the other 
 ever since poor Lady Alexandrina died. I wish she 
 had lived, with all my heart. For though I feel sure 
 that our Lily will never willingly see him again, yet the 
 tidings of her death disturbed her, and set her thinking 
 of things that were fading from her mind. I rated her 
 soundly, not mentioning your name, however ; but she 
 only kissed me, and told me in her quiet drolling way 
 that I did n't mean a word of what I said. 
 
 " You can come here whenever you please after the 
 tenth of January. But if you come early 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 me down all the colours in 
 wool that I ordered. I said you would call. And tell 
 them at DoUand'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
 
 ig8 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 see them ; and as to talking to them about business, I 
 should not dream of it. She has n't come to me cince 
 she first called, and she may be qtiite sure I shan't go 
 to her till she does. Indeed I think we shall like each 
 other apart quite as much as we should together. So 
 let me know when you 're coming, and pray don't 
 forget to call at Blackie's ; nor yet at Dolland's, which 
 is much more important than the wool because 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 does n't know how much she 
 has got to spend ? 
 
 " Believe me to be, my dear John, 
 
 " Your most sincere friend, 
 
 "Julia De Guest." 
 
 Lady Julia always directed her letters for her young 
 friend to his office, and there he received the one now 
 given to the reader. When he had read it he made a 
 memorandum as to the commissions, and then threw 
 himself back in his arm-chair to think over the tidings 
 communicated to him. All the facts stated he had 
 known before ; that Lady De Courcy was in London, 
 and that her son-in-law, Mr. Crosbie, whose wife, — 
 Lady Alexandrina, — had died some twelve months 
 since at Baden Baden, was at variance with her re- 
 specting 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 Mr. Crosbie again ; but John
 
 UP IN LONDON. 199 
 
 Eames was by no means equally certain that it would 
 be so. " 'J'he tidings of her death disturl^ed her! " said 
 Johnny, repeating to himself certain words out of the 
 old lady's letter. " I know they disturbed me. I wish 
 she could have lived for ever. If he ever ventures to 
 show himself within ten miles of AUington, I '11 see if I 
 cannot do better than I did the last time I met him! " 
 Then there came a knock at the door, and the private 
 secretary, finding himself to be somewhat annoyed by 
 the disturbance at such a moment, bade the intruder 
 enter in an angry voice. " Oh, it 's you, Cradell, is it ? 
 What can I do for you ? " Mr. Cradell, who now en- 
 tered, and who, as before said, was an old ally of John 
 Eames, was a clerk of longer standing in the depart- 
 ment than his friend. In age he looked to be much 
 older, and there remained with him none of that 
 appearance of the gloss of youth Avhich 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 outward appearance, and his brow 
 seemed to be laden with care, and his eyes were dull 
 and heavy. 
 
 " I thought I 'd just come in and ask you how you 
 are," said Cradell. 
 
 '" I 'm pretty well, thank you ; and how are you ? " 
 " Oh, I 'm pretty well, — in health, that is. You see 
 one has so many things to think of when one has a 
 large family. Upon my word, Johnny, I think you 've 
 been lucky to keep out of it." 
 
 " I have kept out of it, at any rate ; have n't I ? " 
 " Of course ; Hving with you as much as I used to 
 do, I know the whole story of what has kept you 
 single."
 
 200 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " Don't mind about that, Cradell. What is it you 
 want ? " 
 
 " I must n'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 have all our own luck, you know." 
 
 " Your luck has been a wife and family. My luck 
 has been to be a bachelor." 
 
 " You may say a family," said Cradell. " I 'm sure 
 that Amelia does the best she can ; but we are des- 
 perately pushed sometimes, — desperately pushed. I 
 never was so bad, Johnny, as I am now." 
 
 " So you said the last time." 
 
 " Did I ? I don't remember it. I did n't think I 
 was so bad then. But, Johnny, if you can let me have 
 one more fiver now I have made arrangements with 
 Amelia how I 'm to pay you off by thirty shillings a 
 month, — as I get my salary. Indeed I have. Ask 
 her else." 
 
 " I '11 be shot if I do." 
 
 " Don't say that, Johnny." 
 
 " It 's no good your Johnnying me, for I won't be 
 Johnnyed out of another shilling. It comes too often, 
 and there 's no reason why I should do it. And 
 what 's more, I can't afford it. I 've people of my 
 own to help." 
 
 " But oh, Johnny, we all know how comfortable you 
 are. And I 'm sure no one rejoiced as I did when 
 the money was left to you. If it had ben myself I
 
 UP IN LONDON, 201 
 
 could hardly have thought more of it. Upon my 
 solemn word and honour if you '11 let me have it this 
 time, it shall be the last." 
 
 " Upon my word and honour then, I won't. There 
 must be an end to everything." 
 
 Although Mr. Cradell would probably, if pressed, 
 have admitted the truth of this last assertion, he did 
 not seem to think that the end had as yet come to his 
 friend's benevolence. It certainly had not come to 
 his own importunity. " Don't say that, Johnny ; pray 
 don't." 
 
 " But I do say it." 
 
 " When I told Amelia yesterday evening that I 
 did n't like to go to you again, because of course a 
 man has feelings, she told me to mention her name. 
 ' I 'm sure he 'd do it for my sake,' she said." 
 " I don't believe she said anything of the kind." 
 " Upon my word she did. You ask her." 
 "And if .she did, she ought n'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 some- 
 where before I go home. I must, indeed. If you '11 
 let me have three pounds this once, I '11 never ask you 
 again. I '11 give you a written promise if you hke, and 
 I '11 pledge 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 cheque-book and 
 wrote a cheque for three pounds, Mr. Cradell's eyes 
 glistened with joy. " Upon my word I am so much 
 obliged to you! You are the best fellow that ever
 
 202 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 lived. And Amelia will say the same when she hears 
 of it. 
 
 " I don't believe she '11 say anything of the kind, 
 Cradell. If I remember anything of her, she has a 
 stouter heart than that." Cradell admitted that his 
 wife had a stouter heart than himself, and then made 
 his way back to his own part of the office. 
 
 This little interruption to the current of Mr. Eames's 
 thoughts was, I think, for the good of the service, as, 
 immediately on his friend's departure, he went to his 
 work ; whereas, had not he 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 answer to as many private letters addressed to 
 his chief, Sir Raffle Buffle, in all of which he made ex- 
 cellently-worded false excuses for the non-performance 
 of various requests made to Sir Raffle by the writers. 
 " He 's about the best hand at it that I know," said 
 Sir Raffle, one day, to the secretary ; " otherwise you 
 may be sure I should n't keep him there." " I will 
 allow that he is clever," said the secretary. " It is n't 
 cleverness, so much as tact. It 's what I call tact. I 
 had n't been long in the service before I mastered it 
 myself; and now that I 've been at the trouble to 
 teach him I don't want to have the trouble to teach 
 another. But upon my word he must mind his /'s 
 and ^'s ; upon my word he must ; and you had better 
 tell him so." " The fact is, Mr. Kissing," said the 
 private secretary the next day to the secretary, — Mr. 
 Kissing was at that time secretary to the board of 
 commissioners for the receipt of income tax — " the 
 fact is, Mr. Kissing, Sir Raffle should never attempt to
 
 UP IN LONDON. 203 
 
 write a letter himself. He does n't know how to do 
 it. He always says twice too much, and yet not half 
 enough. I wish you 'd tell him so. He won't believe 
 me." From which it will be seen Mr. Eames was 
 proud of his special accomplishment, but did not feel 
 any gratitude to the master who assumed to himself 
 the glory of having taught him. On the present 
 occasion John Eames wrote all his letters before he 
 thought again of Lily Dale, and was able to write 
 them without interruption, as the chairman was absent 
 for the day at the Treasury, — or perhaps at his club. 
 Then, when he had finished, he rang his bell, and 
 ordered some sherry and soda-water, and stretched 
 himself before the fire, — as though his exertions in the 
 public service had been ver}' great, — and seated him- 
 self comfortably in his arm-chair, and lit a cigar, and 
 again took out Lady Julia's letter. 
 
 As regarded the cigar, it may be said that both Sir 
 Raffle and Mr. Kissing had given orders that on no 
 account should cigars be lit within the precincts of the 
 Income-tax Office. Mr. Eames had taken upon him- 
 self to understand that such orders did not apply to a 
 private secretary, and was well aware that Sir Raffle 
 knew his- habit. To Mr. Kissing, I regret to say, he 
 put himself in opposition whenever and wherever 
 opposition was possible ; so that men in the office said 
 that one of the two must go at last. " But Johnny can 
 do anything, you know, because he has got money." 
 That was too frequently the opinion finally expressed 
 among the men. 
 
 So John Eames sat down, and drank his soda-water, 
 and smoked his cigar, and read his letter ; or rather, 
 simply that paragraph of the letter which referred to
 
 204 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 Miss Dale. " The tidings of her death have disturbed 
 her, and set her thinking again of things that were 
 fading from her mind." He understood it all. And 
 yet how could it possibly be so ? How could it be 
 that she should not despise a man, — despise him if she 
 did not hate him, — who had behaved as this man had 
 behaved to her ? It was now four years since this 
 Crosbie had been engaged to Miss Dale, and had jilted 
 her so heartlessly as to incur the disgust of every man 
 in London who had heard the story. He had married 
 an earl's daughter who had left him within a few 
 months of their marriage, and now Mr. Crosbie's noble 
 wife was dead. The wife was dead, and simply be- 
 cause the man was free again, he, John Eames, was to 
 be told that Miss Dale's mind was " disturbed," and 
 that her thoughts were going back to things which had 
 faded from her memory, and which should have been 
 long since banished altogether from such holy ground. 
 If Lily Dale were now to marry Mr. Crosbie, any- 
 thing so perversely cruel as the fate of John Eames 
 would never yet have been told in romance. That 
 was his own idea on the matter as he sat smoking his 
 cigar. I have said that he was proud of his constancy, 
 and yet, in some sort, he was also ashamed of it. He 
 acknowledged the fact of his love, and believed himself 
 to have out-Jacobed Jacob ; but he felt that it was 
 hard for a man who had risen in the world as he had 
 done to be made a plaything of by a foolish passion. 
 It was 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 stem to her ; and he had written somewhat 
 sternly, — but the first moment that he saw her he was
 
 UP IN LONDON. 205 
 
 conquered again. "And now that brute will reappear, 
 and everything will be wrong again," he said to him- 
 self. If the brute did reappear, something should hap- 
 pen of which the world should hear the tidings. So 
 he lit another cigar, and began to think what that 
 something should be. 
 
 As he did so he heard a loud noise, as of harsh, 
 rattling winds in the next room, and he knew that Sir 
 Raffle had come back from the Treasury. There was 
 a creaking of boots, and a knocking of chairs, and a 
 ringing of bells, and then a loud angry voice, — a voice 
 that was very harsh, and on this occasion very angry. 
 Why had not his twelve o'clock letters been sent up to 
 him to the West End ? Why not ? Mr. Eames knew 
 all about it. AVhy 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 of 
 which Mr. Eames heard standing with the cigar in his 
 mouth and his back to the fire. " Somebody has been 
 bullying old Buffle, I suppose. After all, he 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, Rafferty," he said ; 
 " I '11 go in just now." Then he took half-a-dozen 
 more whiffs from the cigar, threw the remainder into 
 the fire, and opened the door which communicated 
 between his room and Sir Raffle's. 
 
 The great man was standing with two unopened 
 epistles in his hand. " Eames," said he, " here are let- 
 ters " Then he stopped himself, and began upon 
 
 another subject. " Did I not give express orders that 
 I would have no smoking in the office ? " 
 
 " I think Mr. Kissing said something about it, sir."
 
 2o6 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 "Mr. Kissing! It was not Mr. Kissing at all. It 
 was I. I gave the order myself." 
 
 "You 'II find it began with Mr. Kissing." 
 
 " It did not begin with Mr. Kissing ; it began and 
 ended with me. What are you going to do, sir ? " 
 John Eames had stepped towards the bell, and his hand 
 was already on the bell-pull. 
 
 " I was going to ring for the papers, sir." 
 
 " And who told you to ring for the papers ? I don't 
 want the papers. The papers won't show anything. 
 I suppose my word may be taken without the papers. 
 Since you 're so fond of Mr. Kissing " 
 
 " I 'm not fond of Mr. Kissing at all." 
 
 " You '11 have to go back to him, and let somebody 
 come here who will not be too independent to obey 
 my orders. Here two most important letters have 
 been lying here all day, instead of being sent up to me 
 at the Treasury." 
 
 " Of course they have been lying there. I thought 
 you were at the club." 
 
 " I told you I should go to the Treasiuy. I have 
 been there all the morning with the chancellor," — 
 when Sir Rafifle spoke officially of the chancellor he 
 was not supposed to mean the Lord Chancellor — " and 
 here I find letters which I particularly wanted lying 
 upon my desk now. I must put an end to this kind 
 of thing. I must, indeed. If you like the outer office 
 better say so at once, and you can go." 
 
 " I '11 think about it, Sir Raffle." 
 
 " Think about it ! What do you mean by thinking 
 about it ? But I can't talk about that now. I 'm very 
 bu.sy, and shall be here till past seven. I suppose you 
 can stay ? "
 
 UP IN LONDON. 207 
 
 "All night, if you wish it, sir." 
 
 " Very well. That will do for the present. I 
 would n't have had these letters delayed for twenty 
 pounds." 
 
 " I don't suppose it would have mattered one straw 
 if both of them remained unopened till next week." 
 
 This last httle speech, however, was not made aloud 
 to Sir Raffle, but by Johnny to himself in the sohtude 
 of his own room. 
 
 Very soon after that he went away. Sir Raffle having 
 discovered that one of the letters in question required 
 his immediate return to the West End. " I 've changed 
 my mind about staying. I shan't stay now. I should 
 have done so if these letters had reached me as they 
 ought." 
 
 " Then I suppose I can go ? " 
 
 " You can do as you Hke about that," said Sir Raffle. 
 
 Eames did do as he liked, and went home, or to his 
 club ; and as he went he resolved that he would put 
 an end, and at once, to the present trouble of his life. 
 Lily Dale should accept him or reject him ; and, tak- 
 ing either the one or the other alternative, she should 
 hear a bit of his mind plainly spoken.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 DOWN AT ALLINGTON. 
 
 It was Christmas-time down at Allington, and at 
 three o'clock on Christmas Eve, just as the darkness of 
 the early winter evening was coming on, Lily Dale and 
 (irace Crawley were seated together, one above the 
 other, on the steps leading up to the pulpit in Alling- 
 ton Church. They had been working all day at the 
 decorations of the church, and they were now looking 
 round them at the result of their handiwork. To an 
 eye unused to the gloom the place would have been 
 nearly dark ; but they could see every comer turned 
 by the ivy sprigs, and every line on which the holly- 
 leaves were shining. And the greeneries of the winter 
 had not been stuck up in the old-fashioned, idle way, 
 a bough just fastened up here and a twig inserted 
 there ; but everything had been done with some mean- 
 ing, with some thought towards the original architecture 
 of the building. The Gothic lines had been followed, 
 and all the lower arches which it had been possible to 
 reach with an ordinary ladder had been turned as truly 
 with the laurel cuttings as they had been turned orig- 
 inally with the stone. 
 
 " I would n't tie another twig," said the elder girl, 
 " for all the Christmas pudding that was ever boiled." 
 
 " It 's lucky then that there is n't another twig to tie." 
 
 " I don't know about that. I see a score of places 
 
 208
 
 DOWN AT ALLINGTON. 2 09 
 
 where the work has been scamped. This is the sixth 
 time I have done the church, and I don't think I 'II 
 ever do it again. When we first began it, Bell and 
 I, — before Bell was married, — Mrs. Boyce, and the 
 Boycian establishment generally, used to come and 
 help. Or rather we used to help her. Now she hardly 
 ever looks after it at all." 
 
 " She is older, I suppose." 
 
 " She is a little older, and a deal idler. How idle 
 people do get! Look at him. Since he has had a 
 curate he hardly ever stirs round the parish. And he 
 
 is getting so fat that H — sh! Here she is herself, 
 
 — come to give her judgment upon us." Then a stout 
 lady, the wife of the vicar, walked slowly up the aisle. 
 " Well, girls," she said, " you have worked hard, and I 
 am sure Mr. Boyce will be very much obliged to you." 
 
 " Mr. Boyce, indeed '. " said Lily Dale. ^ " We shall 
 expect the whole parish to rise from their seats and 
 thank us. Why did n'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 backbone, I know," said 
 Lily, " and Bessy does n't like getting up ladders." 
 
 " As for ladders," said Mrs. Boyce, defending her 
 daughter, " I am not quite sure that Bessy is n't right. 
 You don't mean to say that you did all those in the 
 capitals yourself ? " 
 
 " Every twig, with Hopkins to hold the ladder and 
 cut the sticks ; and as Hopkins is just a hundred and 
 one years old, we could have done it pretty nearly as 
 well alone." 
 
 VOL. I. — 14
 
 2IO THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " 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. Five 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 parsonage," 
 said Mrs. Boyce, who never understood a joke. 
 
 "All the best came from the parsonage, as of course 
 they ought," said Lily. " But Hopkins had to make 
 up the deficiency. And as my uncle told him to take 
 the hay-cart for them instead of the hand-barrow, he 
 is broken-hearted." 
 
 " I am sure he was very good-natured," said Grace. 
 
 " Nevertheless he is broken-hearted ; and I am very 
 good-natured too, and I am broken-backed. Who is 
 going to preach 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 Mr. Boyce if Mr. Swanton is long, we 
 won't any of us come next Sunday." 
 
 " My dear, how can you say such wicked things! I 
 shall not tell him anything of the kind." 
 
 " That 's not wicked, Mrs. Boyce. If I were to say 
 I had eaten so much lunch that I did n't want any 
 dinner, you 'd understand that. If Mr. Swanton will 
 preach for three-quarters of an hour " 
 
 " He only preached for three-quarters of an hour 
 once, Lily." 
 
 " He has been over the half-hour every Sunday since
 
 DOWN AT ALLINGTON. 211 
 
 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 does n't like to go to sleep, 
 and he has to suffer a purgatory in keeping himself 
 awake." 
 
 "If your uncle is heavy, how can Mr. Swanton help 
 it ? If Mr. Dale's mind were on the .subject he would 
 not sleep." 
 
 " Come, Mrs. Boyce ; there 's somebody else sleeps 
 sometimes besides my uncle. When Mr. Boyce puts 
 up his finger and just touches his nose I know as well 
 as possible why he does it." 
 
 " Lily Dale, you have no business to say so. It is 
 not true. I don't know how you can bring yourself to 
 talk in that way of your own clergyman. If I were to 
 tell your mamma she would be shocked." 
 
 " You won't be so ill-natured, Mrs. Boyce, — after ail 
 that I 've done for the church." 
 
 " If you 'd think more about the clergyman, Lily, 
 and less a!)out 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 yoxu" religion would go further 
 with you. Miss Crawley is the daughter of a clergy- 
 man, and I 'm sure she '11 agree with me." 
 
 " If she agrees with anybody in scolding me I '11 
 quarrel with her." 
 
 " I did n't mean to scold you, Lily." 
 
 " I don't mind it from you, Mrs. Boyce. Indeed, I 
 rather like it. It is a sort of pastoral visitation ; and 
 as Mr. Boyce never scolds me himself, of course I take
 
 212 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 it as coming from him by attorney." Then there was 
 silence for a minute or two, during which Mrs. Boyce 
 was endeavouring to discover whether Miss Dale was 
 laughing at her or not. As she was not quite certain, 
 she thought at last that she would let the suspected 
 fault pass unobserved. " Don't wait for us, Mrs. 
 Boyce," said Lily. " We must remain till Hopkins has 
 sent Gregory to sweep the church out and take away 
 the rubbish. We '11 see that the key is left at Mrs. 
 Giles's." 
 
 " Thank you, my dear. Then I may as well go. I 
 thought I 'd come in and see that it was all right. 
 I 'm sure Mr. Boyce will be very much obliged to you 
 and Miss Crawley. Good-night, my dear." 
 
 " Good-night, Mrs. Boyce ; and be sure you don't 
 let Mr. Swanton be long to-morrow." To this parting 
 shot Mrs. Boyce made no rejoinder; but she hurried 
 out of the church somewhat the quicker for it, and 
 closed the door after her with something of a slam. 
 
 Of all persons clergymen are the most irreverent in 
 the handling of things supposed to be sacred, and next 
 to them clergymen's wives, and after them those other 
 ladies, old or young, who take upon themselves semi- 
 clerical duties. And it is natural that it should be so ; 
 for is it not said that familiarity does breed contempt ? 
 When a parson takes his lay friend over his church on 
 a week-day, how much less of the spirit of genuflexion 
 and head-uncovering the clergyman will display than 
 the layman! The parson pulls about the woodwork 
 and knocks about the stonework, as though it were 
 mere wood and stone ; and talks aloud in the aisle, 
 and treats even the reading-desk as a common thing ; 
 whereas the visitor whispers gently, and cames himself
 
 DOWN AT ALLINGTON. 213 
 
 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 ofT the 
 premises." 
 
 " I don't know why you should dislike her." 
 
 " I don't dislike her. I like her very well," said Lily 
 Dale. " But don't you feel that there are people whom 
 one knows very intimately, who are really friends, — for 
 whom if they were dying one would grieve, whom if 
 they were in misfortune one would go far to help, but 
 with whom for all that one can have no sympathy? 
 And yet they are so near to one that they know all the 
 events of one's life, and are justified by unquestioned 
 friendship in talking about things which should never 
 be mentioned except where sympathy exists." 
 
 "Yes; I understand that." 
 
 " Everybody understands it who has been unhappy. 
 That woman sometimes says things to me that make 
 me wish, — wish that they 'd make him bishop of Pata- 
 gonia. And yet she does it all in friendship, and 
 mamma says that she is quite right." 
 
 " I liked her for standing up for her husband." 
 
 " But he does go to sleep, — and then he scratches 
 his nose to show that he 's awake. I should n't have
 
 214 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 said it, only she is always hinting at uncle Christopher. 
 Uncle Christopher certainly does go to sleep when Mr. 
 Boyce preaches, and he has n't studied any scientific 
 little movements during his slumbers to make people 
 believe that he 's all alive. I gave him a hint one 
 day, and he got so angry with me! " 
 
 " I should n't have thought he could have been 
 angry with you. It seems to me from what you say 
 that you may do whatever you please with him." 
 
 " He is very good to me. If you knew it all, — if 
 you could understand how good he has been! I '11 
 try and tell you some day. It is not what he has done 
 that makes me love him so, — but what he has thor- 
 oughly understood, and what, so understanding, he has 
 not done, and what he has not said. It is a case of 
 sympathy. If ever there was a gentleman uncle Chris- 
 topher is one. And I used to dislike him so at one 
 time!" 
 
 " And why ? " 
 
 " Chiefly because he would make me wear brown 
 frocks when I wanted to have them pink or green. 
 And he kept me for six months from having them 
 long, and up to this day he scolds me if there is half an 
 inch on the ground for him to tread upon." 
 
 " I should n't mind that if I were you." 
 
 " I don't, — not now. But it used to be serious when 
 I was a young girl. And we thought, Bell and I, that 
 he was cross to mamma. He and mamma did n't 
 agree at first, you know, as they do now. It is quite 
 true that he did dislike mamma when we first came 
 here." 
 
 " I can't think how anybody could ever dishke Mrs. 
 Dale."
 
 DOWN AT ALLINGTON. 21 5 
 
 " But he did. And then he wanted to make up a 
 maiTiage between Bell and my cousin Bernard. But 
 neither of them cared a bit for the other, and then 
 he used to scold them, — and then, — and then, — and 
 then Oh, he was so good to me! Here 's Greg- 
 ory at last. Gregory, we 've been waiting this hour 
 and a half." 
 
 " It ain't ten minutes since Hopkins let me come 
 with the ban-ows, miss." 
 
 " Then Hopkins is a traitor. Never mind. You 'd 
 better begin now, — up there at the steps. It '11 be 
 quite dark in a few minutes. Here 's Mrs. Giles with 
 her broom. Come, Mrs. Giles ; we shall have to pass 
 the night here if you don't make haste. Are you cold, 
 Grace ? " 
 
 " No ; I 'm not cold. I 'm thinking what they are 
 doing now in the church at Hogglestock." 
 
 " The Hogglestock church is not pretty ; — like this ? " 
 
 " Oh, no. It is a very plain brick building, with 
 something like a pigeon-house for a belfry. And the 
 pulpit is over the reading-desk, and the reading-desk 
 over the clerk, so that papa, when he preaches, is 
 nearly up to the ceiling. And the whole place is 
 divided into pews, in which the farmers hide themselves 
 when they come to church." 
 
 " So that nobody can see whether they go to sleep 
 or no. Oh, Mrs. Giles, you must n't pull that down. 
 That 's what we have been putting up all day." 
 
 " But it be in the way, miss ; so that the minister 
 can't budge in or out o' the door." 
 
 " Never mind. Then he must stay one side or the 
 other. That would be too much after all our trouble ! " 
 And Miss Dale hurried across the chancel to save
 
 2l6 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 some prettily arching boughs, which, in the judgment 
 of Mrs. Giles, encroached too much on the vestry door. 
 "As if it signified which side he was," she said in a 
 whisper to Grace. ' 
 
 " I don't suppose they '11 have anything in the church 
 at home," said Grace. 
 
 " Somebody will stick up a wreath or two, I dare 
 say." 
 
 " Nobody will. There never is anybody at Hoggle- 
 stock to stick up wreaths, or to do anything for the 
 prettinesses of hfe. And now there will be less done 
 than ever. How can mamma look after holly-leaves 
 in her present state ? And yet she will miss them, too. 
 Poor mamma sees very little that is pretty ; but she 
 has not forgotten how pleasant pretty things are." 
 
 " I wish I knew your mother, Grace." 
 
 " I think it would be impossible for 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 accusa- 
 tion ? " 
 
 " Yes ; he is very unhappy. But, Lily, I don't know 
 about its being wicked." 
 
 " But you know that it is untrue." 
 
 " Of coiu'se I know that papa did not mean to take 
 anything that was not his own. But, you see, no- 
 body knows where it came from ; and nobody except 
 mamma and Jane and I understand how very absent 
 papa can be. I 'm sure he does n't know the least in 
 the world how he came by it himself, or he would tell
 
 DOWN AT ALLINGTON, 21 7 
 
 mamma. Do you know, I.ily, I think I have been 
 wrong to come away." 
 
