The name of Maria Clutterbuck had become odious to John Eames. As long as Miss Demolines would continue to talk about herself he could listen with some amount of gratification. Conversation on that subject was the natural progress of the Bayswater romance. And if Madalina would only call her friend by her present name, he had no strong objection to an occasional mention of the lady; but the combined names of Maria Clutterbuck had come to be absolutely distasteful to him. He did not believe in the Maria Clutterbuck friendship—either in its past or present existence, as described by Madalina. Indeed, he did not put strong faith in anything that Madalina said to him. In the handsome gentleman with two thousand a year, he did not believe at all. But the handsome gentleman had only been mentioned once in the course of his acquaintance with Miss Demolines, whereas Maria Clutterbuck had come up so often! “Upon my word I must wish you good-bye,” he said. “It is going on for eleven o’clock, and I have to start to-morrow at seven.”
“What difference does that make?”
“A fellow wants to get a little sleep, you know.”
“Go, then—go and get your sleep. What a sleepy-headed generation it is.” Johnny longed to ask whether the last generation was less sleepy-headed, and whether the gentleman with two thousand a year had sat up talking all night before he pressed his foot for the last time on his native soil; but he did not dare. As he said to himself afterwards, “It would not do to bring the Bayswater romance too suddenly to its termination!” “But before you go,” she continued, “I must say the word to you about that picture. Did you speak to Mr. Dalrymple?”
“I did not. I have been so busy with different things that I have not seen him.”
“And now you are going?”
“Well—to tell the truth, I think I shall see him to-night, in spite of my being so sleepy-headed. I wrote him a line that I would look in and smoke a cigar with him if he chanced to be at home!”
“And that is why you want to go. A gentleman cannot live without his cigar now.”
“It is especially at your bidding that I am going to see him.”
“Go then—and make your friend understand that if he continues this picture of his, he will bring himself to great trouble, and will probably ruin the woman for whom he professes, I presume, to feel something like friendship. You may tell him that Mrs. Van Siever has already heard of it.”
“Who told her?” demanded Johnny.
“Never mind. You need not look at me like that. It was not I. Do you suppose that secrets can be kept when so many people know them? Every servant in Maria’s house knows all about it.”
“As for that, I don’t suppose Mrs. Broughton makes any great secret of it.”
“Do you think she has told Mr. Broughton? I am sure she has not. I may say I know she has not. Maria Clutterbuck is infatuated. There is no other excuse to be made for her.”
“Good-bye,” said Johnny, hurriedly.
“And you really are going?”
“Well—yes. I suppose so.”
“Go then. I have nothing more to say to you.”
“I shall come and call directly I return,” said Johnny.
“You may do as you please about that, sir.”
“Do you mean that you won’t be glad to see me again?”
“I am not going to flatter you, Mr. Eames. Mamma will be well by that time, I hope, and I do not mind telling you that you are a favourite with her.” Johnny thought that this was particularly kind, as he had seen so very little of the old lady. “If you choose to call upon her,” said Madalina, “of course she will be glad to see you.”
“But I was speaking of yourself, you know?” and Johnny permitted himself for a moment to look tenderly at her.
“Then from myself pray understand that I will say nothing to flatter your self-love.”
“I thought you would be kinder just when I was going away.”
“I think I have been quite kind enough. As you observed yourself just now, it is nearly eleven o’clock, and I must ask you to go away. Bon voyage, and a happy return to you.”
“And you will be glad to see me when I am back? Tell that you will be glad to see me.”
“I will tell you nothing of the kind. Mr. Eames, if you do, I will be very angry with you.” And then he went.
On his way back to his own lodgings he did call on Conway Dalrymple, and in spite of his need for early rising, sat smoking with the artist for an hour. “If you don’t take care, young man,” said his friend, “you will find yourself in a scrape with your Madalina.”
“What sort of a scrape?”
“As you walk away from Porchester Terrace some fine day, you will have to congratulate yourself on having made a successful overture towards matrimony.”
“You don’t think I am such a fool as that comes to?”
“Other men as wise as you have done the same sort of thing. Miss Demolines is very clever, and I daresay you find it amusing.”
“It isn’t so much that she’s clever, and I can hardly say that it is amusing. One gets awfully tired of it, you know. But a fellow must have something to do, and that is as good as anything else.”
“I suppose you have not heard that one young man levanted last year to save himself from a breach of promise case?”
“I wonder whether he had any money in Indian securities?”
“What makes you ask that?”
“Nothing particular.”
“Whatever little he had he chose to save, and I think I heard that he went to Canada. His name was Shorter; and they say that, on the eve of his going, Madalina sent him word that she had no objection to the colonies, and that, under the pressing emergency of his expatriation, she was willing to become Mrs. Shorter with more expedition than usually attends fashionable weddings. Shorter, however, escaped, and has never been seen back again.”
Eames declared that he did not believe a word of it. Nevertheless, as he walked home he came to the conclusion that Mr. Shorter must have been the handsome gentleman with Indian securities, to whom “no” had been said once too often.
While sitting with Conway Dalrymple