 " Don't .say that, dear. Remember how anxious 
 Mrs. Crawley was that you should come." 
 
 " But I cannot bear to be comfortable here while 
 they are so wretched at home. It seems such a mock- 
 ery. Every time I find myself smiling at what you say 
 to me, I think I must be the most heartless creature in 
 the world." 
 
 " Is it so very bad with them, Grace ? " 
 
 " Indeed it is bad. I don't think you can imagine 
 what mamma has to go through. She has to cook all 
 that is eaten in the house, and then, very often, there 
 is no money in the house to buy anything. If you 
 were to see the clothes she wears, even that would 
 make your heart bleed. I who have been used to 
 being poor all my life, — even I, when I am at home, 
 am dismayed by what she has to endure." 
 
 " What can we do for her, Grace ? " 
 
 " You can do nothing, Lily. But when things are 
 like that at home you can understand what I feel in 
 being here." 
 
 Mrs. Giles and Gregory had now completed their 
 task, or had so nearly done so as to make Miss Dale 
 think that she might safely leave the church. " We 
 will go in now," she said ; " for it is dark and cold, 
 and what I call creepy. Do you ever fancy that 
 perhaps you will see a ghost some day ? " 
 
 " I don't think I shall ever see a ghost ; but all the 
 same I should be half afraid to be here alone in the 
 dark." 
 
 " I am often here alone in the dark, but I am be- 
 ginning to think I shall never see a ghost now. I am
 
 2l8 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 losing all my romance, and getting to be an old woman. 
 Do you know, Grace, I do so hate myself for being 
 such an old maid." 
 
 " But who says you 're an old maid, Lily ? " 
 " I see it in people's eyes, and hear it in their voices. 
 And they all talk to me as if I were very steady, and 
 altogether removed from anything like fun and frohc. 
 It seems to be admitted that if a girl does not want to 
 fall in love, she ought not to care for any other fun in 
 the world. If anybody made out a list of the old 
 ladies in these parts, they 'd put down Lady Juha 
 and mamma, and Mrs. Boyce and me, and old Mrs. 
 Heam. The very children have an awful respect for 
 me, and give over playing directly they see me. Well, 
 mamma, we 've done at last, and I have had such a 
 scolding from Mrs. Boyce." 
 
 " I dare say you deserved it, my dear." 
 " No, I did not, mamma. Ask Grace if I did." 
 " Was she not saucy to Mrs. Boyce, Miss Crawley ? " 
 " She said that Mr. Boyce scratches his nose in 
 church," said Grace. 
 
 " So he does ; and goes to sleep, too." 
 "If you told Mrs. Boyce that, Lily, I think she was 
 quite right to scold you." 
 
 Such was Miss Lily Dale, with whom Grace Crawley 
 was staying • — Lily Dale with whom Mr. John Eames, 
 of the Income-tax Office, had been so long and so 
 steadily in love that he was regarded among his fellow- 
 clerks as a miracle of constancy, — who had, herself, in 
 former days been so unfortunate in love as to have 
 been regarded among her friends in the country as the 
 most ill-used of women. As John Emaes had been 
 able to be comfortable in life, — that is to say, not
 
 DOWN AT ALLINGTON. 2ig 
 
 Utterly a wretch, — in spite of his love, so had she man- 
 aged to hold up 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 mis- 
 fortune, although she had been able to bear it without 
 much outer show of shipwreck. For a few days, — for 
 a week or two, when the blow first struck her, she had 
 been knocked down, and the friends who were nearest 
 to her had thought that she would never again stand 
 erect upon her feet. But she had been very strong, 
 stout at heart, of a fixed purpose, and capable of re- 
 sistance again.st oppression. Even her own mother 
 had been astonished, and sometimes almo.st dismayed, 
 by the strength of her will. Her mother knew well 
 how it was with her now ; but they who saw her fre- 
 quently, and who did not know her as her mother knew 
 her, — the Mrs. Boyces of her acquaintance, — whispered 
 among themselves that Lily Dale was not so soft of 
 heart as people used to think. 
 
 On the next day, Christmas Day, as the reader 
 will remember, Grace Crawley was taken up to dine at 
 the big house with the old squire. Mrs. Dale's eldest 
 daughter, with her husband, Dr. Crofts, was to be 
 there ; and also Lily's old friend, who was also e.spe- 
 cially the old friend of Johnny Eames, Lady Julia De 
 Guest. Grace had endeavoured to be excused from 
 the part)', pleading many pleas. But the upshot of all 
 her pleas was this, — that while her father's position was 
 so painful she ought not to go out anywhere. In 
 answer to this, Lily Dale, corroborated by her mother, 
 assured her that for her father's sake she ought not to
 
 2 20 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 exhibit any such feeling ; that in doing so, she would 
 seem to express a doubt as to her father's innocence. 
 Then she allowed herself to be persuaded, telling her 
 friend, however, that she knew the day would be very 
 miserable to her. " It will be very humdrum, if you 
 please," said Lily. " Nothing can be more humdrum 
 than Christmas at the Great House. Nevertheless, 
 you must go." 
 
 Coming out of chiu-ch, Grace was introduced to the 
 old squire. He was a thin, old man, with grey hair, 
 and the smallest possible grey whiskers, with a dry, 
 solemn face ; not carrying in his outward gait much of 
 the customary jollity of Christmas. He took his hat 
 off to Grace, and said some word to her as to hoping 
 to have the pleasure of seeing her at dinner. It 
 sounded very cold to her, and she became at once 
 afraid of him. " I wish I was not going," she said to 
 Lily, again. " I know he thinks I ought not to go. I 
 shall be so thankful if you will but let me stay." 
 
 " Don't be foolish, Grace. It all comes from your 
 not knowing him, or understanding him. And how 
 should you understand him ? I give you my word that 
 I would tell you if I did not know that he wishes you 
 to go." 
 
 She had to go. " Of course I have n't a dress fit. 
 How should I ? " she said to Lily, "How wTong it is 
 of me to put myself up to such a thing as this." 
 
 " Your dress is beautiful, child. We are none of us 
 going in evening-dresses. Pray believe 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
 
 DOWN AT ALLINGTON. 221 
 
 Lady Julia had arrived before them. Lady Juh'a im- 
 mediately 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 
 expedient, with a view to the object which she had so 
 closely at heart. " John is to be with us the first week 
 in February," she said. " I .suppose you '11 see him 
 before that, as he '11 probably be with his mother a few 
 days before he comes to me." 
 
 " I dare say we shall see him quite in time, Lady 
 Juha," said Lily. 
 
 " Now, Lily, don't be ill-natured." 
 
 " I 'm the most good-natured young woman alive, 
 Lady Julia, and as for Johnny, he is always made 
 as welcome at the Small House as violets in March. 
 Mamma purrs about him Avhen he comes, asking all 
 manner of flattering questions, as though he were a 
 Cabinet minister at least, and I always admire some 
 little knicknack that he has got, a new ring, or a stud, 
 or a button. There is n't another man in all the world 
 whose buttons I 'd look at." 
 
 " It is n't his buttons, Lily." 
 
 " Ah, that 's just it. I can go as far as his buttons. 
 But come. Lady Julia, this is Christmas-time, and 
 Christmas should be a holiday." 
 
 In the 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
 
 222 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 Manor is a fine place in its way, but we have not so 
 much natural beauty as you have in Barsetshire. Chaldi- 
 cote Chase is, I think, as pretty as anything in England." 
 
 " I never saw Chaldicote Chase, sir. It is n't pretty 
 at all at Hogglestock, where we hve." 
 
 "Ah, I forgot! No; it is not very pretty at Hog- 
 glestock. That 's where the bricks come from." 
 
 " Papa is clergyman at Hogglestock." 
 
 "Yes, yes; I remember. Your father is a great 
 scholar. I have often heard of him. I am so sorry 
 he should be distressed by this charge they have made. 
 But it will all come right at the assizes. They always 
 get at the truth there. I used to be intimate with a 
 clerg}'man in Barsetshire of the name of Grantly ; " — 
 Grace felt that her ears were tingling, and that her face 
 was red ; — " Archdeacon Grantly. His father was 
 bishop of the diocese." 
 
 " Yes, sir. Archdeacon Grantly lives at Plumstead." 
 
 " I was staying once with an old friend of mine, Mr. 
 Thome of Ullathome, who lives close to Plumstead, 
 and saw a good deal of them. I remember thinking 
 Henry Grantly was a very nice lad. He married 
 afterwards." 
 
 " Yes, sir ; but his wife is dead now, and he has got 
 a little girl, — Edith Grantly." 
 
 " Is there no other child ? " 
 
 "No, sir; only Edith." 
 
 " You know him, then ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; I know Major Grantly, — and Edith, I 
 never saw Archdeacon Grantly." 
 
 " Then, my dear, you never saw a very famous pillar 
 of the church. I remember when people used to talk 
 a great deal about Archdeacon Grantly ; but when his
 
 DOWN AT ALLINGTON. 223 
 
 time came to be made a bishop, he was not sufficiently 
 new-fangled ; and so he got passed by. He is much 
 better off as he is, I should say. Bishops have to work 
 very hard, my dear." 
 
 " Do they, sir ? " 
 
 " So they tell me. And the archdeacon is a wealthy 
 man. So Henry Grantly has got an only daughter ? I 
 hope she is a nice child, for I remember liking him well." 
 
 " She is a very nice child, indeed, Mr. Dale. She 
 could not be nicer. And she is so lovely." Then Mr. 
 Dale looked into his young companion's face, struck 
 by the sudden animation of her words, and perceived 
 for the first time that she was very pretty. 
 
 After this Grace became accustomed to the strange- 
 ness of the faces round her, and managed to eat her 
 dinner without much perturbation of spirit. When 
 after dinner the squire proposed to her that they should 
 drink the health of her papa and mamma, she was al- 
 most reduced to tears, and yet she liked him for doing 
 it. It was terrible to her to have them mentioned, 
 knowing as she did that every one who mentioned 
 them must be aware of their misery, — for the misfort- 
 une of her father had become notorious in the country ; 
 but it was almost more terrible to her that no allusion 
 should be made to them ; for then she would be driven 
 to think that her father was regarded as a man whom 
 the world could not afford to mention. 
 
 " Papa and mamma," she just murmured, raising her 
 glass to her lips. 
 
 " Grace, dear," said Lily from across the table, 
 "here 's papa and mamma, and the young man at 
 Marlborough who is carrying everything before him." 
 
 " Yes ; we won't forget the young man at Marlbor-
 
 224 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 ough," said the squire. Grace felt this to be good- 
 natured, 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 did n'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 everybody there understood what she meant, 
 — including old John Bates, who stood at the sideboard 
 and coolly drank the toast himself." 
 
 "He always does that to all the family toasts on 
 Christmas Day. Your uncle likes it." 
 
 " That was n't a family toast, and John Bates had 
 no right to drink it." 
 
 After dinner they all played cards, — a round game, 
 — and the squire put in the stakes. " Now, Grace," 
 said Lily, " you are the visitor, and you must win, or 
 else uncle Christopher won't be happy. He always 
 likes a young lady visitor to win."
 
 DOWN AT ALLINGTON. 225 
 
 " But I never played a game of cards in my life." 
 
 " Go and sit next to him and he '11 teach you. 
 Uncle Christopher, won't you teach Grace Crawley ? 
 She never saw a Pope Joan board in her life before." 
 
 " Come here, my dear, and sit next to me. Dear, 
 dear, dear ; fancy Henry Grantly having a little girl. 
 What a handsome lad he was. And it seems only 
 yesterday." If it were so that Lily had said a word 
 to her uncle about Grace and the major, the old squire 
 had become on a sudden very sly. Be that as it may, 
 Grace Crawley thought that he was a pleasant old 
 man ; and though, while talking to him about Edith, 
 she persisted in not learning to play Pope Joan, so that 
 he could not contrive that she should win, neverthe- 
 less 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 speak- 
 ing of his sister-in-law's cottage always called it the 
 Small House. 
 
 " Only think of my winning," said Lady Julia, draw- 
 ing 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 stand- 
 ing on the hearthrug, touched her mother's arm. She 
 knew that Johnny's name was lugged in with reference 
 to Lady Julia's money altogether 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-natiu:ed," said Mrs. Dale. 
 
 VOL. I. — 15
 
 2 26 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " Of course she 'does. But it is such a pity when 
 people won't understand." 
 
 " My uncle did n't bite you after all, Grace," said 
 Lily to her friend as they were going home at night, by 
 the pathway which led from the garden of one house 
 to the garden of the other. 
 
 " I like Mr. Dale very much," said Grace. " He 
 was very kind to me." 
 
 " There is some queer-looking animal of whom they 
 say that he is better than he looks, and I always think 
 of that saying when I think of my uncle." 
 
 "For shame, Lily," said her mother. "Your uncle, 
 for his age, is as good a looking man as I know. And 
 he always looks like just what he is, — an English 
 gentleman." 
 
 " I did n'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 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 ApoUos of the world, — I don't mean in outward 
 looks, mamma, — but the Apollos in heart, the men, — 
 and the women too, — who are so full of feeling, so soft- 
 natured, so kind, who never say a cross word, who 
 never get out of bed on the wrong side in the morn- 
 ing, — it so often turns out that they won't wash." 
 
 Such was the expression of Miss Lily Dale's experi- 
 ence.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 MR. CRAWLEY IS SUMMONED TO BARCHESTER. 
 
 The scene which occurred in Hogglestock church 
 on the Sunday after Mr. Thumble's first visit to that 
 parish had not been described with absolute accuracy 
 either by the archdeacon in his letter to his son, or by 
 Mrs. Thorne. There had been no footman from the 
 palace in attendance on Mr. Thumble, nor had there 
 been a batde with the brickmakers ; neither had Mr. 
 Thumble been put under the pump. But Mr. Thumble 
 had gone over, taking his gown and surplice with him, 
 on the Sunday morning, and had intimated to Mr. 
 Crawley his intention of performing the service. Mr. 
 Crawley, in answer to this, had assured Mr. Thumble 
 that he would not be allowed to open his mouth in the 
 church ; and Mr. Thumble, not seeing his way to any 
 further successful action, had contented himself with 
 attending the services in his surplice, making thereby a 
 silent protest that he, and not Mr. Crawley, ought to 
 have been in the reading-desk and the pulpit. 
 
 When Mr. Thumble reported himself and his failure 
 at the palace, he strove hard to avoid seeing Mrs. 
 Proudie, but not successfully. He knew something of 
 the palace habits, and did manage to reach the bishop 
 alone on the Sunday evening, justifying himself to his 
 lordship for such an inter\new by the remarkable cir- 
 
 227
 
 2 28 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 cumstances of the case and the importance of his late 
 mission. Mrs. Proudie always went to church on Sun- 
 day evenings, making a point of hearing three services 
 and three sermons every Sunday of her life. On week- 
 days she seldom heard any, having an idea that week- 
 day services were an invention of the High-Church 
 enemy, and that they should therefore be vehemently 
 discoiu-aged. Services on saints' days she regarded as 
 rank papacy, and had been known to accuse a clergy- 
 man's wife, to her face, of idolatry, because the poor 
 lady had dated a letter St. John's Eve. Mr. Thumble, on 
 this Sunday evening, was successful in finding the bishop 
 at home, and alone, but he was not lucky enough to 
 get away before Mrs. Proudie retiu^ned. The bishop, 
 perhaps, thought that the story of the failure had better 
 reach his wife's ears from Mr. Thumble 's lips than 
 from his own. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Thumble ! " said Mrs. Proudie, walking 
 into the study, armed in her full Sunday-evening winter 
 panoply, in which she had just descended from her 
 carriage. The church which Mrs. Proudie attended 
 in the evening was nearly half a mile from the palace, 
 and the coachman and groom never got a holiday on 
 a Sunday night. She was gorgeous in a dark brown 
 silk dress of awful stiffness and temble dimensions ; and 
 on her shoulders she wore a short cloak of velvet and 
 fur, very handsome withal, but so swelling in its pro- 
 portions on all sides as necessarily to create more of 
 dismay than of admiration in the mind of any ordinary 
 man. And her bonnet was a monstrous helmet with 
 tlie beaver up, displaying the awful face of the warrior, 
 always ready for combat, and careless to guard itself 
 from attack. The large contorted bows which she
 
 MR. CRAWLEY IS SUMMONED TO BARCHESTER. 229 
 
 bore were as a grisly crest upon her casque, beautiful, 
 doubtless, but majestic and fear-compelling. In her 
 hand she carried her armour all complete, a prayer- 
 book, a Bible, and a book of hymns. These the 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. Thumble did not answer at once, thinking, proba- 
 bly, that the bishop might choose to explain the cir- 
 cumstances. But neither did the bishop say anything. 
 "Well, Mr. Thumble!" .she said again; and then she 
 stood looking at the man who had failed so disastrously. 
 
 " I have explained to the bishop," said he. " Mr. 
 Crawley has been contumacious, — very contumacious 
 indeed." 
 
 " But you preached at Hogglestock ? " 
 
 " No, indeed, Mrs. Proudie. Nor would it have 
 been possible, unless I had had the police to assist me." 
 
 "Then you should have had the police. I never 
 heard of anything so mismanaged in all my hfe ; — 
 never in all my life." And she put her books down 
 on the study table, and turned herself round from Mr. 
 Thumble towards the bishop. " If things go on like 
 this, my lord," .she said, " your authority in the diocese 
 will very soon be worth nothing at all." It was not 
 often that Mrs. Proudie called her husband my lord, but 
 when she did so, it was a sign that terrible times had 
 come ; — times so terrible that the bishop would know 
 that he must either fight or fly. He would almost en- 
 dure anything rather than descend into the arena for 
 the purpose of doing battle with his wife, but occasions 
 would come now and again when even the alternative 
 of flight was hardly left to him.
 
 230 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " But, my dear " began the bishop. 
 
 "Am I to understand that this man has professed 
 himself to be altogether indifferent to the bishop's pro- 
 hibition ? " said Mrs. Proudie, interrupting her husband 
 and addressing Mr. Thumble. 
 
 " Quite so. He seemed to think that the bishop had 
 no lawful power in the matter at all," said Mr. Thumble. 
 
 " Do you hear that, my lord ? " said Mrs. Proudie. 
 
 " Nor have I any," said the bishop, almost weeping 
 as he spoke. 
 
 " No authority in your own diocese! " 
 
 " None to silence a man merely by my own judg- 
 ment. I thought, and still think, that it was for this 
 gentleman's own interest, as well as for the credit of 
 the church, that some provision should be made for 
 his duties during his present — present — difficulties." 
 
 "Difficulties indeed! Everybody knows that the 
 man has been a thief." 
 
 " No, my dear ; I do not know it." 
 
 " You never know anything, bishop." 
 
 " I mean to say that I do not know it officially. Of 
 course I have heard the sad story ; and, though I 
 hope it may not be the " 
 
 " There is no doubt about its truth. All the world 
 knows it. He has stolen twenty pounds, and yet he is 
 to be allowed to desecrate the church, and imperil the 
 souls of the people ! " The bishop got up from his 
 chair and began to walk backwards and forwards 
 through the room with .short quick steps. " It only 
 wants five days to Christmas Day," continued Mrs. 
 Proudie, " and something must be done at once. I 
 say nothing as to the propriety or impropriety of his 
 being out on bail, as it is no affair of ours. When I
 
 MR. CRAWLEY IS SUMMONED TO BARCHESTER, 23 1 
 
 heard that lie had been bailed by a beneficed clergy- 
 man of this diocese, of course I knew where to look 
 for the man who would act with so much impropriety. 
 Of course I was not surprised when I found that that 
 person belonged to Framley. But, as I have said 
 before, that is no business of ours. I hope, Mr. Thum- 
 ble, that the bishop will never be found interfering 
 with the ordinary laws of the land. I am very sure 
 that he will never do so by my advice. But when 
 there comes a question of inhibiting a clergyman who 
 has committed himself as 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 gradu- 
 ally his steps became quicker, and his turns became 
 shorter. " And now here is Christmas Day upon us, 
 and what is to be done ? " With these words Mrs. 
 Proudie finished her speech. 
 
 " Mr. Thumble," said the bishop, " perhaps you had 
 better now retire. I am very sorry that you should 
 have had so thankless and so disagreeable a task." 
 
 " Why should Mr. Thumble retire ? " asked Mrs. 
 Proudie. 
 
 " I think it better," said the bishop. " Mr. Thumble, 
 good-night." Then Mr. Thumble did retire, and Mrs. 
 Proudie stood forth in her full panoply of armour, 
 silent and awful, with her helmet erect, and vouchsafed 
 no recognition whatever of the parting salutation with 
 which Mr. Thumble greeted her. " My dear, the truth 
 is, you do not understand the matter," said the bishop 
 as soon as the door was closed. " You do not know 
 how limited is my power." 
 
 " Bishop, I understand it a great deal better than
 
 232 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 some people ; and I understand also what is due to 
 myself and the manner in which I ought to be treated 
 by you in the presence of the subordinate clergy of the 
 diocese. I shall not, however, remain here to be in- 
 sulted either in the presence or in the absence of any 
 one." Then the conquered amazon collected together 
 the weapons which she had laid upon the table, and 
 took her departure with majestic step, and not without 
 the clang of arms. The bishop, when he was left alone, 
 enjoyed for a few moments the triumph of his victory. 
 
 But then he was left so very much alone! When 
 he looked round about him upon his solitude after the 
 departure of his wife, and remembered that he should 
 not see her again till he should encounter her on ground 
 that was all her own, he regretted his own success, and 
 was tempted to follow her and to apologise. He was 
 unable to do anything alone. He would not even know 
 how to get his tea, as the very servants would ask 
 questions, if he were to do so unaccustomed a thing as 
 to order it to be brought up to him in his sohtude. 
 They would tell him that Mrs. Proudie was having tea 
 in her little sitting-room upstairs, or else that the 
 things were laid in the drawing-room. He did wander 
 forth to the latter apartment, hoping that he might find 
 his wife there ; but the drawing-room was dark and 
 deserted, and so he wandered back again. It was a 
 grand thing certainly to have triumphed over his wife, 
 and there was a crumb of comfort in the thought that 
 he had vindicated himself before Mr. Thumble ; but the 
 general result was not comforting, and he knew from 
 of old how short-lived his triumph would be. 
 
 But wretched as he was during that evening he did 
 employ himself with some energy. After much thought
 
 MR. CRAWLEY IS SUMMONED TO BARCHESTER. 233 
 
 he resolved that he would again write to Mr. Crawley, 
 and summon him to appear at the palace. In doing 
 this he would at any rate be doing something. There 
 would be action. And though Mr. Crawley would, 
 as he thought, decline to obey the order, something 
 would be gained even by that disobedience. So he 
 wrote his summons, — sitting very comfortless and all 
 alone on that Sunday evening, — dating his letter, how- 
 ever, for the following day : — 
 
 ^ " Palace, December 20, 186 — . 
 
 " Reverend Sir, — I have just heard from Mr. Thum- 
 ble that you have declined to accede to the advice 
 which I thought it my duty to tender to you as the 
 bishop who has been set over you by the church, and 
 that you yesterday insisted on what you believed to 
 be your right to administer the services in the parish 
 church of Hogglestock. This has occasioned me the 
 deepest regret. It is, I think, unavailing that I should 
 further WTite to you my mind upon the subject, as I 
 possess such strong evidence that my written word 
 will not be respected by you. I have, therefore, no 
 alternative now but to invite you to come to me here ; 
 and this I do, hoping that I may induce you to listen 
 to that authority which I cannot but suppose you 
 acknowledge to be vested in the office which I hold. 
 
 " I shall be glad to see you on to-morrow, Tuesday, 
 as near the hour of two as you can make it convenient 
 to yourself to be here, and I will take care to order 
 that refreshment shall be provided for yourself and 
 your horse. 
 
 " I am. Reverend Sir, 
 
 " &c. &c. &c. 
 
 " Thos. Barnum."
 
 234 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " My dear," he said, when he did again encounter 
 his wife that night, " I have written to Mr, Crawley, 
 and I thought I might as weil bring up the copy of 
 my letter." 
 
 " I wash my hands of the whole affair," said Mrs. 
 Proudie — " of the whole affair ! " 
 
 " But you will look at the letter ? " 
 
 " Certainly not. Why should I look at the letter ? 
 My word goes for nothing. I have done what I 
 could, but in vain. Now let us see how you will 
 manage it yourself." 
 
 The bishop did not pass a comfortable night ; but 
 in the morning his wife did read his letter and after 
 that things went a little smoother with him. She was 
 pleased to say that, considering all things; — seeing, as 
 she could not help seeing, that the matter had been 
 dreadfully mismanaged, and that great weakness had 
 been displayed ; — seeing that these faults had already 
 been committed, perhaps no better step could now be 
 taken than that proposed in the letter. 
 
 " I suppose he will not come," said the bishop. 
 
 " I think he will," said Mrs. Proudie, " and I trust 
 that we may be able to convince him that obedience 
 will be his best course. He will be more humble- 
 minded here than at Hogglestock." In saying this 
 the lady showed some knowledge of the general nature 
 of clergymen and of the world at large. She under- 
 .stood how much louder a cock can crow in its own 
 farm-yard than elsewhere, and knew that episcopal 
 authority backed by all the solemn awe of palatial 
 grandeur goes much further than it will do when .sent 
 under the folds of an ordinary envelope. But though
 
 MR. CRAWLEY IS SUMMONED TO BARCHESTER. 235 
 
 she understood ordinary human nature, it may be that 
 she did not understand Mr. Crawley's nature. 
 
 But she was at any rate right in her idea as to Mr. 
 Crawley's immediate reply. The palace groom who 
 rode over to Hogglestock returned with an immediate 
 answer. 
 
 " My Lord," (said Mr. Crawley), — " I will obey your 
 lordship's summons, and, unless impediments should 
 arise, I will wait upon your lordship at the hour you 
 name to-morrow. I will not trespass on your hospi- 
 tahty. For myself, I rarely break bread in any house 
 but my own ; and as to the horse, I have none. 
 " I have the honour to be, 
 
 " My lord, &c. &c. 
 "JosiAH Crawley." 
 
 " Of course I shall go," he had said to his wife as 
 soon as he had had time to read the letter, and make 
 known to her the contents. " I shall go if it be possi- 
 ble for me to get there. I think that I am bound to 
 comply with the bishop's wishes in so much as that." 
 
 " But how will you get there, Josiah ? " 
 
 " I will walk, — with the Lord's aid." 
 
 Now Hogglestock was fifteen miles from Barchester, 
 and Mr. Crawley was, as his wife well knew, by no 
 means fitted in his present state for great physical ex- 
 ertion. But from the tone in which he had replied to 
 her, she well knew that it would not avail for her to 
 remonstrate at the moment. He had walked more 
 than thirty miles in a day since they had been living 
 at Hogglestock, and she did not doubt but that it might 
 be possible for him to do it again. Any scheme which
 
 236 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 she might be able to devise for saving him from so 
 terrible a journey in the middle of winter, must be 
 pondered over silently, and brought to bear, if not 
 slyly, at least deftly, and without discussion. She 
 made no reply therefore when he declared that on the 
 following day he would walk to Barchester and back, 
 — with the Lord's aid ; nor did she see, or ask to see, 
 the note which he sent to the bishop. When the mes- 
 senger was gone, Mr. Crawley was all alert, looking 
 forward with evident glee to his encounter with the 
 bishop, — snorting like a race-horse at the expected 
 triumph of the coming struggle. And he read much 
 Greek with Jane on that afternoon, pouring into her 
 young ears, almost with joyous rapture, his apprecia- 
 tion of the glory and the pathos and the humanity, 
 as also of the awful tragedy, of the story of CEdipus. 
 His very soul was on fire at the idea of clutching the 
 weak bishop in his hand, and crushing him with his 
 strong grasp. 
 
 In the afternoon Mrs. Crawley slipped out to a 
 neighbouring farmer's wife, and returned in an hour's 
 time with a little story which she did not tell with any 
 appearance of eager satisfaction. She had learned 
 well what were the little tricks necessary to the carrying 
 of such a matter as that which she had now in hand. 
 Mr. Mangle, the farmer, as it happened, was going 
 to-morrow morning in his tax-cart as far as Framley 
 Mill, and would be delighted if Mr. Crawley would take 
 a seat. He must remain at Framley the best part of 
 the afternoon, and hoped that Mr. Crawley would take 
 a seat back again. Now Framley Mill was only half 
 a mile off the direct road to Barchester, and was almost 
 half-way from Hogglestock parsonage to the city. This
 
 MR. CRAWLEY IS SUMMONED TO BARCHESTER. 237 
 
 would, at any rate, bring the walk within a practicable 
 distance. Mr. Crawley was instantly placed upon his 
 guard, like an animal that sees the bait and suspects 
 the trap. Had he been told that farmer Mangle was 
 going all the way to Barchester, nothing would have 
 induced him to get into the cart. lie would have felt 
 sure that farmer Mangle had been persuaded to pity 
 him in his poverty and his strait, and he would sooner 
 have started to walk to London than have put a foot 
 upon the step of the cart. But this lift half-way did 
 look to him as though it were really fortuitous. His 
 wife could hardly have been cunning enough to per- 
 suade the farmer to go to Framley, conscious that the 
 trap would have been suspected had the bait been made 
 more full. But I fear, — I fear the dear good woman 
 had been thus cunning, — had understood how far the 
 trap might be baited, and had thus succeeded in catch- 
 ing her prey. 
 
 On the following morning he consented to get into 
 farmer Mangle's cart, and was driven as far as Fram- 
 ley Mill. " I would n't think nowt, your reverence, of 
 running you over into Barchester, — that I would n't. 
 The powny is so mortial good," said farmer Mangle in 
 his foolish good-nature. 
 
 " And how about your business here ? " said Mr. 
 Crawley. The farmer scratched his head, remember- 
 ing all Mrs. Crawley's injunctions, and awkwardly 
 acknowledged that to be siure his own business with 
 the miller was very pressing. Then Mr. Crawley de- 
 scended, terribly suspicious, and went on his journey. 
 
 " Anyways, your reverence will call for me coming 
 back ? " said farmer Mangle. But Mr. Crawley would 
 make no promise. He bade the farmer not wait fox
 
 238 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 liim. If they chanced to meet together on the road 
 he might get up again. If the man really had business 
 at Framley, how could he have offered to go on to 
 Barchester ? Were they deceiving him ? The wife of 
 his bosom had deceived him in such matters before 
 now. But his trouble in this respect was soon dissipated 
 by the pride of his anticipated triumph over the bishop. 
 He took great glory from the thought that he would 
 go before the bishop with dirty boots — with boots nec- 
 essarily dirty, — with rusty pantaloons, that he would 
 be hot and mud-stained with his walk, hungry, and an 
 object to be wondered at by all who should see him, 
 because of the misfortunes which had been unworthily 
 heaped upon his head ; whereas the bishop would be 
 sleek and clean and well-fed, — pretty with all the pret- 
 tinesses that are becoming to a bishop's outward man. 
 And he, Mr. Crawley, would be humble, whereas the 
 bishop would be very proud. And the bishop would 
 be in his own arm-chair, — the cock in his own farm- 
 yard, while he, Mr. Crawley, would be seated afar off, 
 in the cold extremity of the room, with nothing of out- 
 ward circumstances to assist him, — a man called thither 
 to undergo censure. And yet he would take the bishop 
 in his grasp and crush him, — crush him, — crush him! 
 As he thought of this he walked quickly through the 
 mud, and put out his long arm and his great hand, far 
 before him out into the air, and, there and then, he 
 crushed the bishop in his imagination. Yes, indeed! 
 He thought it very doubtful whether the bishop would 
 ever send for him a second time. As all this passed 
 through his mind, he forgot his wife's cunning, and 
 farmer Mangle's sin, and for the moment he was happy. 
 As he turned a corner round by Lord Lufton's park
 
 MR. CRAWLEY IS SUMMONED TO BARCHESTER. 239 
 
 paling, who should he meet but his old friend Mr. 
 Robarts, the parson of Framlcy, — the parson who had 
 committed the sin of being bail for him, — the sin, that 
 is, according to Mrs. Proudie's view of the matter. 
 He was walking with his hand still stretched out, — still 
 crushing the bishop, when Mr. Robarts was close upon 
 him. 
 
 "What, Crawley! upon my word I am very glad to 
 see you ; you are coming up to me, of course ? " 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Robarts ; no, not to-day. The 
 bishop has summoned me to his presence, and I am 
 on my road to Barchester." 
 
 " But how are you going ? " 
 
 " I shall walk." 
 
 " Walk to Barchester. Impossible!" 
 
 " I hope not quite impossible, Mr. Robarts. I trust 
 I shall get as far before two o'clock ; but to do so 1 
 must be on my road." Then he showed signs of a 
 desire to go on upon his way without further parley. 
 
 " But, Crawley, do let me send you over. There is 
 the horse and gig doing nothing." 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Robarts ; no. I should prefer 
 the walk to-day." 
 
 "And you have walked from Hogglestock ? " 
 
 "No; — not so. A neighbour coming hither, who 
 happened to have business at yovu- mill, — he brought 
 me so far in his cart. The walk home Avill be nothing, 
 — nothing. I shall enjoy it. Good-morning, Mr. 
 Robarts." 
 
 But Mr. Robarts thought of the dirty road, and of 
 the bishop's presence, and of his own ideas of what 
 would be becoming for a clergyman, — and persevered. 
 " You will find the lanes so very muddy ; and our
 
 240 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 bishop, you know, is apt to notice such things. Do 
 be persuaded." 
 
 " Notice what things ? " demanded Mr. Crawley, in 
 an indignant tone. 
 
 " He, or perhaps she rather, will say how dirty your 
 shoes were when you came to the palace." 
 
 " If he, or she, can find nothing unclean about me 
 but my shoes, let them say their worst. I shall be very 
 indifferent. I have long ceased, Mr. Robarts, to care 
 much what any man or woman may say about my 
 shoes. Good-morning." Then he stalked on, clutch- 
 ing and crushing in his hand the bishop, and the 
 bishop's wife, and the whole diocese, and all the Church 
 of England. Dirty shoes, indeed! AVhose was the 
 fault that there were in the church so many feet soiled 
 by unmerited poverty, and so many hands soiled by 
 undeserved wealth ? If the bishop did not like his 
 shoes, let the bishop dare to tell him so ! So he walked 
 on through the thick of the mud, by no means picking 
 his way. 
 
 He walked fast, and he found himself in the close 
 half an hour before the time named by the bishop. 
 But on no account would he have rung the palace bell 
 one minute before two o'clock. So he walked up and 
 down under the towers of the cathedral, and cooled 
 himself, and looked up at the pleasant plate-glass in 
 the windows of the house of his friend the dean, and 
 told himself how, in their college days, he and the dean 
 had been quite equal, — quite equal, except that by 
 the voices of all qualified judges in the university, he, 
 Mr. Crawley, had been acknowledged to be the riper 
 scholar. And now the Mr. Arabin of those days was 
 Dean of liarchestcr, — travelling abroad luxuriously at
 
 MR. CRAWLEY IS SUMMONED TO BARCHESTER. 241 
 
 this moment for his delight, while he, Crawley, was 
 perpetual curate at Hogglestock, and had now walked 
 into Barchester at the command of the bishop, because 
 he was suspected of having stolen twenty pounds! 
 When he had fully imbued his mind with the injustice 
 of all this, his time was up, and he walked boldly to 
 the bishop's gate, and boldly rang the bishop's bell. 
 
 VOL. 1. — 16
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER IS CRUSHED. 
 
 Who inquires why it is that a Httle greased flour 
 rubbed in among the hair on a footman's head, — just 
 one dab here and another there, — gives such a tone of 
 high Hfe to the family ? And seeing that the thing is 
 so easily done, why do not more people attempt it ? 
 The tax on hair-powder is but thirteen shillings a year. 
 It may, indeed, be that the slightest dab in the world 
 justifies the wearer in demanding hot meat three times 
 a day, and wine at any rate on Sundays. I think, 
 however, that a bishop's wife may enjoy the privilege 
 without such heavy attendant expense ; otherwise the 
 man who opened the bishop's door to Mr. Crawley 
 would hardly have been so ornamented. 
 
 The man asked for a card. " My name is Mr. 
 Crawley," said our friend. " The bishop has desired 
 me to come to him at this hour. Will you be pleased 
 to tell him that I am here." The man again asked for 
 a card. " I am not bound to carry with me my name 
 printed on a ticket," said Mr. Crawley. " If you 
 cannot remember it, give me pen and paper, and I 
 will write it." The servant, somewhat awed by the 
 stranger's manner, brought the pen and paper, and Mr. 
 Crawley wrote his name — 
 
 "The Rev. Josiah Crawley, M.A., 
 
 Perpetual Curate of Hogglcstock." 
 242
 
 THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER IS CRUSHED. 243 
 
 He was then ushered into a waiting-room, but, to 
 his disappointment, was not kept there waiting long. 
 "Within three minutes he was ushered into the bishop's 
 study, and into the presence of the two great lumina- 
 ries of the diocese. He was at first somewhat discon- 
 certed by finding Mrs. Proudie in the room. In the 
 imaginary conversation with the bishop which he had 
 been preparing on the road, he had conceived tliat the 
 bishop would be attended by a chaplain, and he had 
 suited his words to the joint discomfiture of the bishop 
 and of the lower clergyman ; but now the hne of his 
 battle must be altered. This was no doubt an injury, 
 but he trusted to his courage and readiness to enable 
 him to surmount it. He had left his hat behind him 
 in the waiting-room, but he kept his old short cloak 
 still upon his shoulders ; and when he entered the 
 bishop's room his hands and arms were hid beneath it. 
 There was something lowly in this constrained gait. It 
 showed at least that he had no idea of being asked to 
 shake hands with the august persons he might meet. 
 And his head was somewhat bowed, though his great, 
 bald, broad forehead showed itself so prominent, that 
 neither the bishop nor Mrs. Proudie could drop it from 
 their sight during the whole interview. He was a man 
 who when seen could hardly be forgotten. The deep 
 angry remonstrant eyes, the shaggy eyebrows, telling 
 tales of frequent anger, — of anger frequent but gener- 
 ally silent, — the repressed indignation of the habitual 
 frown, the long nose and large powerful mouth, the 
 deep furrows on the cheek, and the general look of 
 thought and suffering, all combined to make the ap- 
 pearance of the man remarkable, and to describe to 
 the beholders at once his true character. No one ever
 
 244 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 on seeing Mr. Crawley took him to be a happy man, 
 or a weak man, or an ignorant man, or a wise man. 
 
 "You are very punctual, Mr. Crawley," said the 
 bishop. Mr. Crawley simply bowed his head, still keep- 
 ing his hands beneath his cloak. " Will you not take a 
 chair nearer to the fire ? " Mr. Crawley had not seated 
 himself, but had placed himself in front of a chair at 
 the extreme end of the room, resolved that he would 
 not use it unless he were duly asked. Now he seated 
 himself, — still at a distance. 
 
 " Thank you, my lord," he said, " I am warm with 
 walking, and, if you please, will avoid the fire." 
 
 " You have not walked, Mr. Crawley ? " 
 
 " Yes, my lord. I have been walking." 
 
 " Not from Hogglestock! " 
 
 Now this was a matter which Mr. Crawley certainly 
 did not mean to discuss with the bishop. It might 
 be well for the bishop to demand his presence in the 
 palace, but it could be no part of the bishop's duty to 
 inquire how he got there. " That, my lord, is a mat- 
 ter of no moment," said he. " I am glad at any rate 
 that I have been enabled to obey your lordship's order 
 in coming hither on this morning." 
 
 Hitherto Mrs. Proudie had not said a word. She 
 stood back in the room, near the fire, — more backward 
 a good deal than she was accustomed to do when 
 clergymen made their ordinary visits. On such occa- 
 sions she would come forward and shake hands with 
 them graciously, — graciously even, if proudly ; but she 
 had felt that she must do nothing of that kind now ; 
 there must be no shaking hands with a man who had 
 stolen a cheque for twenty pounds! It might probably 
 be necessary to keep Mr. Crawley at a distance, and
 
 THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER IS CRUSHED. 245 
 
 therefore she had remained in the background. But 
 Mr. Crawley seemed to be disposed to keep himself in 
 the background, and therefore she could speak. " I 
 hope your wife and children are well, Mr. Crawley ? " 
 she said. 
 
 " Thank you, madam, my children are well, and 
 Mrs. Crawley suffers no special ailment at present." 
 
 " That is much to be thankful for, Mr. Crawley." 
 Whether he were or were not thankful for such mer- 
 cies as these was no business of the bishop or of the 
 bishop's wife. That was between him and his God. 
 So he would not even bow to this civihty, but sat with 
 his head erect, and with a great frown on his heavy 
 brow. 
 
 Then the bishop rose from his chair to speak, 
 intending to take up a position on the rug. But as 
 he did so Mr. Crawley rose also, and the bishop found 
 that he would thus lose his expected vantage. " Will 
 you not be seated, Mr. Crawley ? " said the bishop. 
 Mr. Crawley smiled, but stood his ground. Then the 
 bishop returned to his arm-chair, and Mr. Crawley also 
 sat down again. " Mr. Crawley," began the bishop, 
 " this matter which came the other day before the 
 magistrates at Silverbridge has been a most unfortunate 
 affair. It has given me, I can assure you, the most 
 sincere pain." 
 
 Mr. Crawley had made up his mind how far the 
 bishop should be allowed to go without a rebuke. He 
 had told himself that it would only be natural, and 
 would not be unbecoming, that the bishop should 
 allude to the meeting of the magistrates and to the 
 alleged theft, and that therefore such allusion should 
 be endured with patient humihty. And, moreover, the
 
 246 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET- 
 
 more rope he gave the bishop, the more hkely the 
 bishop would be to entangle himself. It certainly was 
 Mr. Crawley's wish that the bishop should entangle 
 himself. He, therefore, replied very meekly, " It has 
 been most unfortunate, my lord." 
 
 " I have felt for Mrs. Crawley very deeply," said 
 Mrs. Proudie. Mr. Crawley had now made up his 
 mind that as long as it was possible he would ignore 
 the presence of Mrs. Proudie altogether ; and, there- 
 fore, he made no sign that he heard the latter remark. 
 
 " It has been most unfortunate," continued the 
 bishop. " I have never before had a clergyman in my 
 diocese placed in so distressing a position." 
 
 " That is a matter of opinion, my lord," said Mr. 
 Crawley, who at that moment thought of a crisis which 
 had come in the life of another clergyman in the dio- 
 cese of Barchester, with the circumstances of which he 
 had by chance been made acquainted. 
 
 " Exactly," said the bishop. " And I am expressing 
 my opinion." Mr. Crawley, who understood fighting, 
 did not think that the time had yet come for striking 
 a blow, so he simply bowed again. " A most unfortu- 
 nate position, Mr. Crawley," continued the bishop. 
 " Far be it from me to express an opinion upon the 
 matter, which will have to come before a jury of your 
 countrymen. It is enough for me to know that the 
 magistrates assembled at Silverbridge, gentlemen to 
 whom no doubt you must be known, as most of them 
 live in your neighbourhood, have heard evidence upon 
 the subject " 
 
 " Most convincing evidence," said Mrs. Proudie, 
 interrupting her husband. Mr. Crawley's black brow 
 became a little blacker as he heard the word, but still
 
 THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER IS CRUSHED. 247 
 
 he ignored the woman. He not only did not speak, 
 but did not turn his eye upon her. 
 
 " They have heard the evidence on the subject," 
 continued the bishop, " and they have thought it proper 
 to refer the decision as to your innocence or your guilt 
 to a jury of your countrymen." 
 
 " And they were right," said Mr. Crawley. 
 
 " Very possibly. I don't deny it. Probably," said 
 the bishop, whose eloquence was somewhat disturbed 
 by Mr. Crawley's ready acquiescence. 
 
 " Of course they were right," said Mrs. Proudie. 
 
 " At any rate it is so," said the bishop. " You are 
 in the position of a man amenable to the criminal laws 
 of the land." 
 
 " There are no criminal laws, my lord," said Mr. 
 Crawley ; " but to such laws as there are we are all 
 amenable, — your lordship and I alike." 
 
 " But you are so in a very particular way. I do not 
 wish to remind you what might be your condition now, 
 but for the interposition of private friends." 
 
 " I should be in the condition of a man not guilty 
 before the law, — guiltless, as far as the law goes, — but 
 kept in durance, not for faults of his own, but because 
 otherwise, by reason of laches in the police, his pres- 
 ence at the assizes might not be ensured. In such a 
 position a man's reputation is made to hang for a 
 while on the trust which some friends or neighbours 
 may have in it. I do not say that the test is a good 
 one." 
 
 " You would have been put in prison, Mr. Crawley, 
 because the magistrates were of the opinion that you 
 had taken Mr. Soames's cheque," said Mrs. Proudie. 
 On this occasion he did look at her. He turned one
 
 248 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 glance upon her from under his eyebrows, but he did 
 not speak. 
 
 " With all that I have nothing to do," said the bishop. 
 
 " Nothing whatever, my lord," said Mr. Crawley. 
 
 " But, bishop, I think that you have," said Mrs. 
 Proudie. " The judgment formed by the magistrates 
 as to the conduct of one of your clergymen makes it 
 imperative upon you to act in the matter." 
 
 " Yes, my dear, yes ; I am coming to that. What 
 Mrs. Proudie says is perfectly true. I have been con- 
 strained most unwillingly to take action in this matter. 
 It is undoubtedly the fact that you must at the next 
 assizes surrender yourself at the court-house yonder, 
 to be tried for this offence against the laws." 
 
 "That is true. If I be alive, my lord, and have 
 strength sufficient, I shall be there." 
 
 "You must be there," said Mrs. Proudie. "The 
 police will look to that, Mr. Crawley." She was be- 
 coming 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 unseemly position for 
 a beneficed clergyman." 
 
 " You said before, my lord, that it was an unfort- 
 unate position, and the word, methinks, was better 
 chosen." 
 
 " It is very unseemly, very unseemly indeed," said 
 Mrs, Proudie ; " nothing could possibly be more un- 
 seemly. The bishop might very properly have used a 
 much stronger word." 
 
 " Under these circumstances," continued the bishop, 
 " looking to the welfare of your parish, to the welfare
 
 THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER IS CRUSHED. 249 
 
 of the diocese, and allow me to say, Mr. Crawley, to 
 the welfare of yourself also " 
 
 "And especially to the souls of the people," said 
 Mrs. Proudie. 
 
 The bishop shook his head. It is hard to be im- 
 pressively eloquent when one is interrupted at every 
 best turned period, even by a supporting voice. " Yes ; 
 — and looking of course to the religious interests of 
 your people, Mr. Crawley, I came to the conclusion 
 that it would be expedient that you should cease your 
 ministrations for a while." The bishop paused, and 
 Mr. Crawley bowed his head, " I, therefore, sent 
 over to you a gentleman with whom I am well ac- 
 quainted, Mr. Thumble, with a letter from myself, in 
 which I endeavoMred to impress upon you, without the 
 use of any severe language, what my convictions were." 
 
 "Severe words ire often the best mercy," said Mrs. 
 Proudie. Mr. Crawley had raised his hand, with his 
 finger out, preparatory to answering the bishop. But 
 as Mrs. Proudie had spoken he dropped his finger and 
 was silent. 
 
 " Mr. Thumble brought me back your written reply," 
 continued the bishop, "by which I was grieved to find 
 that you were not wiUing to submit yourself to my 
 counsel in the matter." 
 
 " I was most unwilling, my lord. Submission to 
 authority is at times a duty ; — and at times opposition 
 to authority is a duty also." 
 
 " Opposition to just authority cannot be a duty, Mr. 
 Crawley." 
 
 " Opposition to usurped authority is an imperative 
 duty," said Mr. Crawley. 
 
 " And who is to be the judge ? " demanded Mrs.
 
 250 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 Proudie. Then there was silence for a while ; when, 
 as Mr. Crawley made no reply, the lady repeated her 
 question. " Will you be pleased to answer my ques- 
 tion, sir ? Who, in such a case, is to be the judge ? " 
 But Mr. Crawley did not please to answer. "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 un- 
 derstood the smile, and became more angry than ever. 
 She drew her chair close to the table, and began to 
 fidget with her fingers among the papers. She had 
 never before encountered a clergj^'man so contuma- 
 cious, so indecent, so unreverend, — so upsetting. She 
 had had to do with men difficult to manage ; — the 
 archdeacon for instance ; but the archdeacon had 
 never been so impertinent to her as this man. She 
 had quarrelled once openly with a chaplain of her 
 husband's, a clergyman whom she herself had intro- 
 duced to her husband, and who had treated her very 
 badly ; — but not so badly, not with such unscrupulous 
 violence, as she was now encountering from this ill- 
 clothed beggarly man, this perpetual curate, with his 
 dirty broken boots, this already half-convicted thief! 
 Such was her idea of Mr. Crawley's conduct to her, 
 while she was fingering the papers, — simply because 
 Mr. Crawley would not speak to her.
 
 THE BISHOP OF DARCHESTER IS CRUSHED. 25 1 
 
 " I forget where T was," said the bishop. " Oh. 
 Mr. Thumble came back, and I received your letter ; 
 — of course I received it. And I was surprised to 
 learn from that, that in spite of what had occurred 
 at Silverbridge, you were still anxious to continue the 
 usual Sunday ministrations in your church." 
 
 " I was determined that I would do my duty at 
 Hogglestock as long as I might be left there to do it," 
 said Mr. Crawley. 
 
 "Duty!" said Mrs. Proudie. 
 
 " Just a moment, my dear," said the bishop. " When 
 Sunday came, I had no alternative but to send Mr. 
 Thumble over again to Hogglestock. It occurred to 
 us, — to me and Mrs. Proudie " 
 
 " I will tell Mr. Crawley just now what has occiured 
 to me," said Mrs. Proudie. 
 
 " Yes ; — just so. And I am siu-e that he will take 
 it in good part. It occurred to me, Mr. Crawley, that 
 your first letter might have been written in haste." 
 
 " It was written in haste, my lord ; your messenger 
 w^as waiting." 
 
 " Yes ; — just so. Well ; so I sent him again, hoping 
 that he might be accepted as a messenger of peace. 
 It was a most disagreeable mission for any gentleman, 
 Mr. Crawley." 
 
 " Most disagreeable, my lord." 
 
 " And you refused him permission to obey the in- 
 structions which I had given him! You would not let 
 him read from your desk, or preach from your pulpit." 
 
 " Had I been Mr. Thumble," said Mrs. Proudie, " I 
 would have read from that desk and I would have 
 preached from that pulpit." 
 
 Mr. Crawley waited a moment, thinking that the
 
 252 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 bishop might perhaps speak again ; but as he did not, 
 but sat expectant, as though he had finished his dis- 
 course, and now expected a reply, Mr. Crawley got up 
 from his seat and drew near to the table. " My lord," 
 he began, " it has all been just as you have said. I 
 did answer your first letter in haste." 
 
 " The more shame for you," said Mrs. Proudie. 
 
 " And therefore, for aught I know, my letter to your 
 lordship may be so worded as to need some apology." 
 
 " Of course it needs an apology," said Mrs. Proudie. 
 
 " But for the matter of it, my lord, no apology can 
 be made, nor is any needed. I did refuse 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 dvuing 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 be, that it shall soon be your 
 lordship's duty to take due and legal steps for depriv- 
 ing me of my benefice at Hogglestock; — nay, proba- 
 bly, for silencing me altogether as to the exercise of my 
 sacred profession ! " 
 
 " Of course it will, sir. Your gown will be taken 
 from you," said Mrs. Proudie. The bishop was look- 
 ing with all his eyes up at the great forehead and great 
 eyebrows of the man, and was so fascinated by the 
 power that was exercised over him by the other man's 
 strength that he hardly now noticed his wife. 
 
 " It may well be so," continued Mr. Crawley. " The
 
 THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER IS CRUSHED. 253 
 
 circumstances are strong against me ; and, though your 
 lordship has altogether misunderstood the nature of the 
 duty performed by the magistrates in sending my case 
 for trial, — although, as it seems to me, you have come 
 to conclusions in this matter in ignorance of the very 
 theory of our laws " 
 
 "Sir!" said Mrs. Proudie. 
 
 " Yet I can foresee the probability that a jiuy 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, proper, and necessary. And 
 you will find that, even if it be within my power to 
 oppose obstacles to your lordship's authority, I will 
 oppose no such obstacle. There is, I believe, no ap- 
 peal in criminal cases." 
 
 " None at all," said Mrs. Proudie. " There is no 
 appeal against your bishop. You should have learned 
 that before." 
 
 " But till that time shall come, my lord, I shall hold 
 my own at Hogglestock as you hold your own here at 
 Barchester. Nor have you more power to turn me 
 out of my pulpit by your mere voice, than I have to 
 turn you out of your throne by mine. If you doubt 
 me, my lord, your lordship's ecclesiastical court is open 
 to you. Try it there." 
 
 " You defy us, then ? " said Mrs. Proudie. 
 
 " My lord, I grant your authority as bishop 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 yoiu* own head," said Mrs. Proudie.
 
 2 54 THE LAST CHRONICLE DF BARSET. 
 
 " Peace, woman," Mr. Crawley said, addressing her 
 at last. The bishop jumped out of his chair at hearing 
 the wife of his bosom called a woman. But he jumped 
 rather in admiration than in anger. He had already- 
 begun to perceive that Mr. Crawley was a man who 
 had better be left to take care of the souls at Hoggle- 
 stock, at any rate till the trial should come on. 
 
 "Woman!" said Mrs. Proudie, rising to her feet as 
 though she really intended some personal encounter. 
 
 " Madam," said Mr. Crawley, " you should not inter- 
 fere in these matters. You simply debase your hus- 
 band's high office. 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 
 beneath the towers of the cathedral. Yes, he had, he 
 thought, crushed the bishop. He had succeeded in 
 crumpling the bishop up within the clutch of his fist. 
 
 He started in a spirit of triumph to walk back on 
 his road towards Hogglestock. He did not think of 
 the long distance before him for the first hour of his 
 journey. He had had his victory, and the remem- 
 brance of that braced his nerves and gave elasticity to 
 his sinews, and he went stalking along the road with 
 rapid strides, muttering to himself from time to time as 
 he went along some word about Mrs. Proudie and her 
 distaff. Mr. Thumble would not, he thought, come to 
 him again, — not, at any rate, till the assizes were draw- 
 ing near. And he had resolved what he would do 
 then. When the day of his trial was near, he would 
 himself write to the bishop, and beg that provision 
 might be made for his church, in the event of the ver- 
 dict going against him. His friend, Dean Arabin, was
 
 THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER IS CRUSHED. 255 
 
 to be home before that time, and the idea had occurred 
 to him of asking the dean to see to this. Uut the 
 other would be the more independent cour.se, and the 
 better. And there was a matter as to which he was 
 not altogether well pleased with the dean, although he 
 was so conscious of his own peculiarities as to know 
 that he could hardly trust himself for a judgment. 
 But, at any rate, he would apply to the bishop, — to the 
 bishop whom he had just left prostrate in his palace, — 
 when the time of his trial should be close at hand. 
 
 Full of such thoughts as these he went along almost 
 gaily, nor felt the fatigue of the road till he had covered 
 the first five miles out of Earchester. It was nearly 
 four o'clock, and the thick gloom of the winter even- 
 ing was making itself felt. And then he began to be 
 fatigued. He had not as yet eaten since he had left 
 his home in the morning, and he now pulled a crust 
 out of his pocket and leaned against a gate as he 
 crunched it. There were still ten miles before him, and 
 he knew that such an addition to the work he had 
 already done would task him very severely. Farmer 
 Mangle had told him that he would not leave Framley 
 Mill till five, and he had got time to reach Framley 
 Mill by that time. But he had said that he would not 
 return to Framley Mill, and he remembered his sus- 
 picion that his wife and farmer Mangle between them 
 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 hard- 
 ships as well as time had told upon 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
 
 256 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 in the dark night would be very sad with him. But 
 still he persevered, endeavouring, as he went, to cherish 
 himself with the remembrance of his triumph. 
 
 He passed the turning going down to Framley with 
 courage, but when he came to the further turning, by 
 which the cart would return from Framley to the Hog- 
 glestock road, he looked wistfully down the road for 
 farmer Mangle. But farmer Mangle was still at the ■ 
 mill, waiting in expectation that Mr. Crawley might 
 come to him. But the poor traveller paused here 
 barely for a minute, and then went on, stumbling 
 through the mud, striking his ill-covered feet against 
 tlie rough stones in the dark, sweating in his weakness, 
 almost tottering at times, and calculating whether his 
 remaining strength would serve to carry him home. 
 He had almost forgotten the bishop and his wife 
 before at last he grasped the wicket gate leading to 
 his own door. 
 
 " Oh, mamma, here is papa! " 
 
 " But where is the cart ? I did not hear the wheels," 
 said Mrs. Crawley. 
 
 " Oh, mamma, I think papa is ill." Then the wife 
 took her drooping husband by both arms and strove to 
 look him in the face. " He has walked all the way, 
 and he is ill," said Jane. 
 
 " No, my dear, I am very tired, but not ill. Let 
 me sit down, and give me some bread and tea, and I 
 shall recover myself." Then Mrs. Crawley, from some 
 secret hoard, got him a small modicum of spirits, and 
 gave him meat and tea, and he was docile ; and, obey- 
 ing her behests, allowed himself to be taken to his bed. 
 
 " I do not think the bishop will send for me again," 
 he said, as she tucked the clothes around him.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 " WHERE DID IT COME FROM ? " 
 
 When Christmas morning came no emissary from 
 the bishop appeared at Hogglestock to interfere with 
 the ordinary performance of the day's services. " I 
 think we need fear no further disturbance," Mr. Craw- 
 ley said to his wife, — and there was no further dis- 
 turbance. 
 
 On the day after his walk from Framley to Barches- 
 ter, and from Earchester back to Hogglestock, Mr. 
 Crawley had risen not much the worse for his labour, 
 and had gradually given to his wife a full account of 
 what had taken place. "A poor weak man," he said, 
 speaking of the bishop. " A poor weak creature, and 
 much to be pitied." 
 
 " I have always heard that she is a violent woman." 
 " Very violent, and very ignorant ; and most intru- 
 sive 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 cannot remember 
 them. I was thinking more of the words which it 
 might be fitting that T .should answer the bishop. But 
 I certainly told her that she had better mind her dis- 
 taff." 
 
 VOL. I. — 17 257
 
 258 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " And how did she behave then ? " 
 
 " I did not wait to see. The bishop had spoken, 
 and I had repHed ; 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 httle 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 escaped from the bishop's 
 mouth. He gave me, indeed, to understand more than 
 once that the action taken by the magistrates was tan- 
 tamount to a conviction, and that I must be guilty 
 because they had decided that there was evidence suf- 
 ficient to justify a trial. But all that arose from my 
 lord's ignorance of the administration of the laws of 
 his country. He was very ignorant, — puzzle-pated, as 
 you may call it, — led by the nose by his wife, weak as 
 water, timid, and vacillating. But he did not wish, I 
 think, to be insolent. It was Mrs. Proudie who told 
 me to my face that I was a — thief." 
 
 "May she be punished for the cruel word!" said 
 Mrs. Crawley. " May the remembrance that she has 
 .spoken it come, .some day, heavily upon her heart!" 
 
 " ' Vengeance is mint*. I will repay, saith the Lord,' " 
 answered Mr. Crawley. " We may safely leave all 
 lliat alone, and rid our minds of such wishes, if it be
 
 "WHERE DID IT COME FROM?" 259 
 
 possible. It is well, I think, that violent offences, when 
 committed, should be met by instant rebuke. To turn 
 the other cheek instantly to the smiter can hardly be 
 suitable in these days, when the hands of so many are 
 raised to strike. But the return blow should be given 
 only while the smart remains. She hurt me then ; but 
 what is 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, you do not know that. They say that 
 the thing is very strange, — so strange that it requires 
 a trial ; but no one thinks you have taken that which 
 was not your own." 
 
 " I think I did. I myself think I took that which 
 was not my own. My poor head suffers so ; — so many 
 grievous thoughts distract me, that I am like a child, 
 and know not what I do." As he spoke thus he put 
 both hands up to his head, leaning forward as though 
 in anxious thought, — as though he were striving to 
 bring his mind to bear with accuracy upon past events. 
 
 "It could not have been mine, and yet " Then 
 
 he sat silent, and made no effort to continue his speech. 
 
 " And yet ? " — said his wife, encouraging him to 
 proceed. If she could only learn the real truth, she 
 thought that she might perhaps yet save him, with 
 assistance from their friends. 
 
 " When I said that I had gotten it from that man I 
 must have been mad." 
 
 " From which man, love ? " 
 
 " From the man Soames, — he who accuses me. And 
 yet, as the Lord hears me, I thought so then. The 
 truth is, that there are times when I am not — sane. I 
 am not a thief, — not before God ; but I am — mad at
 
 26o THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 times." These last words he spoke very slowly, in 
 a whisper, — without any excitement, — indeed with a 
 composure which was horrible to witness. And what 
 he said was the more terrible because she was so well 
 convinced of the truth of his words. Of course he 
 was no thief. She wanted no one to tell her that. 
 As he himself had expressed it, he was no thief before 
 God, however the money might have come into his 
 possession. That there were times when his reason, 
 once so fine and clear, could not act, could not be 
 trusted to guide him right, she had gradually come to 
 know with fear and trembling. But he himself had 
 never before hinted his own consciousness of this ca- 
 lamity. Indeed, he had been so unwilling 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 suspect that she suspected him. Now he was 
 speaking, — 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 sickness of 
 the mind, the worst of all." 
 
 "With you, Josiah, it has chiefly been the first." 
 
 " With me, Mary, it has been all of them, — every 
 one! My spirit is broken, and my mind has not been 
 able to keep its even tenour amidst the ruins. But I 
 will strive. I will strive. I will strive still. And if 
 God helps me, I will prevail." Then he took up his hat 
 and cloak, and went forth among the lanes ; and on 
 this occasion his wife was glad that he should go alone.
 
 "WHERE DID IT COME FROM?" 26l 
 
 This occurred a day or two before Christmas, and 
 Mrs. Crawley during those days said nothing more to 
 her husband on the subject which he had so unexpect- 
 edly discussed. She asked him no questions about the 
 money, or as to the possibility of his exercising his 
 memory, nor did she counsel him to plead that the 
 false excuses given by him for his possession of the 
 cheque had been occasioned by the sad slip to which 
 sorrow had in those days subjected his memory and 
 his intellect. But the matter had always been on her 
 mind. Might it not be her paramount duty to do 
 something of this at the present moment ? Might it 
 not be that his acquittal or conviction would depend 
 on what she might now learn from him ? It was clear 
 to her that he was brighter in spirit since his encounter 
 with the Proudies than he had ever been since the 
 accusation had been first made against him. And she 
 knew well that his present mood would not be of long 
 continuance. He would fall again into his moody 
 silent ways, and then the chance of learning aught from 
 him would be past, and, perhaps, for ever. 
 
 He performed the Christmas services with nothing 
 of special despondency in his tone or manner, and his 
 wife thought that she had never heard him give the 
 sacrament with more impressive dignity. After the 
 service he stood awhile at the churchyard gate, and 
 exchanged a word of courtesy as to the season with 
 such of the families of the farmers as had stayed for 
 the Lord's Supper. 
 
 " I waited at Framley for your reverence till arter 
 six, — so I did," said farmer Mangle. 
 
 " I kept the road, and walked the whole way," said 
 Mr. Crawley. " I think I told you that I should not
 
 262 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 return to the mill. But I am not the less obliged by 
 your great kindness." 
 
 " Say nowt o' that," said the farmer. " No doubt I 
 had business at the mill, — lots to do at the mill." Nor 
 did he think that the fib he was telling was at all in- 
 compatible with the Holy Sacrament in which he had 
 just taken a part. 
 
 The Christmas dinner at the parsonage was not a 
 repast that did much honour to the season, but it was 
 a better dinner than the inhabitants of that house 
 usually saw on the board before them. There was 
 roast-pork, and mince-pies, and a bottle of wine. As 
 Mrs. Crawley with her own hand put the meat upon the 
 table, and then, as was her custom in their house, pro- 
 ceeded to cut it up, she looked at her husband's face 
 to see whether he was scrutinising the food with pain- 
 ful eye. It was better that she should tell the truth at 
 once than that she should be made to tell it, in answer 
 to a question. Everything on the table, except the 
 bread and potatoes, had come in a basket from Fram- 
 ley Court. Pork had been sent instead of beef, be- 
 cause people in the country, when they kill their pigs, 
 do sometimes give each other pork, — but do not ex- 
 change joints of beef, when they slay their oxen. All 
 this was understood by Mrs. Crawley, but she almost 
 wished that beef had been sent, because beef would 
 have attracted less attention. He said, however, noth- 
 ing as to the meat ; but when his wife proposed to him 
 that he should eat a mince-pie he resented it. " The 
 bare food," said he, " is bitter enough, coming as it 
 does; but that would choke me." She did not press 
 it, but eat one herself, as otherwise her girl would have 
 been forced also to refuse the dainty.
 
 "WHERE DID IT COME FROM?" 263 
 
 That evening, as soon as Jane was in bed, she re- 
 solved 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 answered. I have 
 no money to pay a lawyer." 
 
 " But, Josiah, in such a case as this, where your 
 honour and our very life depend upon it " 
 
 " Depend on what ? " 
 
 "On your acquittal." 
 
 " I shall not be acquitted. It is as well to look it 
 in the face at once. Lawyer or no lawyer, they will 
 say that I took the money. ^Vere I upon the jury, 
 trying the case myself, knowing all that I know now," 
 — and as he said this he struck forth with his hand 
 into the air, — " I think that I should say so myself. 
 A lawyer will do no good. It is here. It is here." 
 And again he put his hands up to his head. 
 
 So far she had been successful. At this moment it 
 had in truth been her object to induce him to speak of 
 his own memory, and not of the aid that a lawyer 
 might give. The proposition of the lawyer had been 
 brought in to introduce the subject. 
 
 '• But, Josiah " 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 It was very hard for her to speak. She could not 
 bear to torment him by any allusion to his own defi- 
 ciencies. She could not endure to make him think that 
 she suspected him of any frailty either in intellect or 
 thought. Wifelike, she desired to worship him, and
 
 264 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 that he should know that she worshipped him. But if 
 a word might save him! " Josiah, where did it come 
 from ? " 
 
 " Yes," said he ; " yes ; that is the question. Where 
 did it come from ? " — and he turned sharp upon her, 
 looking at her with all the power of his eyes. "It is 
 because I cannot tell you where it came from that I 
 ought to be, — either in Bedlam as a madman, or in the 
 county gaol as a thief." The words were so dreadful 
 to her that she could not utter at the moment another 
 syllable. " How is a man, — to think himself — fit — for 
 a man's work, when he cannot answer his wife such 
 a plain question as that ? " Then he paused again. 
 " They should take me to Bedlam at once, — at once, 
 — at once. That would not disgrace the children as 
 the gaol will do." 
 
 Mrs. Crawley could ask no further questions on that 
 evening.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 WHAT MR. WALKER THOUGHT ABOUT IT. 
 
 It had been suggested to Mr. Robarts, the parson 
 of Framley, that he should endeavour to induce his 
 old acquaintance, Mr. Crawely, to employ a lawyer to 
 defend him at his trial, and Mr. Robarts had not for- 
 gotten the commission which he had undertaken. But 
 there were difficulties in the matter of which he was 
 well aware. In the first place Mr. Crawley was a man 
 whom it had not at any time been easy to advise on 
 matters private to himself ; and, in the next place, this 
 was a matter on which it was very hard to speak to 
 the man implicated, let him be who he would. Mr. 
 Robarts had come round to the generally accepted 
 idea that Mr. Crawley had obtained possession of the 
 cheque illegally, — acquitting his friend in his own 
 mind of theft, simply by supposing that he was wool- 
 gathering when the cheque came in his way. But in 
 speaking to Mr. Crawley, it would be necessary, — so 
 he thought, — to pretend a conviction that Mr. Crawley 
 was as innocent in fact as in intention. 
 
 He had almost made up his mind to dash at the 
 subject when he met Mr. Crawley walking through 
 Framley to Barchester, but he had abstained, chiefly 
 because Mr. Crawley had been too quick for him, and 
 had got away. After that he resolved that it would be 
 almost useless for him to go to work unless he should 
 
 265
 
 266 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 be provided with a lawyer ready and willing to under- 
 take the task ; and as he was not so provided at pres- 
 ent, he made up his mind that he would go into Silver- 
 bridge and see Mr. Walker, the attorney there. Mr. 
 Walker always advised everybody in those parts about 
 everything, and would be sure to know what would 
 be the proper thing to be done in this case. So Mr. 
 Robarts got into his gig, and drove himself into Silver- 
 bridge. He drove at once to Mr. Walker's office, and 
 on arriving there found that the attorney was not at 
 that moment within. But Mr. Winthrop was within. 
 Would Mr. Robarts see Mr. Winthrop ? Now, seeing 
 Mr. Winthrop was a very different thing from seeing 
 Mr. Walker, although the two gentlemen were part- 
 ners. But still Mr. Robarts said that he would see Mr. 
 Winthrop. Perhaps Mr. Walker might return while he 
 was there. 
 
 " Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Robarts ? " 
 asked Mr. Winthrop. Mr. Robarts said that he had 
 wished to see Mr. Walker about that poor fellow Craw- 
 ley. " Ah, yes ; very sad case! So much sadder being 
 a clergyman, Mr. Robarts. We are really quite sorry 
 for him ; — we are indeed. W^e would n't have touched 
 the case ourselves if we could have helped ourselves. 
 We would n't indeed. But we are obliged to take all 
 that bu.siness here. At any rate he '11 get nothing but 
 fair usage from us." 
 
 " I am sure of that. You don't know whether he 
 has employed any lawyer as yet to defend him ? " 
 
 " I can't say. We don't know, you know. I should 
 say he had, — probably some Barchester attorney. 
 Borleys and Bonstock in Barchester are very good 
 people, — very good people indeed ; — for that sort of
 
 WHAT MR. WALKER THOUGHT ABOUT IT. 267 
 
 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 again before long. " You '11 find that 
 Walker knows no more than I do about it," said Mr. 
 Winthrop, " but of course he '11 be glad to see you if 
 he happens to come in." So Mr. Robarts went to the 
 inn, put up his horse, and then, as he sauntered back 
 up the street, met Mr. Walker coming out of the pri- 
 vate door of his house. 
 
 " I 've been at home all the morning," he said, "but 
 I 've had a stiff job of work on hand, and told them 
 to say in the office that I was not in. Seen Wintlirop, 
 have you ? I don't suppose he did know that I was 
 here. The clerks often know more than the partners. 
 About Mr. Crawley is it ? Come into my dining-room, 
 Mr. Robarts, where we shall be alone. Yes ; — it is a 
 bad case ; a very bad case. The pity is that anybody 
 should ever have said anything about it. Lord bless 
 me, if I 'd been Soames I 'd have let him have the 
 twenty pounds. Lord Lufton would never have al- 
 lowed Soames to lose it." 
 
 " But Soames wanted to find out the truth." 
 
 "Yes ; — that was just it. Soames could n't bear to 
 think that he should be left in the dark, and then, 
 when the poor man said that Soames had paid the 
 cheque to him in the way of business, — it was not 
 odd that Soames's back should have been up, was it ? 
 But, Mr. Robarts, I should have thought a deal about 
 it before I should have brought such a man as Mr. 
 Crawley before a bench of magistrates on that charge."
 
 268 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " 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 obligation to Mr. 
 Crawley once, and I wish to befriend him, whether he 
 took the money or not. But I could act so much 
 better if I felt sure one way or the other," 
 
 " If you ask me, I think he did take it." 
 
 "What!— stole it?" 
 
 " I think he knew it was not his own when he took 
 it. You see I don't think he meant to use it when he 
 took it. He perhaps had some queer idea that Soames 
 had been hard on him, or his lordship, and that the 
 money was fairly his due. Then he kept the cheque 
 by him till he was absolutely badgered out of his hfe 
 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 better do ? " 
 
 " Well ; if you ask me He is in very bad 
 
 health, is n't he ? " 
 
 " No ; I should say not. He walked to Barchester 
 and back the other day." 
 
 " Did he ? But he 's very queer, is n't he ? " 
 
 " Very odd-mannered indeed." 
 
 " And does and says all manner of odd things ? " 
 
 " I think you 'd find the bishop would say so after 
 that interview." 
 
 " Well ; if it would do any good, you might have 
 the bishop examined." 
 
 " Examined for what, Mr. Walker ? " 
 
 "If you could show, you know, that Crawley has 
 got a bee in his bonnet ; that the mens sana is not
 
 WHAT MR. WALKER THOUGHT ABOUT IT. 269 
 
 there, in short ; — I think you might manage to have 
 the trial postponed." 
 
 " But then somebody must take charge of his hving." 
 " You parsons could manage that among you ; — you 
 and the dean and the archdeacon. The archdeacon 
 has always got half-a-dozen curates about somewhere. 
 And then, — after the assizes, Mr. Crawley might come 
 to his senses ; and I think, — mind, it 's only an idea, — 
 but I think the committal might be quashed. It would 
 have been temporary insanity, and, — though mind, I 
 don't give my word for it, — I think he might go on 
 and keep his Hving. I think so, Mr. Robarts." 
 " That has never occurred to me." 
 " No ; — I dare say not. You see the diflficulty is this. 
 He 's so stiff-necked, — will do nothing himself. Well, 
 that will do for one proof of temporar}- insanity. The 
 real truth is, Mr. Robarts, he is as mad as a hatter." 
 " Upon my word I 've often thought so." 
 " And you would n't mind saying so in evidence, — 
 would you ? Well, you see, there is no helping such a 
 man in any other way. He won't even employ a law- 
 yer 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 ui)per 
 story, — whatever we could do for him, we could do 
 against his own will. The more he opposed us the 
 stronger ovu- 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."
 
 270 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " I wish you could, Mr. Walker." 
 
 " Of course I can't ; but that won't make any diflfer- 
 ence." 
 
 " 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 would n't 
 do it, I suppose ? She could n't do him a better 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 
 enough." 
 
 " Has he no father or mother, or uncles or aunts ? 
 He must have somebody belonging to him," said Mr. 
 Walker. 
 
 Then it occurred to Mr. Robarts that Dean Arabin 
 would be the proper person to interfere. Dean Arabin 
 and Mr. Crawley had been intimate friends in early 
 life, and Dean Arabin knew more of him than did any 
 man, at least in those parts. All this Mr. Robarts 
 explained to Mr. Walker, and Mr. Walker agreed with 
 him that the services of Dean Arabin should if possi- 
 ble be obtained. Mr. Robarts would at once write to 
 Dean Arabin and explain at length all the circum- 
 stances of the case. "The worst of it is, he will 
 hardly be home in time," said Mr. Walker. " Perhaps 
 he would come a little sooner if you were to press it ? " 
 
 " But we could act in his name in his absence, I 
 suppose ? — of course with his authority ? " 
 
 " I wish he could be here a month before the as.sizes, 
 Mr. Robarts. It would be better."
 
 WHAT MR. WALKER THOUGHT ABOUT IT. 27 1 
 
 " And in the mean time shall I .say anything to Mr. 
 Crawley, myself, about employing a lawyer ? " 
 
 " I think I would. If he turns upon you, as like 
 enough he may, and abuses you, that will help us in 
 one way. If he should consent, and perhaps he may, 
 that would help us in the other way. I 'm told he 's 
 been over and upset the whole coach at the palace." 
 
 " I should n't think the bishop 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 '11 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. Mason, up 
 the street there." 
 
 " Winthrop proposed Borleys at Barchester." 
 
 " No, no, no. Borleys and Bonstock are capital 
 people to push a fellow through on a charge of horse- 
 stealing, or to squeeze a man for a little money ; but 
 they are 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 before he did so. The dean 
 might wish to employ his own lawyer, and if so the 
 double expense should be avoided. "Always remember, 
 Mr. Robarts, that when you go into an attorney'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
 
 272 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 you safe. Or else it 's the salt-cellar, which will not 
 allow itself 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 matter." 
 
 Mr. Walker returned to his work, either to some 
 private den within his house, or to his office, and 
 Mr. Robarts was taken upstairs to the drawing-room. 
 There he found Mrs. Walker and her daughter, and 
 Miss Anne Prettyman, 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 
 heard Mrs. Proudie's version of what had occurred, 
 and having, of course, drawn his own deductions from 
 her premises. And it seemed that Mr. Crawley had 
 been watched as he passed through the close out of 
 Barchester. A minor canon had seen him, and had 
 declared that he 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. Mr. Crawley's old hat, and short 
 rusty cloak, and dirty boots, had been duly observed 
 and chronicled by the minor canon : and Mr. Thumble 
 had been enabled to put together a not altogether false 
 picture of what had occurred. As soon as the greet- 
 ings between Mr. Robarts and the ladies had been 
 made, Miss Anne Prettyman 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
 
 WHAT MR. WALKER THOUGHT ABOUT IT. 273 
 
 the matter," said Miss Walker, who ranged herself, as 
 to church matters, in ranks altogether opposed to those 
 commanded by Mrs. Proudie. 
 
 " 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 anything of the kind." 
 
 " Mamma, 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 young 
 lady ; " but I know very 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 curtain in the palace, to hear 
 what Mr. Crawley said to her." 
 
 " Mr. Smillie declares," said Miss Anne Prettyman, 
 " that the bishop has been ill ever since. Mr. Smillie 
 went over to his mother's at Barchester for Christmas, 
 and took part of the cathedral 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 
 Barchester 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 
 Prettyman ; 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?" 
 
 " My dear Miss Prettyman, that is a very large sub- 
 ject, and I am afraid it cannot be settled in time to re- 
 
 VOL. I. — 18
 
 2 74 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 lieve 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 gi^ound, and went back to the 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 
 did n't," the ostler was saying to a gentleman's groom, 
 whom Mr. Robarts recognised to be the servant of 
 his friend. Major Grantly ; and Mr. Robarts knew that 
 they also were talking about Mr. Crawley. Everj'^body 
 in the county was talking about Mr. Crawley. At 
 home, at Framley, there was no other subject of dis- 
 course. Lady Lufton, the dowager, was full of it, 
 being firmly convinced that Mr. Crawley was inno- 
 cent, because the bishop was supposed 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 Hoggle- 
 stock parsonage, each of the three ladies, the two Lady 
 Luftons and Mrs. Robarts, having special views of 
 their own. How the pork had been substituted for 
 the beef by old Lady Lufton, young Lady Lufton 
 thinking that after all the beef would be less dangerous, 
 and how a small turkey had been rashly suggested by 
 Mrs. Robarts, and how certain small articles had been 
 inserted in the bottom of the basket which Mrs. Craw- 
 ley 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, began to feel that 
 Mr. Crawley had achieved at least celebrity.
 
 WHAT MR. WALKER THOUGHT ABOUT IT. 275 
 
 The groom touched his hat as Mr. Robarts walked 
 up. " Has the major returned home yet ? " Mr. 
 Robarts asked. The groom said that his master was 
 still at Plumstead, and that he was to go over to Plum- 
 stead 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 recognised to be a gentle- 
 man 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 telhng each 
 other that this parson, who was to be tried as a thief, 
 had been constrained to walk from Hogglestock to 
 Barchester and back, because he could not afford to 
 travel in any other way, and that his boots were 
 cracked and his clothes ragged, had still known him to 
 be a gentleman! Nobody doubted it; not even they 
 who thought he had stolen the money. Mr. Robarts 
 himself was certain of it, and told himself 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 
 article than the grooms. 
 
 Thinking still of all which he had heard, Mr. Rob- 
 arts found himself at Mr. Crawley's gate at Hoggle- 
 stock.
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 MR. ROBARTS ON HIS EMBASSY. 
 
 Mr. Robarts was not altogether easy in his mind as 
 he approached Mr. Crawley's house. He was aware 
 that the task before him was a very difficult one, and 
 he had not confidence in himself, — that he was exactly 
 the man fitted for the performance of such a task. He 
 was a little afraid of Mr. Crawley, acknowledging tac- 
 itly to himself that the man had a power of ascendancy 
 with which he would hardly be able to cope success- 
 fully. In old days he had once been rebuked by Mr. 
 Crawley, and had been cowed by the rebuke; and 
 though there was no touch of rancour in his heart on 
 this account, no slightest remaining venom, — but rather 
 increased respect and friendship, — still he was unable 
 to overcome the remembrance of the scene in which 
 the perpetual curate of Hogglestock had undoubtedly 
 had the mastery of him. So, when two dogs have 
 fought and one has conquered, the conquered dog will 
 always show an unconscious submission to the con- 
 queror. 
 
 He hailed a boy on the road as he drew near to the 
 house, knowing that he would find no one at the par- 
 sonage 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. 
 
 276
 
 MR. ROBARTS ON HIS EMBASSY. 277 
 
 " Papa was at the school. But papa could certainly 
 be summoned. She herself would run across to the 
 school if Mr. Robarts would come in." So Mr. Rob- 
 arts 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 might be spoken 
 before her husband came back, she expressed her 
 thanks and his for the good things which had been 
 sent to them at Christmastide. 
 
 " It 's old Lady Lufton's doings," said Mr. Robarts, 
 trying to laugh the matter over. 
 
 " I knew tliat 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. You sister will understand why, if no one else 
 does. But you will tell them from me, I am sure, that 
 it was, as they intended, a comfort to us. Your sister 
 knows too much of us for me to suppose that oiu" 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 ^fr. 
 Robarts. 
 
 " No ; and the feeling of disgrace which does attach 
 itself to being so poor as we are is deadened 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 anything to 
 him about that." 
 
 " Of course I will not, Mrs. Crawley." 
 
 " His spirit is higher than mine, I think, and he suf- 
 fers more from the natural disinclination which we all
 
 278 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 have to receiving alms. Are you going to speak to him 
 about this affair of the — cheque, Mr. Robarts ? " 
 
 " I am going to ask him to put his case into some 
 lawyer's hands." 
 
 "Oh! I wish he would!" 
 
 " And will he 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 abso- 
 lutely necessary for the vindication of his innocence, 
 he would submit to charge himself 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. He 
 will be here directly, and when he comes I will leave 
 you together." 
 
 While she was yet speaking his step was heard along 
 tlie 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 be- 
 cause of the superior station of the other clergyman, 
 he were not entitled to put himself on an equal footing
 
 MR. ROBARTS ON HIS EMBASSY. 279 
 
 with his visitor. He would not have shaken hands with 
 Mr. Robarts, — intending to indicate that he did not 
 presume to do so while the present accusation was 
 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 analysing 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 put him into antagonism with 
 all the world, and which produced these never-dying 
 grievances. There were many clergymen in the country 
 with incomes as small as that which had fallen to the 
 lot of Mr. Crawley, but they managed to get on with- 
 out displaying their sores as Mr. Crawley displayed 
 his. They did not wear their old rusty cloaks with all 
 that ostentatious bitterness of poverty which seemed to 
 belong to that garment when displayed on Mr. Craw- 
 ley's shoulders. Such, for a moment, were Mr. Rob- 
 arts's thoughts, and he almost repented himself of his 
 present mission. But then he thought of Mrs. Craw- 
 ley, and remembering that her sufferings were at any 
 rate undeserved, determined that he would persevere. 
 Mrs. Crawley disappeared almost as soon as her hus- 
 band appeared, and Mr. Robarts found himself stand- 
 ing in front of his friend, who remained fixed on the 
 spot, with his hands folded over each other and his 
 neck shghtly bent forward, in token also of humility.
 
 28o THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " 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. Robarts. 
 " A parson's horse is like a butcher's, and knows that 
 he must n'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 
 comforts. 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 
 occupying too much of your time " 
 
 " My 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 archdeacon over at 
 Framley the other day," he said. " Of course you 
 know the archdeacon ? " 
 
 " I never had the advantage of any acquaintance 
 with Dr. Grantly. Of course I know him well by name 
 and also personally, — that is, by sight." 
 
 " And by character ? " 
 
 " 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."
 
 MR. ROBARTS ON HIS EMBASSY. 28 1 
 
 " Well, yes. They don't think much of him, I sup- 
 pose, 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 attached, — nor to criticise his 
 conduct in any respect. It would be unbecoming in 
 me to do so. But I cannot accept it as a point in a 
 clergyman's favour, 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 displayed by Mrs. Proudie 
 on that occasion, and of the absolute want of subordi- 
 nation to episcopal authority which Mr. Crawley him- 
 self was supposed 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 rever- 
 ence for his bishop! "I thought, Crawley," he said, 
 " that you yourself were inclined to dispute orders 
 coming to you from the palace. The world at least 
 says as much concerning you." 
 
 " What the world says of me I have learned to dis- 
 regard very much, Mr. Robarts. But I hope that I 
 shall never disobey the authority of the chiu"ch when 
 properly and legally exercised." 
 
 " 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."
 
 282 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " Very probably. I am far from contradicting you 
 there. Pray understand, Mr. Robarts, that I bring no 
 accusation against the archdeacon. Why should I ? " 
 
 " I did n'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 affair! " said Mr. Crawley. And then came a 
 frown upon his brow, and a gleam of fire into his eyes, 
 which effectually banished that look of extreme humil- 
 ity which he had assumed. "And may I ask why the 
 archdeacon was discussing — 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, whether dis- 
 played wisely or unwisely. But it seems to me that 
 my affair, as you call it, Mr. Robarts, is of that natiue 
 that they who wish well to me will better further their 
 wishes by silence than by any discussion." 
 
 " Then I cannot agree with you." Mr. Crawley 
 shrugged his shoulders, opened his hands a little and 
 then closed them, and bowed his head. He could not 
 have declared more clearly by any words that he dif- 
 fered altogether from Mr. Robarts, and that as the 
 subject was one so peculiarly 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 anybody's tongue to be stopped ? " 
 
 " That vain tongues cannot be stopped, I am well 
 aware. I do not expect that people's tongues should 
 be stopped. I am not saying what men will do, but 
 what good wishes should dictate."
 
 MR. ROBARTS ON HIS EMBASSY. 283 
 
 "Well, perhaps you 'II hear me out for a minute." 
 Mr. Crawley again bowed his head. " Whether we 
 were wise or unwise, we were discussing this affair." 
 
 "Whether I stole Mr. Soames's money?" 
 
 " No ; nobody supposed for a moment you had 
 stolen it." 
 
 " I cannot understand how they should suppose 
 anything else, knowing, as they do, that the magis- 
 trates have committed me for the theft. This took 
 place at Framley, you say, and probably in Lord Luf- 
 ton's presence." 
 
 " Exactly." 
 
 " And Lord Lufton was chairman at the sitting of 
 the magistrates at which I was committed. How can 
 it be that he should think otherwise ? " 
 
 " I am sure he has not an idea that you were 
 guilty. Nor yet has Dr. Thome, who was also one 
 of the magistrates. I don't suppose one of them then 
 thought so." 
 
 " Then their action, to say the least of it, was very 
 strange." 
 
 " It was all because you had nobody to manage it 
 for you. I thoroughly believe that if you had 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 
 .subject." 
 
 " Then in this country a man is to be punished or 
 not, according to his ability to fee a lawyer!" 
 
 " I am not talking about punishment." 
 
 "And presuming an innocent man to have the 
 ability and not the will to do so, he is to be punished, 
 to be ruined root and branch, self and family, charac-
 
 284 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 ter and pocket, simply because, knowing his OAvn inno- 
 cence, he does not choose to depend on the merce- 
 nary skill of a man whose trade he abhors for the estab- 
 lishment of that which should be clear as the sun at 
 noon-day! 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 chil- 
 dren, be disgraced before the eyes of all men, and be 
 made a byword 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 asking me to 
 do this, if I understand you, telling me that the arch- 
 deacon 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. 
 
 " Then tell the archdeacon," said Mr. Crawley, " 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 you to 
 tell the archdeacon so, with my respectful acknowledg- 
 ments of his consideration and condescension. I say 
 nothing as to my own innocence, 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, 
 because 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 accustomed to pay to 
 them. And if I be guilty "
 
 MR. ROBARTS ON HI:, EMBASSY. 285 
 
 "Nobody supposes you to be guilty." 
 
 "And if I be guilty," continued Mr. Crawley, alto- 
 gether ignoring the interruption, except by the repeti- 
 tion of his words, and a slight raising of his voice, " I 
 will not add to my guilt by hiring any one to prove a 
 falsehood or to disprove a truth." 
 
 " 1 'm sorry that you should say .so, Mr. Crawley." 
 
 " I speak according to what light I have, Mr. Rob- 
 arts ; and if I have been over-warm with you, — and I 
 am conscious that I have been in fault in that direc- 
 tion, — I must pray you to remember that I am some- 
 what hardly tried. My 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 cannot trust to any one, — in a matter of con- 
 science. 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 ad- 
 vised 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 you." 
 
 " I will presume so. I will believe so. I do think 
 so. Tell the archdeacon from me that I humbly thank 
 him ; — that, in a matter of church question, I might 
 probably submit my 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 this unfortu- 
 nate affair might burden the tongue of none among
 
 286 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 my neighbours, — 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 exercised his judgment with intended kindness." 
 
 " He has certainly intended to do you a service ; 
 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 neighboiirhood, — 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 yoiu"self, as I was saying, pray beheve me that 
 though from the roughness of my manner, 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 Mr. Robarts had left him. " At 
 any rate I wish you well through your trouble," said 
 Robarts ; and as he spoke he found that his own 
 words were nearly choked by a sob that was rising in 
 his throat. 
 
 He went away without another word and got out to 
 his gig without seeing Mrs. Crawley. During one pe- 
 riod of the interview he had been very angry with the 
 man, — so angry as to make him almost declare to him-
 
 MR. ROBARTS ON HIS EMBASSY. 287 
 
 self 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 certainly mad. 
 He 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 gmlt. And, 
 as he so resolved, he could not but ask himself the 
 question, whether the charge of the parish ought to be 
 left in the hands of such a man ? But at last, just be- 
 fore he went, these feelings and these convictions gave 
 way to pity, and he remembered simply the troubles 
 which seemed to have been heaped on the head of this 
 poor victim to misfortune. As he drove home he 
 resolved 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 hved 
 together on the closest intimacy 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. Crawley 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 Jerusalem, 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 February. 
 
 " I never was so distressed in my life," Mark Rob- 
 arts 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
 
 2S8 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 that for her sake, as well as for his own, some person 
 should be enabled to interfere for his protection." 
 Then he told Mrs. Robarts what Mr. Walker had said ; 
 also the message which Mr. Crawley had sent to the 
 archdeacon. But they both agreed that that message 
 need not be sent on any further.
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 MAJOR GRANTLY AT HOME, 
 
 Mrs. Thorne had spoken very plainly in the advice 
 which she had given to Major Grantly. " If I were 
 you, I 'd be at Allington before twelve o'clock to-mor- 
 row." That had been Mrs. Thome's advice ; and 
 though Major Grantly had no idea of making tlie 
 journey so rapidly as the lady had proposed, still he 
 thought that he would make it before long, and follow 
 the advice in spirit if not to the letter. Mrs. Thorne 
 had asked him if it was fair that the girl should be 
 punished because of the father's fault ; and the idea 
 had been sweet to him that the infliction or non-inflic- 
 tion of such punishment should be in his hands. " You 
 go and ask her," Mrs. Thome 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 himself for one moment to 
 Vepent what he had done. As he thought of all this 
 he became somewhat in love with a small income, and 
 imagined to himself what honours would be done to 
 him by the Mrs. Thomes of the county when they 
 should come to know in what way he had sacrificed 
 VOL. I. — 19 289
 
 290 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 himself to his love. Yes ; — they would go and live at 
 Pau. He thought Pau would do. He would have 
 enough of income for that ; — and Edith would get 
 lessons cheaply, and would learn to talk French fluently. 
 He certainly would do it. He would go down to 
 Allington, and ask Grace to be his wife ; and bid her 
 understand that if she loved him she could not be justi- 
 fied in refusing him by the circumstances of her father's 
 position. 
 
 But he must go to Plumstead before he could go to 
 Allington. He was engaged to spend his Christmas 
 there, and must go now at once. There was not time 
 for the journey to Allington 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 thought 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 harbour 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 sympathy for 
 Grace it would be something. He understood, — no 
 one better than he, — the tendency of all his family to 
 an uprising in the world, which tendency was almost 
 as strong in his mother 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 clergyman, a busy, 
 stirring, eloquent London preacher, who got churches 
 built, and was heard of far and wide as a rising man,
 
 MAJOR GRANTLY AT HOME. 29 1 
 
 who had married a certain Lady Anne, the daughter 
 of an earl, and who was already mentioned as a candi- 
 date for high places. How his sister was the wife of 
 a marquis, and a leader in the fashionable world, the 
 reader already knows. The archdeacon himself was 
 a rich man, so powerful that he could afford to look 
 down upon a bishop ; and Mrs. Grantly, though there 
 was left about her something of an old softness of 
 nature, a touch of the former life which had been hers 
 before the stream of her days had run gold, yet she, 
 too, had taken kindly to wealth and high standing, and 
 was by no means one of those who construe literally 
 that 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 favourite child, — knew 
 himself to have become so since something of coolness 
 had grown up between her and her august daughter. 
 The augustness of the daughter had done much to 
 reproduce the old freshness of which I have spoken in 
 the mother's heart, and had specially endeared to her 
 the son who, of all her children, was the least subject 
 to the family failing. The clergyman, Charles 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 quite happy in his son's house. 
 He met there the men whom he loved to meet, and 
 heard the talk which he loved to hear. It was very 
 fine having the Marquis of Hartletop for a son-in-law, 
 but he had never cared to be much at Lady Hartle- 
 top's house. Indeed, the archdeacon cared to be in no 
 house in which those around him were supposed to be 
 bigger than himself. Such was the family fleet from 
 out of which Henry Grantly was now proposing to sail
 
 292 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 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 himself, " and though he may not 
 forgive me, he will not punish Edith." 
 
 But there was still left one of the family, — not a 
 Grantly, indeed, but one so nearly allied to them as to 
 have his boat moored in the same harbour, — who, as 
 the major well knew, would thoroughly sympathise 
 with him. This was old Mr. Harding, his mother's 
 father, — the father 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 Christmas, and 
 he at any rate would give a ready assent to such a 
 marriage as that which the major was proposing for 
 himself. But then poor old Mr. Harding had been 
 thoroughly deficient in that ambition which had served 
 to aggrandise 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 high in his 
 profession, and had fallen even from the moderate alti- 
 tude which he had attained. But he was a man whom 
 all loved who knew him ; and it was much to the 
 credit of his son-in-law, the archdeacon, 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 ob- 
 ject of attention. Mrs. Grantly declared that she had 
 grown immensely. The archdeacon complimented her 
 red cheeks, and said that Cosby Lodge was as healthy 
 a place as any in the county, while Mr. Harding, 
 Edith's great-grandfather, drew slowly from his pocket
 
 MAJOR GRANTI.Y AT HOME. 293 
 
 sundry treasures with which he had come prepared for 
 the delight of the httle girl. Charles Grantly and Lady 
 Anne had no children, and the heir of all the Hartle- 
 tops was too august to have been trusted to the em- 
 braces of his mother's grandfather. Edith, therefore, 
 was all that he had in that generation, and of Edith 
 he was prepared 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 
 remembered, as Mr. Harding did, what Eleanor had 
 been when she was three years old. 
 
 "Aunt Nelly is in France," said the child. 
 
 " Yes, my darling, aunt Nelly is in France, and I 
 wish she were at home. Aunt Nelly has been away a 
 long time." 
 
 " I suppose she '11 stay till the dean picks her up on 
 his way home ? " said Mrs. Grantly. 
 
 " So she says in her letters. I heard from her yes- 
 terday, 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 discussing the shooting at Chaldicotes, as to 
 which the archdeacon had a strong opinion. " I 'm 
 quite sure that a man with a place like that does more 
 good by preserving than by leaving it alone. The 
 better head of game he has the richer the county will
 
 294 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 be generally. It is just the same with pheasants as it 
 is with sheep and bullocks. A pheasant does n'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 does n'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 without a shil- 
 ling. How he was respected, because he lived as 
 the people around him expected a gentleman to live. 
 Thome will have a bad time of it if he tries to change 
 things." 
 
 " Only think," exclaimed Mrs. Grantly, " when El- 
 eanor wrote she had not heard of that affair of poor 
 Mr. Crawley's ! " 
 
 " Does she say anything about him ? " asked the 
 major. 
 
 " I '11 read what she says. ' I see in Galignani that 
 a clergyman in Barsetshire has been committed for 
 theft. Pray tell me who it is. Not the bishop, I 
 hope, for the credit of the diocese ? ' " 
 
 " 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 change at the palace, 
 which 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 mentioned it 
 yourself." 
 
 " I did not, certainly ; nor you, papa, I suppose ? "
 
 MAJOR GRANTLY AT HOME. 295 
 
 Mr. Harding acknowledged that he had not spoken 
 of it, and then they calculated that perhaps she might 
 not have received any letter from her husband written 
 since the news had reached him. " Besides, why should 
 he have mentioned it ? " said the major. " He only 
 knows as yet of the inquiry about the cheque, 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 noth- 
 ing 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 court- 
 eous and complaisant than was his father's conduct to 
 him. Anything 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 seemed to have become matters of paramount 
 consideration to his father. And then the archdeacon 
 became very confidential about money matters, — not 
 offering anything to his son, which, as he well knew, 
 would have been seen through as paljiable bribery and 
 corruption, — but telling him of this little scheme and 
 of that, of one investment and of another; — how he 
 contemplated buying a small property here, and spend- 
 ing a few thousands on building there. " Of course it 
 is all for you and your brother," said the archdeacon, 
 with that benevolent sadness which is used habitually 
 by fathers on such occasions ; " and I like you to know 
 what it is that I am doing. I told Charles about the 
 London property the last time I was up," said the arch- 
 deacon, " and there shall be no difference between him 
 and you, if all goes well." This was very good-natured
 
 290 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 on the archdeacon's part, and was not strictly necessary, 
 as Charles was the eldest son ; but the major under- 
 stood it perfectly. " There shall be an elysium opened 
 to you, if only you will not do that ten-ible thing of 
 which you spoke when last here." The archdeacon 
 uttered no such words as these, and did not even allude 
 to Grace Crawley; but the words were as good as 
 spoken, and had they been spoken ever so plainly the 
 major could not have understood them more clearly. 
 He was quite awake to the loveliness of the elysium 
 opened before him. He had had his moment of anx- 
 iety, whether 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 
 yourself by marrying her, and your brother shall have 
 everything. 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 Miss Pretty man or Mrs. 
 Thome. " Fill your glass, Henry," said the arch- 
 deacon. " 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 
 certainly 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 ; is n'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.'
 
 MAJOR GRANTLY AT HOME. 297 
 
 There were two i)ipes, and somebody said it was a 
 heady wine. ' If the prebendaries and rectors can't 
 drink it/ said your father, ' the curates will.' " 
 
 " Curates indeed! " said the archdeacon. " It 's too 
 good for a bishop, unless one of the right 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! " 
 
 " Never talked shop to them, did he ? " said the arch- 
 deacon. 
 
 " Not after dinner, at any rate. Goodness gracious, 
 when one thinks of it! Do you remember how we 
 used to play cards ? " 
 
 " Every night regularly ; — threepenny points, and 
 sixpence on the rubber," said the archdeacon. 
 
 " Dear, dear! How things are changed! And I re- 
 member when the clergymen did more of the dancing 
 in Barchester than 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 wonder," said Mr. Harding, 
 " whether your father's spirit ever comes back to the 
 old house and sees the changes, — and if so whether he 
 approves them." 
 
 "Approves them!" said the archdeacon. 
 
 "Well; — yes. I think he would, upon the whole. 
 I 'm sure of this ; he would not disapprove, because 
 the new ways are changed from his ways. He never 
 thought himself infallible. And do you know, my dear, 
 I am not sure that it is n't all for the best. I some-
 
 298 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 times think that some of us were very idle when we 
 were young. I was, I know." 
 
 " I worked hard enough," said the archdeacon. 
 
 " Ah, yes ; you. But most of us took it very easily. 
 Dear, 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 aixhdeacon. " There was n'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 
 could n'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. Proudie a bishop! 
 Well; — it will last my time, I suppose." 
 
 " It has lasted mine, — like the wine," said Mr. Hard- 
 ing. 
 
 " There 's one glass more, and you shall have it, sir." 
 Then Mr. Harding drank the last glass of the 1820 
 port, and they went into the drawing-room. 
 
 On the next morning after breakfast the major 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 everything the arch- 
 deaconry 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 arch- 
 deacon to his wife, in a whisper. " I don't know. I 
 think he is," said Mrs. Grantly. " It will be so much
 
 MAJOR GRANTLY AT HOME. 299 
 
 the better for Charles, if he does," said the archdeacon 
 grimly ; and the look of his face as he spoke was by- 
 no means pleasant. " You will do nothing unjust, 
 archdeacon," said his wife. " I will do as I like with 
 my own," said he. And then he also went out and 
 took a walk by himself. 
 
 That evening after dinner, there was no 1820 port, 
 and no recollection of old days. They were rather 
 dull, the three of them, as they sat together, — and 
 dulness is always more unendurable than sadness. Old 
 Mr. Harding went to sleep and the archdeacon was 
 cross. " Henry," he said, " you have n't a word to 
 throw to a dog." 
 
 " I 've got rather a headache this evening, sir," said 
 the major. The archdeacon drank two glasses of wine, 
 one after another, quickly. Then he woke his father- 
 in-law gently, and went off. " Is there anything the 
 matter ? " asked the old man. " Nothing particular. 
 My father seems to be a little cross." "Ah! I 've 
 been to sleep and I ought n't. It 's my fault. We '11 
 go in and smooth him down." But the archdeacon 
 would n't be smoothed down on that occasion. He 
 would let his son see the difference between a father 
 pleased and a father displeased, — or rather between a 
 father pleasant and a father unpleasant. " He has n't 
 said anything to you, has he ? " said the archdeacon 
 that night to his wife. " Not a word ; — as yet." " If 
 he does it without the courage to tell us, I shall think 
 him a cur," said the archdeacon. " But he did tell 
 you," said Mrs. Grantly, standing up for her favourite 
 son ; " and, for the matter of that, he has courage 
 enough for anything. If he does it, I shall always say 
 that he has been driven to it by your threats."
 
 300 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET, 
 
 " That 's sheer nonsense," said the archdeacon. 
 
 " It 's not nonsense at all," said Mrs. Grantly. 
 
 " Then I suppose I was to hold my tongue and say 
 nothing ? " said the archdeacon ; and as he spoke he 
 banged the door between his dressing-room and Mrs. 
 Grantly's bedroom. 
 
 On the first day of the new year Major Grantly 
 spoke his mind to his mother. The archdeacon had 
 gone into Barchester, having in vain attempted to in- 
 duce his son to go with him. Mr. Harding was in the 
 library reading a little and sleeping a little, and dream- 
 ing of old days and old friends, and perhaps, some- 
 times, of the old wine. Mrs. Grantly was alone in a 
 small sitting-room which she frequented upstairs, when 
 suddenly her son entered the room. " Mother," he 
 said, " I think it better to tell you that I am going to 
 AUington." 
 
 " To AUington, Henry ? " She knew very well who 
 was at AUington, and what must be the business which 
 would take him there. 
 
 " Yes, mother. Miss Crawley is there, and there are 
 circumstances which make it incumbent 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 to myself that 
 she should not think that I am deterred by her father's 
 position." 
 
 " But would it not be reasonable that you should be 
 deterred by her father's position ? " 
 
 " No, I think not. I think it would be dishonest as 
 well as ungenerous. I cannot bring myself to brook 
 such delay. Of course I am alive to the misfortune
 
 MAJOR GRANTLY AT HOME. 30I 
 
 which has fallen upon her, — upon her and me, too, 
 should she ever become my wife. But it is one of 
 those burdens which a man should have shoulders 
 broad enough to bear." 
 
 " Quite so, if she were your wife, or even if you were 
 engaged to her. Then honour would require it of you, 
 as well as affection. As it is, your honour does not 
 require it, and I think you 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 yourself ? " 
 
 " No, mother ; not till I have been to Allington. 
 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 anything, 
 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, mother, and 
 I beheve I am right. Whether I am right or wrong,
 
 302 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 I shall do it. I will 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 
 yoiu" daughter." Having so spoken, he kissed his 
 mother, and was about 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 
 sorry indeed." 
 
 " Not me, not me, not me," she said. 
 
 "For my father, I cannot 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 you! 
 Think of all that he has done for you. When did he 
 refuse you anything ? " 
 
 " He has been good to me, but in this I cannot obey 
 him. He should not ask me." 
 
 " You are wrong. You are indeed. He has a right 
 to expect that you will not bring disgrace upon the 
 family." 
 
 " Nor will I ; — except such disgrace as may attend 
 upon poverty. Good-bye, 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 this girl should become 
 your wife "
 
 MAJOR GRANTLY AT HOME. 303 
 
 " It shall not be my fault if she does not," 
 
 " I will try to love her — some day." 
 
 Then 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 the news was told 
 him at once. " Henry has gone to AUington to pro- 
 pose to Miss Crawley," said Mrs. Grantly. 
 
 " Gone, — without speaking to me! " 
 
 " He left his love, and said that it was useless his 
 remaining, as he knew he should only offend you." 
 
 " He has made his bed, and he must lie upon it," 
 said the archdeacon. And then there was not another 
 word said about Grace Crawley on that occasion.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 MISS LILY dale's RESOLUTION. 
 
 The ladies at the Small House at Allington break- 
 fasted always at nine, — a liberal nine ; and the post- 
 man whose duty it was to deliver letters in that village 
 at half-past eight, being also hberal in his ideas as to 
 time, always arrived punctually in the middle of break- 
 fast, 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 breakfast-table ; and then there would 
 be an examination of the outsides before the envelopes 
 were violated, and as each knew pretty well all the 
 circumstances of the correspondence of the other, 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 infrequently of the entire letter. But 
 now, at the time of which I am speaking, Grace 
 Crawley was at the Small House, and therefore the 
 common 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 teapot, but still 
 she saw the letters, and had not her hands so full as to 
 
 304
 
 MISS LILY dale's RESOLUTION. 305 
 
 be debarred from the expression of her usual anxiety. 
 " Mamma, I 'm sure I see two there for me," she said. 
 " Only one for you, Lily," said Mrs. Dale. Lily in- 
 stantly knew from the tone of the voice that some let- 
 ter had come, which by the very aspect of the hand- 
 writing had disturbed her mother. " There is one for 
 you, my dear," said Mrs. Dale, throwing a letter across 
 the table 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 further, but 
 she observed that her mother only opened one of her 
 letters at the breakfast-table. Lily was very patient ; 
 — not by nature, I think, but by exercise and practice. 
 She had once, in her life, been too much in a hurry ; 
 and having then burned herself grievously, she now 
 feared the fire. She did not therefore follow her 
 mother after breakfast, but sat with Grace over the fire, 
 hemming diligently at certain articles of clothing which 
 were intended for use in the Hogglestock 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 '11 wear them," said Lily. " Sooner or 
 later he will," said Grace ; " because mamma manages 
 generally to have her way at last." Then they went 
 on for an hour or so, talking about the home affairs at 
 Hogglestock. But during the whole time Lily's mind 
 was intent upon her mother's letter. 
 
 Nothing was said about it at lunch, and nothing 
 
 when they walked out after lunch, for Lily was very 
 
 patient. But during the walk Mrs. Dale became aware 
 VOL. I.— 20
 
 306 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 that her daughter was uneasy. These two watched 
 each other unconsciously with a closeness which hardly 
 allowed a glance of the eye, certainly not a tone of the 
 voice, to pass unobserved. To Mrs. Dale it was every- 
 thing in the world that her daughter should be, if not 
 happy at heart, at least tranquil ; and to Lily, who 
 knew that her mother was always thinking of her, and 
 of her alone, her mother was the only human divinity 
 now worthy of adoration. But nothing was said about 
 the letter 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 un- 
 mistakable and enforced idleness of remaining without 
 candles was apparent. During this time, Lily, demand- 
 ing patience of herself 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 the 
 presence of Grace Crawley was a matter of course, nor 
 would she do or say anything 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 Crawley got 
 up and left the room. Lily still waited for a few min- 
 utes, and, in order that her patience might be thor- 
 oughly exercised, she said a word or two about her 
 sister Bell; how the eldest child's whooping-cough 
 was nearly well, and how the baby was doing wonder- 
 ful things with its first tooth. But as Mrs. Dale had 
 already .seen Bell's letter, all this was not intensely 
 interesting. At last Lily came to the point and asked 
 her question. " Mamma, from whom was that other 
 letter which you got this morning ? "
 
 MISS LILY dale's RESOLUTION. 307 
 
 Our Story will perhaps be best told by communicat- 
 ing the letter to the reader before it was discussed with 
 Lily. The letter was as follows : — 
 
 " General Committee Office, January, 186 — ." 
 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 
 had examined the handwriting with anxious eyes. When 
 she first received it she thought she knew the writer, 
 but was not sure. Then she had glanced at the im- 
 pression 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 world whom she had a right to regard as a 
 positive enemy to herself. She had no doubt about 
 it, 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 asked herself whether 
 it might not be better that she should send his letter 
 back to him without reading it. But she read it. 
 
 " Madam " (the letter began), — " You will be very 
 much surprised to hear from me, and I am quite aware 
 that I am not entitled to the ordinary courtesy of an 
 acknowledgment from you, should you be pleased to 
 throw my letter on one side as unworthy of your no- 
 tice. But I cannot refrain from addressing you, and 
 must leave it to you to reply to me or not, as you may 
 think fit. 
 
 " I will only refer to that episode of my hfe with 
 which you are acquainted, for the sake of acknowledg-
 
 3o8 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 I'ng 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 difficulty which ended in so great a 
 blunder ; but I will ask you to beheve 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 oiu: 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. When 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 mentioned the name of Lily Dale 
 to human ears. It has been too sacred for my mouth, 
 — too sacred 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 Hve again. Mine 
 has lived always, — has never faded for an hour, mak- 
 ing 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 liead for seeing your daughter again.
 
 MISS LILY dale's RESOLUTION. 309 
 
 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 love her with all my 
 heart, and seem to long for nothing 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 
 who, in spite of falseness of conduct, has yet been true 
 to her in heart. 
 
 " I have the honour to be. Madam, 
 
 " Your most obedient servant, 
 
 "Adolphus Crosbie." 
 
 This was the letter which Mrs. Dale had received, 
 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 v/as the confidence between 
 them, yet the name of Adolphus Crosbie had not been 
 mentioned between them oftener, perhaps, than half-a- 
 dozen times since the blow had been struck. Mrs. 
 Dale knew that their feelings about the man were al- 
 together different. She, herself, not only condemned 
 him for what he had done, believing it to be impossible 
 that any shadow of excuse could be urged for his 
 offence, thinking that the fault had shown the man to 
 be mean beyond redemption ; — but she had allowed 
 herself actually to hate him. He had in one sense 
 murdered her daughter, and she believed that she could 
 never forgive him. But Lily, as her mother well knew,
 
 3IO THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 had forgiven this man altogether, had made excuses 
 for him which cleansed his sin of all its blackness in 
 her own eyes, and was to this day anxious as ever for 
 his welfare and his happiness. Mrs. Dale feared that 
 Lily did in truth love him still. If it was so, was she 
 not bound to show her 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 
 keeping 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 marrying such a man. Such a marriage 
 now would be, as Mrs. Dale thought, a degradation to 
 her daughter. A terrible injiu"y had been done to 
 her ; but such reparation as this would, 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, Lily ; I cannot 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 cannot tell you why, but I knew it 
 And now, mamma, — am I to read it ? " 
 
 " You shall do as you please, Lily."
 
 MISS LILY dale's RESOLUTION. 31 I 
 
 "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 cannot understand 
 how any man could have brought himself to address 
 either you or me, after 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 motionless, 
 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 noth- 
 ing more to say to him." 
 
 " That would be very stern." 
 
 " He has done that which makes sternness necessary." 
 
 Then Lily was again silent, and still she sat motion- 
 less, 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 judg- 
 ment, I shall take it upstairs 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 passed 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 affection, and she, Mrs.
 
 312 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 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 her 
 own Ufe, desolate as it would be, — she cared little for 
 that. Mothers know that their daughters will leave 
 them. Even widowed mothers, mothers with but one 
 child left, — such a one as was this mother, — are aware 
 that they will be left alone, and they can bring them- 
 selves 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 them as being firmer than that by which 
 most daughters 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 upstairs 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 through- 
 out 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 
 afterwards she had progressed diligently with the fabri- 
 cation of Mr. Crawley's shirts, as though she had no
 
 MISS LILY dale's RESOLUTION. 313 
 
 such letter in lier pocket. And yet there was 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 to a per- 
 son 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 ; "but perhaps 
 if I look long enough I shall see the light." 
 
 " I hope it will be a happy hght at last," said Grace, 
 who 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 httle. " 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-morrow. It 
 wants some thinking ; — does it not, mamma ? " 
 
 " It would not want much with me, Lily." 
 
 "But then, mamma, you are not I. Beheving as 
 I beheve, 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 gloaming she was alone with
 
 314 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 her mother, and sure that she might remain alone with 
 her for an hour or so. " Mamma, sit there," she said ; 
 " I will sit down here, and then I can lean against you 
 and be comfortable. You can bear as much of me as 
 that, — can't you, mamma ? " Then Mrs. Dale put her 
 arm over Lily's shoulder, and embraced her daughter. 
 " And now, mamma, we will talk about this wonderful 
 letter." 
 
 " I do not know, dear, that I have anything to say 
 about it." 
 
 " But you must have something to say about 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 anything else in the whole world ten times 
 over " And Lily as she spoke tightened the em- 
 brace of her mother's arm around her neck. " I 'm 
 not afraid you '11 be hard in that way. But you must 
 soften your heart so as to be able to mention his name 
 and talk about him, and tell me what I ought to do. 
 Y6u 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 ears. That 's what I call being hard. 
 Though you should feed me with blood from your
 
 MISS LILY dale's RESOLUTION. 315 
 
 breast, I should call you a hard pelican, unless you 
 could give me also the sympathy which I demand from 
 you. You see, mamma, we have never allowed our- 
 selves to speak 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 
 mouth 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 fostered 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 my- 
 self 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, without 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 cannot kill them if 
 you would, and they 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,
 
 3l6 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 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 anger, and I could not endure to 
 hear him abused. That has been it." 
 
 " Partly so, Lily." 
 
 " Now you 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 un- 
 answered it cannot be so left without discussion. And 
 yet you must say no evil of him." 
 
 "Am I to think that he behaved well ? " 
 
 " No, mamma ; you are not to think that ; but you 
 are to look upon his fault as a fault that has been 
 forgiven." 
 
 " It cannot 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 wicked, because we are 
 all very wicked. But you won't be told of your wicked- 
 ness there. You won't be hated there, because you 
 were this or that when you were here." 
 
 " I hope not, Lily ; but is n't your argument almost 
 profane? " 
 
 " No ; I don't think so. We ask to be forgiven 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 ever ask yourself whether you have 
 forgiven him ? "
 
 MISS LILY dale's RESOLUTION. 317 
 
 " I forgive him as far as humanity can forgive. I 
 would do him no injury." 
 
 " But if you and I are forgiven only after that fash- 
 ion we shall never get to heaven." Lily paused for 
 some further answer from her mother, 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 ought 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 what you think yourself. We 
 shall get on better when you have brought yourself to 
 speak. Do you think that you wish to see him 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 are concerned, at any rate ; 
 you, and he, and I. I am thinking 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 himself for his misery.
 
 31 8 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 Do I flatter myself if I allow 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 face. " Mamma," she said, " that 
 is very cruel. I did not think you could be so cruel. 
 Kow can you, who beUeve 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 ; — something, 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 you have found that 
 they are thistles." 
 
 " I still go for the roses though I have often torn my 
 hand with thorns in looking for them." 
 
 " ]iut you do not pluck those that have become 
 cankered in the blowing." 
 
 " Because he was once at fault, will he be cankered 
 always ? "
 
 MISS LILY dale's RESOLUTION. 319 
 
 " I would not trust him." 
 
 " Now, mamma, see how different we are ; or, rather, 
 how different it is when one judges for oneself, 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 
 everything I could hardly be poorer than I was before. 
 But I should have a better hope than the gambler is 
 justified in having. That, however, is not my difficulty. 
 And when I think of him 1 can see a prospect of suc- 
 cess 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 with 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 condemn 
 you." 
 
 " But he would have were T 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 
 recognise 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 j'-our 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
 
 320 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 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 possible, tell him this 
 tenderly." Then she got up and walked away, as 
 though she were going out of the room ; but her 
 mother had caught her before the door was open. 
 
 " 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 fluttered. 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 resolution. I have resolved, and 
 J believe that I shall be the better for it." 
 
 The letter which Mrs. Dale wrote to Mr. Crosbie 
 was as follows : — 
 
 " Mrs. Dale presents her compliments to Mr. Cros- 
 bie, and begs to assure him 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 family." 
 
 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 him the trouble of a futile perse-
 
 MISS LILY DALES RESOLUTION. 32 1 
 
 verance, and them from the annoyance of persecution ; 
 and this she wished to do without mentioning her 
 daughter's name. And she was determined that no 
 word should escape her in which there 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 you have been good and have not 
 scolded him." 
 
 " I have not scolded him certainly," said Mrs. Dale. 
 And then the letter was sent. 
 
 VOL. I. — 21
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 MRS. DOBBS BROUGHTON's DINNER-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, — 
 people living in South Kensington, in neighbourhoods 
 not far from Belgravia, 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 rumour 
 had of course magnified that money. He was a pri- 
 vate secretary, which is in itself a great advance on be- 
 ing a mere clerk. And he had become the particularly 
 intimate friend of an artist who had pushed himself 
 into high fashion during the last year or two, — one 
 Conway Dalrymple, whom the rich English world was 
 beginning 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 the friendship of 
 Conway Dalrymple 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 arrange- 
 
 322
 
 MRS. DOBBS BROUGHTON'S DINNER-PARTY. 323 
 
 ment 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 
 duchess. It was the pecuUar merit of his pictures, — 
 so at least said the art-loving world, — that, though the 
 hkeness was always good, the stiffness of the modern 
 portrait was never there. There was also ever some 
 story told in Dalrymple's pictures 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 
 Dalrymple was picking up his gilt sugar-plums with 
 considerable rapidity. 
 
 On a certain day he and John Eames were to dine 
 out together at a certain house in that Bayswater dis- 
 trict. It was a large mansion, if not made of stone 
 yet looking very stony, with thirty windows at least, all 
 of them with cut-stone frames, requiring, let me say, at 
 least four thousand a year for its maintenance. And 
 its owner, Dobbs Broughton, a man very well known 
 both in the City and over the grass in Northampton- 
 shire, was supposed to have a good deal more than 
 four thousand a year. Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, a very 
 beautiful woman, who certainly was not yet thirty-five, 
 let her worst enemies say what they might, had been 
 painted by Conway 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 way, and one the other. In this picture, Mrs. 
 Dobbs Broughton as centre Grace looked you full in 
 the face. The same lady looked away from you, dis-
 
 324 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 playing her left shoulder, as one side Grace, and dis- 
 playing her right shoulder as the other side Grace. 
 For this pretty toy Mr. Conway Dahymple had picked 
 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. " Upon my word, Johnny," 
 Dalrymple had said to his friend, " he 's a deuced good 
 fellow, has really a good glass of claret, — which is get- 
 ting rarer and rarer every day, — and will mount you 
 for a day, whenever you please, down at Market Har- 
 boro'. Come and dine with them." Johnny Eames 
 condescended, and did go and dine with Mr. Dobbs 
 Broughton. I wonder whether he remembered, when 
 Conway Dalrymple was talking 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 occasionally, three years ago ; and how the 
 painter had then been used to complain that bitter beer 
 cost threepence a glass, instead of twopence, which 
 had hitherto been the recognised 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 you feel what 
 a draught comes in here because the glass is cracked? 
 I 'd have one of my own, only I should never know 
 what to do with it."
 
 MRS. DOBBS BROUGHTON'S DINNER-PARTY, 325 
 
 "The greatest nuisance on earth, I should think," 
 said Johnny. 
 
 " If you could always have it standing ready round 
 the corner," said the artist, "it would be delightful. 
 But one would want half-a-dozen horses and two or 
 three men for that." 
 
 " I think the stands are the best," said Johnny. 
 
 They were a little late, — a little later than they 
 should have been had they considered that Eames was 
 to be introduced to his new acquaintances. But he 
 had already hved long enough before the world to be 
 quite at his ease in such circumstances, and he entered 
 Mrs. Broughton's drawing-room with his pleasantest 
 smile upon his face. But as he entered he saw a sight 
 which made him look serious in spite of his efforts to 
 the contrary. Mr. Adolphus Crosbie, secretary to the 
 Board at the General Committee Office, was standing 
 on the rug before 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. 
 
 " Impossible to say," Conway had rephed. "A cer- 
 tain horrible fellow of the name of Musselboro will 
 almost certainly be there. He always is when they 
 have anything of a swell dinner-party. He is a sort 
 of partner of Broughton's in the city. He wears a lot 
 of chains and has elaborate whiskers, and an elaborate 
 v/aistcoat, which is worse ; and he does n't wash 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-humoured, you know, and good-looking in
 
 326 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 a sort of way, and goes everywhere ; 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 have n't any other standing 
 dish, and you may meet anybody. They always have 
 a Member of ParUament ; they generally manage to 
 capture 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. Musselboro. " If I don't see 
 the whiskers and chain," he had said, " I shall know 
 there 's a Peer." Mr. Musselboro was in the room, 
 but Eames had descried Mr. Crosbie long before he 
 had seen Mr. Musselboro. 
 
 There was no reason for confusion on his part in 
 meeting Crosbie. They had both loved Lily Dale. 
 Crosbie might have been successful, but for his own 
 fault. Eames had on one occasion been thrown into 
 contact with him, and on that occasion had quarrelled 
 with him, and had beaten him, giving him a black eye, 
 and in this way obtaining some mastery over him. 
 There was no reason why he should be ashamed of 
 meeting Crosbie ; and yet when he saw him, the blood 
 mounted all over his face, and he forgot to make any 
 further search for Mr. Musselboro. 
 
 " I am so much obliged to Mr. Dalrymple for bring- 
 ing you," said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton very sweetly, 
 " only he ought to have come sooner. Naughty man! 
 I know it was his fault. Will you take Miss Demolines 
 down? Miss Demolines, — Mr. Eames." 
 
 Mr. Dobbs Broughton was somewhat sulky and had 
 not welcomed our hero very cordially. He was be- 
 ginning to think that Conway Dalrymple gave himself
 
 MRS. DOBBS BROUGHTON'S DIXNER-PARTY. 327 
 
 airs, and did not sufficiently understand that a man 
 who had horses at Market Harboro' 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-humour never lasted long, and he 
 was soon pressing his wine on Johnny Eames as though 
 he loved him dearly. 
 
 But there was yet a few minutes before they went 
 down to diimer, and Johnny Eames, as he endeavoured 
 to find something to say to Miss Demolines, — which 
 was difficult, as he did not in the least know >Iiss 
 Demolines' Line of conversation, — was aware that his 
 efforts were impeded by thoughts of Mr. Crosbie. The 
 man looked older than when he had last sten him, — so 
 much older that Eames was astonished- He was bald, 
 or becoming bald; and his whiskers were grey, or 
 were becoming grey, and he was much fatter. Johnny 
 Eames, who was always thinking of Lily Dale, could 
 not now keep himself from thinking of Adolphus Cros- 
 bie. He saw at a glance that the man was in mourn- 
 ing, though there was nothing but his shirt-studs by 
 which to tell it ; and he knew that he was in mourning 
 for his wife. " I wish she might have Hved. for ever," 
 Johnny said to himself. 
 
 He had not yet been definitely called upon by the 
 entrance of the ser\-ant to offer his arm to Miss Demo- 
 lines, 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 proffered 
 salutation. " I don't know exactly how long, but ever 
 so long."
 
 328 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " 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 Broughton. Having married an earl's 
 daughter he was selected for that honour. 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 
 recognised 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 terrible rules. She cannot 
 let her guests draw lots for precedence. She must 
 select some one for the honoiu" of her own arm. And 
 amidst the intricacies of rank how is it possible for 
 a woman to learn and to remember everything? If 
 Providence would only send 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 Admiral 
 of the Blue, the dean of Barchester, or the dean of 
 Arches? Who is to know who was everybody's father? 
 How am I to remember that young Thompson's pro- 
 genitor was made a baronet and not a knight when he 
 was Lord Mayor? Perhaps Mrs. Dobbs Broughton 
 ought to have known that Mr. Crosbie could have 
 gained nothing by his wife's rank, and the barrister 
 may be considered to have been not immoderately 
 severe when he simply spoke of her afterwards as the 
 silliest and most ignorant old woman he had ever met 
 in his life. Eames with the lovely Miss Demolines on 
 his arm was the last to move before the hostess. Mr.
 
 MRS. DOBBS BROUGHTON's DINNER-PARTY, 329 
 
 Dobbs Broughton had led the way energetically with 
 old Lady Demolines. There was no doubt about Lady 
 Demolines, — as his wife had told him, because her title 
 marked her. Her husband had been a physician in 
 Paris, and had been knighted in consequence of some 
 benefit supposed to have been done to some French 
 scion of royalty, — when such scions in France were 
 royal and not imperial. Lady Demolines' rank was 
 not much, certainly ; but it served to mark her, and 
 was beneficial. 
 
 As he went downstairs Fames was still thinking of 
 his meeting with Crosbie, and had as yet hardly said a 
 word to his neighbour, and his neighbour had not said 
 a word to him. Now Johnny understood dinners quite 
 well enough to know that in a party of twelve, among 
 whom six are ladies, everything depends on your next 
 neighbour, and generally on the next neighbour who 
 specially belongs to you ; and as he took his seat he 
 was a little alarmed as to his prospect for the next two 
 hours. On his other hand sat Mrs. Ponsonby, the 
 barrister's wife, and he did not much like the look of 
 Mrs. Ponsonby. She was fat, heavy, and good-look- 
 ing ; with a broad space between her eyes, and hght 
 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 Demolines, 
 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 extraordinary manner, and she had an expressive 
 face, — a face made expressive by the owner's will. 
 Such power of expression is often attained by dint of 
 labom-, — though it never reaches to the expression of
 
 330 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 anything in particular. She was almost sufficiently 
 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 cannot begin 
 conversation to any good purpose in the drawing-room, 
 when she is seated 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 necessity of commenc- 
 ing a second enterprise. But Miss Demolines, 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 
 Eames was immediately aware that he would have no 
 difficulty as to conversation. 
 
 " Don't you like winter dinner-parties ? " began Miss 
 Demolines. This Avas said just as Johnny was taking 
 his seat, and he had time to declare that he liked din- 
 ner-parties at all periods of the year if the dinner was 
 good and the people pleasant before the host had mut- 
 tered something which was intended to be understood 
 to be a grace. " But I mean especially in winter," 
 continued Miss Demolines. " I don't think daylight 
 should ever be admitted at a dinner-table ; 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 those three 
 months. I don't care what people do afterwards, 
 because we always fly away on the first of August." 
 
 "That is good-natured on your part." 
 
 " I 'm sure what I say would be for the good of
 
 MRS. DOBBS BROUGHTON'S DINNER-PARTY. 33 1 
 
 society ; — but at this time of the year a dinner is warm 
 and comfortable." 
 
 " Very comfortable, I think." 
 
 "And people get to know each other;" — in saying 
 which Miss Demolines looked very pleasantly up 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 we shall; — that is, if I 'm worth know- 
 ing." 
 
 " There can be no doubt about that, I should say." 
 
 " Time alone can tell. But, Mr, Eames, 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 anything I know to the contrary," said 
 Miss Demohnes. 
 
 " The very deepest," said Johnny, pretending to look 
 grave. 
 
 " Ah, then I know he is your bosom friend, and that 
 you will tell him anything I say! What a strange 
 history that was of his marriage ! " 
 
 " So I have heard ; — but he is not quite bosom friend 
 enough with me to have told me all the particulars. 
 I know that 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."
 
 332 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " Well, — perhaps 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 intimate 
 with her sister. Lady Amelia Gagebee, and I have met 
 her there. None of that family have married what you 
 may call well. And now, Mr. Eames, pray look at the 
 menu and tell me what I am to eat. Arrange for me 
 a little dinner of my own, out of the great bill of fare 
 provided. I always expect some gentleman to do that 
 for me. Mr. Crosbie, you know, only lived with his 
 wife for one month." 
 
 " So I 've been told." 
 
 "And a terrible month they had of it. I used to 
 hear of it. He does n't look that sort of a 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, indifferent as 
 possible ; — and would treat me in the same way to- 
 morrow if I would let him." 
 
 Johnny Eames, finding it impossible to talk to Miss 
 Demolines about Lily Dale, took up the card of the 
 dinner and went to work in earnest, recommending his 
 neighbour what to eat and what to pass by. " But 
 you 've skipped the pate," she said, with energy. 
 
 " Allow me to ask you to choose mine for me in- 
 stead. You are much more fit to do it." And she did 
 choose his dinner for him.
 
 MRS. DOBBS BROUGHTON'S DINNER-PARTY. 333 
 
 They were sitting at a round table, and in order that 
 the ladies and gentlemen should alternate themselves 
 properly, Mr. Musselboro was opposite to the host. 
 Next to him on his right was old Mrs. Van Siever, the 
 widow of a Dutch merchant, who was very rich. She 
 was a ghastly thing to look at, as well from the quan- 
 tity 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 cannot be conceived that she would suppose 
 that any one would be ignorant as to their falseness. 
 She was very thin, too, and very small, and putting 
 aside her wiggeries, you would think her to be all eyes. 
 She was a ghastly old woman to the sight, and not al- 
 together 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 office. 
 
 "Why does n't What's-his-name have real silver 
 forks ? " she said to him. Now Mrs. What's-his-name, 
 — Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, we 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 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 ? " 
 
 " Everybody does n't. I don't. You know as well 
 as I do, Musselboro, that the appearance of the thing 
 goes for a great deal. Capital is n't lying dead as long 
 as people know that you 've got it." 
 
 Before answering this Mr. Musselboro was driven to
 
 334 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 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 shan'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 anywhere else. What did he 
 give for that picture upstairs which the young man 
 painted? " 
 
 "AVhat, Mrs. Dobbs Broughton's portrait?" 
 
 "You don't call that a portrait, do you? I mean 
 the one with the three naked women? " Mr. Mussel- 
 boro glanced round with one eye, and felt sure that 
 Mrs. Dobbs Broughton had heard the question. 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. Mussel- 
 boro, looking straight before him as he answered, and 
 pretending to treat the subject with perfect indifference. 
 
 " Did he indeed, now? Six hundred pounds! And 
 yet he has n't got silver spoons. How things are 
 changed ! Tell me, Musselboro, who was that young 
 man who came in with the painter? " 
 
 Mr. Musselboro 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 minis- 
 ters, 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 herself back, re- 
 membering some little attack which had been made on
 
 KRS. DOBBS BROUGHTON's DINNER-PARTY. 335 
 
 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, sitting 
 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 '11 have," said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, in the 
 warmth of her friendship. " 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 Broughton 
 had got into the 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 business with 
 Dobbs. But there 's no mistake about the money." 
 
 "She need n't leave it to her daughter, I suppose? " 
 
 "But why should n't she? She has nobody else. 
 You might offer to paint her, you know. She 'd make 
 an excellent picture. So much character. You come 
 and see her." 
 
 Conway Dalrymple had expressed his willingness to 
 meet Miss Van Siever, saying something, however, as 
 to his present position being one which did not admit 
 of any matrimonial speculation. Then Mrs. Dobbs 
 Broughton had told him, with much seriousness, that 
 he was altogether wrong, and that were he to forget 
 himself, or commit himself, or misbehave himself, there 
 must be an end to their pleasant intimacy. In answer
 
 ;^^6 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 to which, Mr. Dalrymple had said that her Grace was 
 surely of all Graces the least gracious. And now he 
 had come to meet Miss Van Siever, and was seated 
 next to her at table. 
 
 Miss Van Siever, who at this time had perhaps 
 reached her twenty-fifth year, was certainly a hand- 
 some young woman. She was fair and large, bearing 
 no hkeness whatever to her mother. Her features 
 were regular, and her full, clear eyes had a brilliance 
 of their own, looking at you always steadfastly and 
 boldly, though very seldom pleasantly. Her 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 showed her 
 teeth as little as she could. Her nose and chin were 
 finely chiselled, and her head stood well upon her 
 shoulders. But there was something hard about it all 
 which repelled you. Dalrymple, 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 
 Siever 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. Brough- 
 ton, 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 would 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 re- 
 sult was out of the (juestion, — the thing might be done. 
 Such was the idea of Mr. Conway Dalrymple respect-
 
 MRS. DOBBS BROUGHTON S DINNER-PARTY. 337 
 
 ing Miss Van Siever, — before he led her down to 
 dinner. 
 
 At first he found it hard to talk to her. She an- 
 swered 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 expected to have his small 
 talk made very easy for him. He liked to give himself 
 little airs, and was not generally disposed to labour 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 enamelled, or got up by 
 Madame Rachel ; but have you ever had yoiu" 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 siu-e 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 aimts, and the 
 like." 
 
 " Or husbands, perhaps, — or lovers ? " 
 
 " Well, yes ; my intimate friend is my mother, and 
 she would never dream of such a thing. She hates 
 pictures." 
 
 VOL. I.— 22
 
 338 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 "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 has been some fatal 
 likeness, — some terrible picture, — something in her 
 early days ? " 
 
 " Nothing of the kind, Mr. Dalrymple. It is merely 
 the fact that her sympathies are with ugly things, rather 
 than with pretty things. I think she loves the mahog- 
 any dinner-table better than anything else in the house ; 
 and she likes to have everything dark, and plain, and 
 solid." 
 
 "And good?" 
 
 " Good of its kind, certainly." 
 
 "If everybody 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 modern, I 
 can tell you. Perhaps you don't care for modem 
 pictures? " 
 
 " Not in comparison, certainly. If that is uncivil, 
 you have brought it on yourself. But I do not in 
 truth mean anything 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."
 
 MRS. DOBBS BROUGHTON S DINNER-PARTY. 339 
 
 "Yes, and statues too, and buildings above all 
 things. The colours of new paintings are so glaring, 
 and the faces are so bright and self-conscious, that they 
 look to me when I go to the exhibition like coloured 
 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 should n't take you to be a sham in anything." 
 
 " Ah, that would be saying a great deal for myself. 
 Who can undertake to say that he is not a sham in 
 anything? " 
 
 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 anything. 
 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 cer- 
 tainly do it as Jael ; and he would, if he dared, insert 
 dimly in the background some idea of the face of the 
 mother, half-appearing, half-vanishing, as the spirit of 
 the sacrifice. He was composing his picture while 
 Mr. Dobbs Broughton was arranging himself and his 
 bottles. 
 
 " Musselboro," he said, " I '11 come up between you 
 and Crosbie. Mr. Eames, though I run away from 
 you, the claret shall remain ; or, rather, it shall flow 
 backwards and forwards as rapidly as you will." 
 
 " I '11 keep it moving," said Johnny. 
 
 " Do ; there 's a good fellow. It 's a nice glass of
 
 340 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 wine, is n't it ? Old Ramsby, 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 'd a lot of 
 tidy Bordeaux. It 's '47, 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 
 would n't sell a bottle of it for any money. Come, 
 Dalrymple, pass it round ; but fill yotu" glass first." 
 
 " Thank you, no ; I don't hke it. I '11 drink sherry." 
 
 " Don't like it!" said Dobbs Broughton. 
 
 " It 's strange, is n't it ? but I don't." 
 
 " I thought you particularly told me to drink his 
 claret ? " said Johnny to his friend afterwards. 
 
 " So I did," said Conway ; " and wonderfully good 
 wine it is. But I make it a rule never to eat or drink 
 anything 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 over-night." 
 
 Conway Dalrymple did not get invited to call on 
 Mrs. Van Siever, but before he left the house he did
 
 MRS. DOBBS BROUGHTON's DINNER-PARTY. 341 
 
 say a word or two more to his friend Mrs. Broughton 
 as to Clara Van Siever. " She is a fine young woman," 
 he said ; " she is indeed." 
 
 " You have found it out, have you ? " 
 
 "Yes, I have found it out. I do not doubt that 
 some day she '11 murder her husband or her mother, or 
 startle the world by some newly-invented crime ; but 
 that only makes her the more interesting." 
 
 " And when you add to that all the old woman's 
 money," .said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, " you think that 
 she might do ? " 
 
 " For a picture, certainly. 1 '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 Mussel- 
 boro in as Sisera, with the nail half driven in." Mrs. 
 Dobbs Broughton 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 have a cigar," 
 Dalrymple said, as he and his friend left Mr. Brough- 
 ton'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 '11 tell you what I think of them. I think 
 they stink of money, as the people say ; but I 'm not 
 sure that they have got any all the 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 claret, but the
 
 342 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 champagne was execrable. A man is a criminal to 
 have such stuff handed round to his guests. And there 
 is n'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 
 recognise them as such at the very first moment. My 
 honoured 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 Mr. 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 know 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 remember 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 1 can live 
 pleasantly."
 
 MRS. DOBBS BROUGHTON'S DINNER-PARTY. 343 
 
 " And poor Dobbs does n't come within the Hne ? " 
 
 " N — o, not quite ; a very nice fellow, I 'm quite 
 sure, and I am 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 colour altogether. A 
 pretty woman with such a figure as hers has got a right 
 to be anything she pleases. I see you are a great 
 favourite." 
 
 "No, I 'm not; — not especially. I do hke her. 
 She wants to make up a match between me and that 
 Miss Van Siever. Miss Van is to have gold by the 
 ingot, and jewels by the bushel, and a hatful of bank 
 shares, 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 '11 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 'U go and dine 
 there again to-morrow, if you like it."
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 MISS MADALINA DEMOLINES. 
 
 " I don't think you care two straws about her," 
 Conway Dahymple said to his friend John Eames, two 
 days after the dinner-party at Mrs. Dobbs Broughton's. 
 The painter was at work in his studio, and the private 
 secretary from the Income-tax Office, who was no 
 doubt engaged 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 is n't in my line, my dear fellow. I know what 
 you mean, very well. I dare say, artistically speak- 
 ing, " 
 
 " 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 dinner very well, and I don't 
 suppose I ought to do that ; and, if you '11 beHeve 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?" 
 
 344
 
 MISS MADALINA DEMOLINES. 345 
 
 " I don't believe you really care about her. I think 
 you are aware that you have got a love-affair on hand, 
 and that you hang on to it rather persistently, having 
 in some way come to a resolution that you would be 
 persistent. But there is n't much heart in it. I dare 
 say there was once." 
 
 " And that is your opinion ? " 
 
 " 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 
 disappointment. 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 who 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 Miss 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 shall ever succeed, and yet I am as de- 
 termined about it as I was when I first began it, — or 
 rather much more so. If I do not marry Lily, I shall 
 never marry at all, and if anybody were to tell me to- 
 morrow that she had made up her mind to have me, 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 '11 go away and call on old Lady 
 Demolines."
 
 346 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 "And flirt with her daughter." 
 
 "Yes; — flirt with her daughter, if I get the oppor- 
 tunity. Why should n't I flirt with her daughter ? " 
 
 " Why not, if you hke it ? " 
 
 " I don't hke 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 artist, " 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 people though they are 
 neither pretty nor wise. I don't mean to insinuate that 
 Miss Demolines is particularly bad, or indeed that she 
 is worse than young ladies in general. I only abused 
 her because there was an insinuation in what you said, 
 that I was going to amuse myself with Miss Demolines 
 in the absence of Miss Dale. The one thing has noth- 
 ing 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 did n't mean to put you 
 on your purgation. I want you to look at that sketch. 
 Do you know for whom it is intended ? " Johnny took 
 up a scrap of paper, and having scrutinised it for a 
 minute or two declared that he had not the slightest 
 idea who was represented. " You know the subject, — 
 the story that is intended to be told ? " said Dalrymple. 
 
 " Upon my word, I don't. There 's some old fellow 
 seems to be 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 P)ible ? "
 
 MISS MADALINA DEMOLINES. 347 
 
 << 
 
 All, dear! not as often as I ought to do. Ah, I 
 see; it 's Sisera! I never could quite believe that 
 story. Jael might have killed Captain Sisera in his 
 sleep, — for which, by-the-bye, 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 the ground." 
 
 " I 've warrant enough for putting it into a picture, 
 at any rate. My Jael there is intended for Miss Van 
 Siever." 
 
 " Miss 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 Musselboro for a Sisera." 
 
 " You 're not in earnest ? " 
 
 " He would just do for it. But of course I shan'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-bye, old fellow. 
 I '11 come and sit for Sisera if you '11 let me; — only 
 Miss Van Jael shall have a blunted nail, if you please." 
 
 Then Johnny left the artist's room and walked across 
 from Kensington to Lady Demohnes' 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 without her, — in which he went about inwardly 
 reproaching fortune for having treated him so cruelly.
 
 348 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 Why should she not be his ? He half believed that she 
 loved him. She had almost 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 deter- 
 mined to sacrifice to his vengeance, if cause for such 
 sacrifice should occur. And thus thinking of the real 
 truth of his love, he endeavoured to excuse himself to 
 himself from that charge of vagueness and laxness 
 which his friend Conway Dalrymple had brought 
 against him. And then again he accused himself of 
 the same sin. If he had been positively in earnest, 
 with downright manly earnestness, would he have al- 
 lowed 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 boyhood ; 
 and he had made a reality of his dream as soon as he 
 had become a man. But before he had been able, 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 thrown 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 something which he felt 
 to be unmanly in the constant stooping. Dahymple
 
 MISS MADALINA DEMOLINES. 349 
 
 had told him that he was like a man who is ever writ- 
 ing a book and yet never writes it. He would make 
 another attempt to get his book written, — an attempt 
 into which he would throw all his strength and all his 
 heart. He would do his very best to make Lily his 
 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 thing which he could not 
 obtain. 
 
 Johnny was informed by the boy in buttons, who 
 opened the door for him at Lady Demolines', that the 
 ladies were at home, and he was shown up into the 
 drawing-room. Here he was allowed full ten minutes 
 to explore the knicknacks on the table, and open the 
 photograph book, and examine the furniture, before 
 Miss Demolines made her appearance. When she did 
 come, her hair was tangled more marvellously even 
 than when he saw her at the dinner-party, and her 
 eyes were darker, and her cheeks thinner. " I 'm 
 afraid mamma won't be able to come down," said Miss 
 Demohnes. " 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 wini 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 Demolines. I 
 never know which is east, and which west ; and if I 
 did, I should n't know from which point the wind 
 blew." 
 
 " At any rate mamma can't come downstairs, and 
 you must excuse her. What a very nice woman 
 Mrs. Dobbs Broughton is." Johnny acknowledged that
 
 350 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 Mrs. Dobbs Broughton was charming. "And Mr. 
 Broughton is so good-natured!" Johnny again as- 
 sented. " I hke him of all things," said Miss Demo- 
 lines. " So do I," said Johnny ; — " I never liked any- 
 body so much in my hfe. I suppose one is bound to 
 .say that kind of thing." " Oh, you ill-natured man," 
 said Miss Demolines. " I suppose you think that poor 
 Mr. Broughton is a httle — just 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. How can he help it ? " 
 
 " Poor fellow, — no. I don't suppose he can help it, 
 or he would ; — would n't he ? " 
 
 " Of course Mr. Broughton had not the advantage 
 of birth or much early education. All his friends 
 know that, and make allowance accordingly. 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 Clutterbuck for years before she was 
 married. Of course she 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 Maria. She was then past twenty. 
 So you see, Mr, Eames, I make no secret of my age." 
 
 " Why should you ? " 
 
 " But never mind that. Everybody knows that 
 Maria Clutterbuck was very much admired. Of course 
 I 'm not going to tell you or any other gentleman all 
 her history." 
 
 " I was in hopes you were." 
 
 " Then certainly your hopes will be frustrated, Mr.
 
 MISS MADALINA DEMOLINES. 351 
 
 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 attractions. 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 uncertainty 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 with 
 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 seciire! 
 The land can't run away." 
 
 " But you think poor Broughton's money may? " 
 
 " It 's all speculation, you know. I don't beheve 
 she minds it ; I don't, indeed. She lives that kind of 
 fevered life now that she likes excitement. 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.
 
 352 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 But he is very good-natured, and lets her do pretty 
 nearly anything that she likes. I only hope she won't 
 trespass on his good-nature. I do, indeed." 
 
 " You mean, spend too much money ? " 
 
 " No ; I did n't mean that exactly. Of course she 
 ought to be moderate, and I hope she is. To that 
 kind of fevered existence profuse expenditure is per- 
 haps 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 anything of that kind. 
 Maria Broughton must be thirty-three if she 's a 
 day." 
 
 " That would make you just twenty-five," said 
 Johnny, feeling perfectly sure as he said so that 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 '11 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 have n'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 anything 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
 
 MISS MADALINA DEMOLINES. 353 
 
 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 offered 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 ought n'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. Broughton, you never made a greater 
 mistake in your hfe." 
 
 " Oh, no ; not in love. That would be terrible, you 
 know." And Miss Demolines shook her head sadly. 
 " But there may be so much mischief done without 
 anything of that kind! Thoughtlessness, you know, 
 Mr. Eames, — pure thoughtlessness! Think of what I 
 have said, and if you can speak a word to yoiu- friend, 
 do. And now I want to ask you something else. I 'm 
 so glad you 're come, because circumstances have 
 seemed to make it necessary that you and I should 
 know each other. We may be of so much use if we 
 put our heads together." Johnny bowed when he 
 heard this, but made no immediate reply. " Have you 
 heard anything about a certain picture that is being 
 planned?" Johnny did not wish to answer this ques- 
 tion, but Miss Demolines paused so long, and looked 
 so earnestly into his face, that he found himself forced 
 to say something. 
 
 "What picture?" 
 
 " A certain picture that is — or, perhaps, that is not 
 
 to be, painted by Mr. Dalrymple? " 
 VOL I. — 23
 
 354 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " 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 cannot 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 Broughtons'," 
 
 " 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 Siever 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 Demolines' voice 
 became tremulously eager as she addressed 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' 
 voice as she thus spoke. " Yes, Mr. Eames, I know
 
 MISS MADALINA DEMOLINES. 355 
 
 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 upstairs! 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 certainly the most 
 unattractive woman that I ever came near. She is 
 simply repulsive!" Hereupon Miss Demolines held 
 up her hand as though she were banishing Miss Van 
 Siever for ever from her sight, and shuddered slightly. 
 " Men think her handsome, and she is handsome. But 
 she is false, covetous, malicious, cruel, and dishonest." 
 
 " 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 Maria Clutterbuck when 
 she first saw either the mother or the daughter. I tell 
 you that in confidence." 
 
 " But what can I do ? " said Johnny, who began to 
 be startled and almost interested by the eagerness of 
 the woman. 
 
 " I '11 tell you what you can do. Don't let your 
 friend go to Mr. Broughton's house to paint the pic- 
 ture. If he does do it, there will mischief come of it. 
 Of course you can prevent him." 
 
 " I should not think of trying to prevent him unless 
 I knew why."
 
 556 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " She is a nasty proud minx, and it would set her up 
 ever so high, — to think that she was being painted by 
 Mr. Dah-ymple! 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 cannot 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 
 Demohnes 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 Demolines till the other day, or Miss Van 
 Siever, or even Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, he bethought 
 himself that it was all very droll. Nevertheless he had 
 no objection to Miss Demolines putting her hand upon 
 his arm. 
 
 " I never like to interfere in anything that does not 
 seem to be my own business," said Johnny. 
 
 "Is not yoiu" friend's business your own business? 
 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, Mr. Eames ; I did indeed," Then 
 again she put her hand upon his arm, and as he looked 
 into her eyes he began to think that after all she was 
 good-looking 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."
 
 MISS MADALINA DEMOLINES. 357 
 
 " 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 working. It would be very 
 desirable that she should never even hear of it ; but 
 that cannot be hoped, as Maria has such a tongue! 
 Could n't you see Mr. Dalrymple to-night ?" 
 
 "Well, 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 himself com- 
 pelled to promise that he would come to Miss Demo- 
 lines again as soon as he got back to town ; and as the 
 door was closed behind him by the boy in buttons, he 
 made up his mind that he certainly would call as soon 
 as he returned to London. " It 's as good as a" play," 
 he said to himself. Not that he cared in the least for 
 Miss Demohnes, or that he would take any steps with 
 the intention of preventing the painting of the picture. 
 Miss Demolines had some battle to fight, and he would 
 leave her to fight it with her own weapons. If his 
 friend chose to paint a picture of Jael, and take Miss 
 Van Siever as a model, it was no business of his. 
 Nevertheless he would certainly go and see Miss 
 Demolines again, because, as he said, she was as good 
 as a play.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THE PICTURE. 
 
 On that same afternoon Conway Dalrymple rolled 
 up his sketch of Jael and Sisera, put it into his pocket, 
 dressed himself with some considerable care, putting 
 on a velvet coat which he was in the habit of wearing 
 out-of-doors when he did not intend to wander beyond 
 Kensington Gardens and the neighbourhood, and which 
 was supposed 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. Dobbs 
 Broughton. When the door was opened to him he did 
 not ask if the lady were at home, but muttering some 
 word to the servant, made his way through the hall, 
 upstairs, 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 Dalrymple 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 
 announced. " I 'm afraid I 'm late," he said, as he 
 gave his hand to Mrs. Broughton ; " but for the life of 
 me I could not get away sooner." 
 
 "You are (luik- in time," said die lady, "for any 
 good that you are likely to do." 
 
 3S8
 
 THE PICTURE. 359 
 
 " What does this mean ? " 
 
 " It means this, my friend, that you had better 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 ob- 
 served of late that whatever I say to you is called 
 nonsense. I suppose it is the new fashion that gentle- 
 men should so express themselves, but I am not quite 
 sure that I like it." 
 
 "You know what I mean. I am very anxious 
 about this picture, and I shall be much disappointed 
 if it cannot be done now. It was you put it into my 
 head first." 
 
 " I regret it very much, I can assiu-e you ; but it 
 will not be generous in you to urge that against me." 
 
 " But why should n't it succeed ? " 
 
 "There are many reasons, — some personal to 
 myself." 
 
 " I do not know what they can be. You hinted at 
 something which I only took as having been said in 
 joke." 
 
 "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 should 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." 
 
 " But why so ? " 
 
 " Because, — because I can do nothing but 
 
 tell you the truth, carina ; because my heart is not free 
 to present itself at Miss Van Siever's feet." 
 
 " It ought to be free, Conway, and you must make
 
 360 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 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. You can say anything 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 are sitting. 
 I heard a knock at the door, and I do not doubt that 
 it is Clara. She said she would be here." 
 " And you 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 Siever was shown into 
 the room, and Dalrymple perceived that she was a girl 
 the peculiarity of whose complexion bore daylight 
 better even than candlelight. There was something 
 in her countenance which seemed to declare that she 
 could bear any light to which it might be subjected 
 without 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 cir- 
 cumstances of studied dress to carry off aught in her 
 own appearance. 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 hardness 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 with good-humour, — she would be a 
 dangerous plaything, using her claws unpleasantly
 
 THE PICTURE. 36 1 
 
 when the good-humour should have passed away. 
 But not the less was she beautiful, and, — beyond that 
 and better than that, for his purpose, — she was pic- 
 turesque. 
 
 " Clara," said Mrs. Broughton, " here is this mad 
 painter, and he says that he will have you on his 
 canvas, either 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 only 
 show you the sketch," said Dalrymple, taking the 
 drawing out of his pocket. " As regards the face, I 
 know it so well by heart already, that I feel certain I 
 could produce a likeness without even a sitting. What 
 do you think of it, Mrs. Broughton ? " 
 
 " It is clever," said she, looking at it with all that 
 enthusiasm which women are able to throw into their 
 eyes on such occasions ; " very clever. The subject 
 would just suit her. I have never doubted that." 
 
 " Eames says that it is confused," said the artist. 
 
 " I don't see that at all," said Mrs. Broughton. 
 
 " Of course a sketch must be rough. This one has 
 been rubbed about and altered — but I think there is 
 something in it." 
 
 " 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 ; and 
 her stealthiness as well ; — and the man sleeps like a 
 log. What is that dim outline? " 
 
 " Nothing in particular," said Dalrymple. But the 
 dim outline was intended to represent Mrs. Van Siever. 
 
 " It is very good, — unquestionably good," said Mrs.
 
 3f)2 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 Dobbs Broughton. " I do not for a moment doubt 
 that you would make a great pictiue of it. It is just 
 the subject for you, Conway ; so much imagination, 
 and yet such a scope for portraiture. It would be full 
 of action, and yet such perfect repose. And the hghts 
 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 woman would be so good, so much strength, 
 and yet such grace! You should have the bowl he 
 drank the milk out of, so as to tell the whole story. 
 No painter living tells a story so well as you do, Con- 
 way." Conway Dalrymple knew that the woman was 
 talking nonsense to him, and yet he hked it, and liked 
 her for talking it. 
 
 " But Mr, Dalrymple can paint his Sisera without 
 making me a Jael," said Miss Van Siever. 
 
 " Of course he can," said Mrs. Broughton. 
 
 " But I never will," said the artist. " I conceived 
 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 sufficed for them in their portrait- 
 ures of gentleness 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.
 
 THE PICTURE. 363 
 
 " But I do scruple, — very much ; so strongly that I 
 know I never shall do it. In the first place I don't 
 know why Mr. Dalrymple wants it." 
 
 " Want it ! " said Conway. " I want to paint a 
 striking picture." 
 
 " But you can do that without putting me into it." 
 
 " No ; — not this picture. And why should you ob- 
 ject ? It is the commonest thing in the world for ladies 
 to sit to artists in that manner." 
 
 " People would know it." 
 
 " Nobody would know it, so that you need care 
 about It. What would it matter if everybody knew it ? 
 We are not proposing anything 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 anything 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 is not so very 
 singular as to make it impossible that you should 
 comply with her in everything." 
 
 " 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. Dalrymple." 
 
 " You and Mr. Dalrymple will understand all about
 
 364 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 that, I dare say, before the picture is finished," said 
 Mrs. Broughton. 
 
 It did not take much persuasion on the part of 
 Conway Dalrymple to get the consent of the younger 
 lady to be painted, or of the elder to allow 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 
 Demohnes, had said, Mrs. Dobbs Broughton liked a 
 fevered existence. " What will Dobbs say ? " she ex- 
 claimed more than once. And it was decided that 
 Dobbs at last should know nothing about it as long as 
 it could be kept from him. " Of course he shall be 
 told at last," said his wife. " I would n'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 Mussel- 
 boro to your mother." 
 
 " I certainly shall beg that Mr. Broughton may not 
 be taken into confidence if Mr. Musselboro is to fol- 
 low," said Clara. " And it must be understood that 
 I must cease to sit immediately, 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 
 downstairs and out of the hall-door. 
 
 " Of course you are in a hurry to get rid of me."
 
 , THE PICTURE. 365 
 
 "Yes, lam." 
 
 " A little while ago I improperly said that some sug- 
 gestion 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 here 
 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." 
 
 " I am comfortable, — and I can look at you. 
 Come ; — there can be no harm in saying that, if I say 
 nothing else. Well; — there, now I am gone." 
 Whereupon he got up from his arm-chair. 
 
 " But you are not gone while you stand there." 
 
 " And you would really wish me 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. The 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 Con- 
 way. " Love does that, you know ; but it is hard to 
 climb the trees without the love. It seems to me that 
 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 
 me?" 
 
 " I would rather not understand you."
 
 366 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " That is no answer to my question. Do you un- 
 derstand that at this moment I am getting a fall which 
 will break every bone in my skin and put any other 
 dimbing out of the question as far as I am concerned? 
 Do you understand that ? " 
 
 " No ; I do not," said Mrs. Broughton in a tremu- 
 lous voice. 
 
 " Then I '11 go and make love at once to Clara Van 
 Siever. There 's enough of pluck left in me to ask her 
 to marry me, and I suppose I could manage to go 
 through the ceremony 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 did n't break my head or comb 
 my hair. I suppose 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 marriage which I 
 think would tend to make you happy, and would give 
 you a stability in Hfe which you want. It is perhaps 
 better that I should be explicit at once. As an un- 
 married man I cannot continue to know you. You 
 have said words of late which have driven me to this 
 conclusion. I have thought about it much, — too much, 
 perhaps, and I know that I am right. Miss Van Siever 
 has beauty, and wealth, and intellect, and I think that 
 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 interview had been quite long enough,
 
 THE PICTURE. 367 
 
 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. Battledore and shuttle- 
 cock and hunt the slipper have also their attractions. 
 Proverbs are 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, — 
 providing 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 the game, but makes 
 the player awkward and incapable and robs him of his 
 skill. And thus it is that there are many people who 
 cannot 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 the pulses are 
 accelerated, and feeling supervenes. For such a one 
 to attempt a game of love-making, 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 danger of any inconvenient 
 result ; — of any inconvenient result, that is, as regarded 
 their own feelings. Blind people cannot see and stupid 
 people cannot understand, — and it might be that Mr. 
 Dobbs Broughton, being both blind and stupid in such 
 matters, might perceive something of the playing of 
 the game and not know that it was only a game of 
 skill.
 
 368 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 When I say that as regarded these two lovers there 
 was nothing of lo\-e between them, and that the game 
 M'as therefore so far innocent, I would not be under- 
 stood as asserting that 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 uneducated as a hog. 
 Yet she loved him, and showed her love by taking care 
 that he should have things for dinner which he liked to 
 eat. But in this alone there were to be found none of 
 the charms of a fevered existence, and therefore Mrs. 
 Dobbs Broughton, requiring those charms for her com- 
 fort, played her little game with Conway Dalrymple. 
 And as regarded the artist himself, let no reader pre- 
 sume him to have been heartless because he flirted with 
 Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. Doubtless he will marry 
 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 person or his temper. " By George, he 's been 
 drinking!" Conway said to himself, after the first 
 glance. Now it certainly was the case that poor 
 Dobbs Broughton would sometimes drink at improper 
 hours.
 
 THE PICTURE. 369 
 
 " What the devil are you doing here ? " said Dobbs 
 Broughton to his friend the artist. " You 're always 
 here. You 're here a doosed sight more than I hke." 
 Husbands when they have been drinking are very apt 
 to make mistakes as to the purport of the game. 
 
 " Why, Dobbs," said the painter, " there 's something 
 wrong with you." 
 
 " No, there ain't. There 's nothing wrong ; and if 
 there was, what 's that to you ? I shan't ask you to 
 pay anything for me, I suppose." 
 
 "Well;— I hope not." 
 
 " I won't have you here, and let that be an end of 
 it. It 's all very well when I choose to have a few 
 friends to dinner, but my wife can do very well without 
 your fal-lalling here all day. Will you remember that, 
 if you please ? " 
 
 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 thought 
 of the misery which his poor dear playfellow would 
 now be called upon to endure. 
 
 VOL. I. — 24
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 A HERO AT HOME. 
 
 On the morning after his visit to Miss Demolines 
 John Eames found himself at the Paddington station 
 asking for a ticket for Guestwick, and as he picked up 
 his change another gentleman also demanded a ticket 
 for the same place. Had Guestwick been at Liverpool 
 or Manchester, Eames would have thought nothing 
 about it. It is a matter of course that men should 
 always be going from London to Liverpool and Man- 
 chester ; but it seemed odd to him that two men should 
 want first-class tickets for so small a place as Guest- 
 wick at the same moment. And when, afterwards, he 
 was placed by the guard in the same carriage with this 
 other traveller, he could not but feel some little curios- 
 ity. The man was four or five years Johnny's senior, 
 a good-looking fellow, with a pleasant face, and the 
 outward appurtenances of a gentleman. The intelli- 
 gent reader will no doubt be aware that the stranger 
 was Major 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 ; whereupon the 
 major owned that such was the case. " I lived at 
 Guestwick the greater part of my hfe," said Johnny, 
 
 370
 
 A HERO AT HOME. 371 
 
 " and it 's the dullest, dearest little town in all Eng- 
 land." " I never was there before," said the major, 
 " and indeed I can hardly say I am going there 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 between them. John re- 
 membered how holy was the errand upon which he 
 was intent, and gathered his thoughts together, resolv- 
 ing that having so great a matter on his mind he would 
 think about nothing else and speak about nothing at 
 all. He 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 unsuccess- 
 ful 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 voyage was an agreeable or a dis- 
 agreeable person. He himself, in any of the ordinary 
 circumstances of life, was prone enough to talk with 
 any one he might meet. He could have travelled for 
 twelve hours together with an old lady, and could listen 
 to her or make her listen to him without half an hour's 
 interruption. But this journey was made on no ordi- 
 nary occasion, and it behoved 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 probably Major Grantly's mind was bent in the 
 same direction. He, too, had his work before him, 
 and could not look upon his work as a thing that was 
 altogether pleasant. He might probably get that which
 
 372 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 he was intent upon obtaining. He knew, — he almost 
 knew, — that he 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, akhough no expression of affection had ever 
 passed from her hps to his ears. Men may know all 
 that they require to know on that subject without any 
 plainly spoken words. Grace Crawley had spoken no 
 word, and yet he had known, — at any rate had not 
 doubted, that he could have the place in her heart of 
 which he desired to be the master. She would never 
 surrender herself altogether till she had taught herself 
 to be stire of him to whom she gave herself. But she 
 had listened to him with silence that had not rebuked 
 him, and he had told himself 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 
 cannot even understand. But for all this Major 
 Grantly could not be altogether happy as to his mis- 
 sion. 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 he was doing, was very 
 bitter to him. In generosity 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 be his wife? And 
 then it would not be possible for him to abstain from 
 explanation. He was now following her down to 
 Allington, a step which he certainly would not have 
 taken but for the misfortune which had befallen her 
 father, and he must explain to her in some sort why lie 
 did so. He must say to her, — if not in so many words, 
 still almost as plainly as words could .speak, — I am
 
 A HERO AT HOME. 373 
 
 here now to ask you to be my wife, because you spe- 
 cially 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 Times, and John Eames had 
 the Daily News, and they exchanged papers. One 
 had the last Saturday, and the other the last Spectator, 
 and they exchanged those also. Then at last when 
 they were within half-an hour of the end of their jour- 
 ney. Major Grantly asked his companion what was the 
 best inn at Guestwick. He had at first been minded to 
 go on to AUington at once, — to go on to AUington and 
 get his work done, and then return home or remain 
 there, or find the nearest inn with a decent bed, as cir- 
 cumstances 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 
 night at Guestwick. He did not quite know how far 
 AUington was from Guestwick, but he did know that 
 it was still mid-winter, and that the days were very 
 short. The Magpie 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.
 
 374 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " I think I shall stay there to-night," said the major. 
 
 " You 'U 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 is n't very delightful," said the major, "but 
 beggars must n't be choosers." Then there was a 
 pause, after which the major spoke again. "You 
 don't happen to know which way AUington hes ? " 
 
 "Allington!" said Johnny. 
 
 " Yes, Allington. Is there not a village called 
 Allington?" 
 
 " There is a village called Allington, certainly. It 
 lies over there." And Johnny pointed with his finger 
 through the window. " As you do not know the coun- 
 try you can see nothing, but I can see the Allington 
 trees at this moment." 
 
 " I suppose there is no inn at Allington ? " 
 
 "There 's a pubhc-house, with a very nice clean 
 bedroom. It is called the 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 
 would n't have much for dinner." 
 
 "Then 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 
 everybody in Allington." 
 
 " Do you know Mrs. Dale ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Dale ? " said Johnny. " Yes, I know Mrs. 
 Dale. I have known Mrs. Dale pretty nearly all my 
 life." Who could this man be who was going down 
 to see Mrs. Dale, — Mrs. Dale, and consequently, Lily
 
 A HERO AT HOME. 375 
 
 Dale ? He thought that he knew Mrs. Dale so well, that 
 she could have no visitor of whom he would not be 
 entitled 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 stranger, and therefore at the moment 
 he said nothing 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 omni- 
 bus from the Magpie, 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 inten- 
 tion 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 
 Manor, and somewhat nearer to AUington than to the 
 town of Guestwick. He had made up his mind that 
 he would not himself go over to AUington till he could 
 do so from Guestwick Cottage, as it was called, feeling 
 that, under certain untoward circumstances, — should 
 imtoward circumstances arise, — Lady Julia's sympathy 
 might be more endurable than that of his mother. But 
 he would take care that it should be known at Ailing- 
 ton that he was in the neighbourhood. He understood
 
 376 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 the necessary stralp; ; of his campaign too well to sup- 
 pose that he could startb !^/'ly 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 httle about him that was heroic. Then ther^ 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 
 trousers. The pride taken in our Johnny had not been 
 great, though the love felt for him had been warm. 
 But gradually things had changed, and John Eames 
 had become heroic in his mother's eyes. A chance 
 circumstance had endeared him to Earl De Guest, and 
 from that moment things had gone well with him. 
 The earl had given him a watch and had left him a 
 fortune, and Sir Raffle Buffle 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 had 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 fool as to 
 decline the love of such a man. So Johnny was re- 
 ceived with the respect due to a hero, as well as with 
 the affection belonging to a son ; — by which I mean it 
 to be inferred that Mrs. Eames had got a httle bit of 
 fish for dinner as well as a leg of mutton. 
 
 " A man came down in the train with me who 
 says he is going over to AlHngton," said Johnny.
 
 A HERO AT HOME. 377 
 
 " I wonder who he can be. He is staying at the 
 Magpie." 
 
 " A friend of Captain Dale's, probably," said Mary. 
 Captain 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 probably be a 
 friend of Crosbie's, and became melancholy in conse- 
 quence. Crosbie might have thought it expedient to 
 send an ambassador down to prepare the ground for 
 him before he should venture again upon the scene 
 himself. If it were so, would it not be well that he, 
 John Eames, should get over to Lily as soon as possi- 
 ble, 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 commis- 
 sion. The Berlin wool might remain in his portman- 
 teau 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
 
 378 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 better with me in the old days. I hardly hoped that 
 she would ever accept 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 the incidents of 
 his life which were connected with the place. He re- 
 membered 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 unsuc- 
 cessful, 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 travelled with him on the 
 previous day in the train. Major Grantly was alone 
 in the gig, and as he recognised 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 re- 
 solved that but scant courtesy was due to him. " I 
 am on my way there now," said Grantly, "and am
 
 A HERO AT HOME. 379 
 
 going to the house of your friend. May I tell her that 
 I travelled with you 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 AUington 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 
 Eameses would soon know the business which had 
 brought him down to AUington ; but he need not have 
 taken the trouble of beginning the story against him- 
 self. 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 been told, he still suspected the stranger of 
 being an emissary from his enemy ; but the major, not 
 giving him credit for his ignorance, was annoyed with 
 himself for having told so much of his own history. 
 " I will tell the ladies that I had the pleasure of meet- 
 ing you," he said ; " that is, if I am lucky enough to 
 see them." And then he drove on. 
 
 " I know I should hate that fellow if I were to meet 
 him anywhere 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,"
 
 380 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 And he was still giving himself credit for the strength 
 of his instincts when he reached Lady Julia's cottage. 
 He rode at once into the stable-yard, with the privilege 
 of an accustomed friend of the house, and having given 
 up his horse, entered the cottage by the back door. 
 " Is my lady at home, Jemima? " he said to the maid. 
 
 " Yes, Mr. John ; she is in the drawing-room, and 
 friends of yours are with her." Then he was an- 
 nounced, and found himself in the presence of Lady 
 Julia, Lily Dale, and Grace Crawley. 
 
 He was very warmly received. Lady Julia really 
 loved him dearly, and would have done anything 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 in the 
 eyes of all of them he possessed those virtues 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. 
 
 " And when are you coming to me ? " 
 
 " I was thinking of Tuesday." 
 
 " No ; don't come till Wednesday. But I mean 
 Monday. No ; Monday won't do. Come on Tues- 
 day early and drive me out. And now tell us the 
 
 news." 
 
 Johnny swore that there was no news. He made a
 
 A HERO AT HOME. 381 
 
 brave attempt to be gay and easy before Lily ; but he 
 failed, — and he knew that he failed, — and he knew 
 that she knew that he failed. " Mamma will be so 
 glad to see you," said Lily. " I suppose you have n't 
 seen Bell yet ? " 
 
 " I only got to Guestwick 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 
 anybody now in the AUington world." 
 
 " By-the-bye," 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 AUington at this moment. 
 He passed me in a gig going there." 
 
 " And what is 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. He 
 is short-sighted, and holds a glass in one eye when 
 he looks out of a carriage window. That 's all that I 
 know about him." 
 
 Grace Crawley's face had become suffused with 
 blushes at the first mention of the friend and the gig ; 
 but then Grace blushed very easily. Lily knew all 
 about it at once, — at once divined who must be the 
 friend in the gig, and was almost beside herself with 
 joy. Lady Juha, 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 picture of her lover.
 
 382 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 with the glass in his eye as he looked out of the win- 
 dow, 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 say 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 HOW MAJOR GRANTLY TOOK A WALK. 
 
 Major Grantly drove his gig into the yard of the 
 Red Lion at AUington, 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 him- 
 self in the presence of Mrs. Dale and her daughter, and 
 of Grace also, at his first entrance ; and if so, his posi- 
 tion would be awkward 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 he was 
 strong in the feeling that when his purpose was told 
 it would meet the approval at any rate of Mrs. Dale ; 
 and he walked boldly on, and bravely knocked 
 at the door of the Small House, as he had already 
 learned that Mrs. Dale's residence was called by all 
 the neighbourhood. Nobody was at home, the serv- 
 ant said ; and then, when the visitor began to make 
 further inquiry, the girl explained that the two young 
 ladies had walked as far as Guestwick Cottage, and 
 that Mrs. Dale was at this moment at the Great House 
 with the squire. She had gone across soon after the 
 
 383
 
 384 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 young ladies had started. The maid, however, was 
 interrupted before she had finished telling all this to 
 the major, by finding her mistress behind her in the 
 passage. Mrs. Dale had retiuned, and had entered 
 the house from the lawn. 
 
 "I am here now, Jane," said Mrs. 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 follow her into the drawing-room. 
 He had muttered something to the effect that 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 dis- 
 cussed the question whether, under existing circum- 
 stances. Major Grantly should feel himself bound to 
 oflFer his hand to Grace, and the mother and daughter 
 had differed somewhat on the matter. Mrs. Dale had 
 held that he was not so bound, urging that the unfort- 
 unate position in which Mr. Crawley was placed was 
 so calamitous to all connected with him, as to justify 
 any man, not absolutely engaged, in abandoning the 
 thoughts of such a marriage. Mrs. Dale had spoken 
 of Major Grantly's father 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 anything," 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
 
 HOW MAJOR GRANTLY TOOK A WALK. 385 
 
 there is something of the poetry and nobleness of love 
 left." In answer to this Mrs. Dale had replied that 
 women had no right to expect from men such self- 
 denying nobility as that. " I don't expect it, mamma," 
 said Lily. " And I am sure that Grace does not. In- 
 deed, I am quite sure that Grace does 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 ought to come." " It can hardly be that a man is 
 bound to do a thing, the doing of which, as you con- 
 fess, would be almost more than noble," said Mrs. 
 Dale. And so the matter had been discussed between 
 them. But now, as it seemed to Mrs. 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 acquainted with your friend. Miss 
 Crawley." 
 
 " I know your name very well, Major Grantly. 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 Ullathome. 
 But that is a long time ago. Is he at home now ? " 
 
 " Mr. Dale is almost always at home. He very 
 rarely goes away, and I am sure would be glad to see 
 you." 
 
 Then there was a little pause in the conversation. 
 
 They had managed to seat themselves, and Mrs. Dale 
 
 had said enough to put her visitor fairly at his ease. 
 
 If he had anything special to say to her, he must say 
 
 it ; — any request or proposition to make as to Grace 
 VOL. I. — 25
 
 386 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 Crawley, he must make it. And he did make it at 
 once. " My object in coming to AUington," he said, 
 "was to see Miss 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 foiu", if that is not too long for you to remain at 
 AUington." 
 
 " Oh dear, no," said he. " It will not hurt me to 
 wait." 
 
 " It certainly will not hurt me, Major Grantly. 
 Perhaps you will lunch with me ? " 
 
 "I '11 tell you what, Mrs. Dale ; if you '11 permit me, 
 I '11 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 up my mind to ask her to be my wife. 
 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 simplicity. 
 
 " Of course. Major Grantly, you know that I have 
 no authority with our young friend," said Mrs. Dale. 
 " I mean that she is not connected with us by family 
 ties. She has a father and mother, living, as I believe, 
 in the same county with yourself." 
 
 " I know that, Mrs. Dale."
 
 HOW MAJOR GRANTLY TOOK A WALK. 387 
 
 " And you may, perhaps, understand that, as Miss 
 Crawley is now staying with me, I owe it in a measure 
 to her friends to ask you whether they are aware of 
 your intention." 
 
 " They are not aware of it." 
 
 " I know that at the present moment they are in 
 great trouble." 
 
 Mrs. Dale was going on, but she was interrupted by 
 Major Grantly. 
 
 " That is just it," he said. " There are 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 unfortu- 
 nate 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 indifferent to Grace. 
 If that be so, what must she think of me if I stay away 
 from her now ? " 
 
 " She understands too well the weight of the mis- 
 fortune which has fallen upon her father to suppose 
 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
 
 388 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 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 not. I need hardly say that I fully un- 
 derstand that, as regards money, you are offering 
 everything where you can get nothing." 
 
 " And you understand my feeling ? " 
 
 " Indeed I do, — and appreciate the great nobility 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 afternoon. Mrs. 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 humour, 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 four. Mrs. Dale again expressed 
 her certainty 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 awaiting Grace, 
 with the evil fortune which had fallen on her own 
 child. Here was a man who was at all points a gentle- 
 man. Such, at least, was the character which Mrs. 
 Dale at once conceded to him. And Grace had 
 chanced to come across this man, and to please his 
 eye, and satisfy his taste, and be loved by him. And
 
 HOW MAJOR GRANTLY TOOK A WALK. 389 
 
 the result of that chance would be that Grace would 
 have everything 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 whether 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 the moment to that side 
 of the subject. She knew without thinking of it, — or 
 fancied that she knew, that there were means sufficient 
 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 
 happiness. But her daughter, her Lily, had come 
 across a man who was a scoundrel, and, as the conse- 
 quence 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 herself to be satisfied that her 
 child should fill a lower place in the world than other 
 girls. It had ever been her idea, — an idea probably 
 never absolutely uttered even to herself, but not the 
 less practically conceived, — that it is the business 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 for ever.
 
 39° THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 Major Grantly went back to the inn and saw 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 by 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 bottom 
 of the hill on which the chief street of Allington 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 a 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 paddock on 
 the other side of v/hich was the high wall of a gentle- 
 man'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 gentle- 
 man 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 intruding," he said, lifting his hat. 
 " I came up the path yonder, not knowing that it would 
 lead me so close to a gentleman's house." 
 
 " There is a right of way through the fields on to the 
 Guestwick road," said the squire, "and therefore you 
 are not trespassing in any sense ; but we are not par- 
 ticular about such things down here, and you would be
 
 HOW MAJOR GRANTLY TOOK A WALK. 391 
 
 very welcome if there were no right of way. If you 
 are a stranger, perhaps you would like to see the out- 
 side of the old house. People think it picturesque." 
 
 Then Major Grantly became aware that this must 
 be the squire, and he was annoyed with himself for his 
 own awkwardness in having thus come upon the house. 
 He would have wished to keep himself altogether 
 unseen if it had been possible, — and especially unseen 
 by this old gentleman, to whom, now that he had met 
 him, he was almost bound to introduce himself. But 
 he was not absolutely bound to do so, and he deter- 
 mined that he would still keep his peace. Even if the 
 squire should afterwards hear of his having been there, 
 what would it matter? But to proclaim himself at the 
 present moment would be disagreeable to him. He 
 permitted 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 architecture of 
 the mansion. 
 
 " You can see the date still in the brickwork of one 
 of the chimneys, — that is, if your eyes are very good 
 you can see it, — 161 7. It was completed in that year, 
 and very little has been done to it since. We 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.
 
 392 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " Well, yes ; two or three hundred years before it, I 
 suppose. If you don't mind coming down to the 
 churchyard, you '11 get an excellent view of the house ; 
 — by far the best that there is. By-the-bye, would 
 you like to step in and take a glass of wine ? " 
 
 "I 'm very much obliged," said the major, "but 
 indeed I 'd rather not." Then he followed the squire 
 down to the churchyard, and was shown the church as 
 well as the view of the house, and the vicarage, and a 
 view over to Allington 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 en- 
 tered it, without in the least knowing where 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 oiT his hat to the squire, " and if I shall not be 
 intruding I '11 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 them. 
 " Well, girls, I did not expect to see you," said the 
 squire ; " your mamma told me you would n't be back 
 till it was nearly dark, Lily." 
 
 " We have come back earlier than we intended," 
 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 pos- 
 sible. It never occurred to Lily that this man could 
 be the Major Grantly of whom she and Grace had
 
 HOW MAJOR GRANTLY TOOK A WALK. 393 
 
 been talking during the whole length of the walk 
 home. But Grace and her lover had of course known 
 each other at once, and Grandy, 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 hope 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 
 endeavouring to escape, the squire invited him very 
 warmly to send his portmanteau up to the house. 
 " We '11 have the ladies up from the house below, and 
 make it as Httle 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 v/as to 
 have. He excused himself therefore, pleading a posi- 
 tive necessity to be at Guestwick that evening, and 
 then, explaining that he had already seen Mrs. Dale, 
 he expressed 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 churchyard wall and through 
 the bottom of the gardens 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 
 embarrassment. Grace had hitherto not spoken a
 
 394 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 single 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 commimicative 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 Guest always lunched at one ex- 
 actly, 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 the cottage. Lily herself would have been quite at 
 her ease, protected by Lady Julia, and somewhat pro- 
 tected 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 description of 
 the gentleman who looked out of the window with his 
 glass in his eye, had by no means been at her ease. 
 Lily saw at once that she could not be brought to join 
 in any conversation, and both John and Lady JuHa, in 
 their ignorance of the matter in hand, made matters 
 worse. 
 
 " So that was Major Grantly ? " said John. " I have 
 heard of him before, I think. He is the son of the old 
 archdeacon, is he not?" 
 
 " I don't know about old archdeacon," said Lady 
 Juha. " The archdeacon is the son of the old bishop 
 whom I remember very well. And it is not so very 
 long since the bishop died either." 
 
 395
 
 396 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " 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 major 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 major?" 
 said Johnny. 
 
 " No, you goose. He is not the son ; he is the 
 grandson. They were going to make the archdeacon 
 a bishop, and I remember hearing that he was terribly 
 disappointed. He is getting to be an old man now, I 
 suppose ; and yet, dear me, how well I remember his 
 father." 
 
 " He did n't look like a bishop's son," said Johnny. 
 
 " How does a bishop's son look ? " Lily asked. 
 
 " I suppose he 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 bethought 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
 
 MISS LILY dale's logic. 397 
 
 also, perhaps, for Major Grantly that it should be so. 
 " Lady Julia," she said, " I don't think we '11 mind 
 stopping for lunch to-day." 
 
 " Nonsense, my dear; you promised." 
 
 " I think we must break our promise ; I do indeed. 
 You must n't be angry with us." And Lily looked at 
 Lady Julia, as though there was something which Lady 
 Juha ought to understand, which she, Lily, could not 
 quite explain. I fear that Lily was false, and intended 
 her old friend to believe that she was running away 
 because 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 we go 
 now," said Lily. " Will not that be best, Grace ? " 
 
 Grace hardly 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 she felt thankful to Lily for taking her 
 away from the cottage. The matter was compromised 
 at last. They remained for 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 by no 
 means well pleased, and when the girls were gone, did 
 not make himself 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.
 
 398 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 " 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 anything to complain 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 veiy 
 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 AUington." 
 
 " What difference can the man make to her ? The 
 truth is, I despise myself, — I do indeed, Lady JuHa. 
 Only think of my meeting Crosbie at dinner the other 
 day, and his having the impertinence to come up and 
 shake hands with me." 
 
 " I suppose he did n't say anything about what 
 happened at the Paddington Station ? " 
 
 " No ; he did n'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 
 Lady 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
 
 MISS LILY DALE S LOGIC. 399 
 
 Grace said when they were fairly on their way back 
 together. 
 
 "Of course it is he; — did you not hear what they 
 said ? " 
 
 " His coming was so unhkely. I cannot understand 
 that he should come. He let me leave Silverbridge 
 without seeing me, — and I thought that he was quite 
 right." 
 
 "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 et sans reproche, and to fancy that you ought to 
 go down on your knees before him, and kiss his high- 
 ness's shoebuckle. In judging of men one's mind 
 vacillates so quickly between the scorn which is due 
 to a false man and the worship 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 content 
 that you should merely love him. If he has come 
 here, as he must have done, to say that the moment 
 of the world's reproach is the moment he has chosen 
 to ask you to be his wife, I think that you will owe 
 him more than love." 
 
 " I shall owe him more than love, and I will pay
 
 400 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 him more than love," said Grace. There was some- 
 thing in the tone of her voice as she spoke which made 
 Lily stop 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. Siurely 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, Lily, 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 imperi- 
 ous in managing your own affairs, and you must let me 
 be equally so in mine." 
 
 " But I tell you everything." 
 
 " 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 himself ? Would you ? " 
 
 " Certainly. Why not ? There will be no sacrifice. 
 He will be asking 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 have shown himself noble, and his no- 
 bility will have consisted in this, that he has been will- 
 ing to take that which he does not want, in order that 
 he may succour one whom he loves. I also will suc- 
 cour one whom I love as best I know how." Then 
 she walked on (juickly before her friend, and Lily stood 
 for a moment thinking before she followed her. They
 
 " / love him so well that I will never do him an injury. ^^
 
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 ■•«*■* 

 
 MISS LILY dale's LOGIC. 4OI 
 
 were now on a field-path, by which they 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 yotu"self," 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 you 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 another word to you." 
 
 " And why don't you take that other person ? " 
 
 " Because I cannot 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 '11 forgive you all that and a deal more if you 
 
 VOL. I. — 26
 
 402 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. 
 
 will only listen to me and try to take my advice. Be- 
 cause this major of yours does a generous thing which 
 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 cannot doubt 
 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 be so, — let me 
 see, where was I ? " 
 
 " Oh, Lily, 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 anything 
 that is his, except — except, Lily, the dearest friend that 
 he has on the face of the earth. He cannot have a 
 friend that will go fiu-ther for him than I will. He will 
 never know how far I will go to serve him. You don't 
 know his people, nor do I know them. But I know 
 what they are. His sister is married to a marquis." 
 
 "What has that to do with it?" said Lily sharply. 
 "If she were married to an archduke, what difference 
 would that make ?" 
 
 " They are proud people, — all of them, — and rich ; 
 and they live with high persons in the world."
 
 MISS LILY dale's LOGIC. 403 
 
 " I did n't care though they lived with the royal fam- 
 ily, and had the Prince of Wales for their bosom friend. 
 It only shows how much better he is than they are." 
 
 " But think what my family is, — how we are situ- 
 ated ! When my father was simply poor I did not care 
 about it, because he has been born and bred a gentle- 
 man. But now he is disgraced. Yes, Lily, he is. I 
 am bound to say so, at any rate to myself, when I am 
 thinking of Major Grantly ; and I will not carry that 
 disgrace into a family which would feel it so keenly 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. 
 
 END OF vol. I.
 
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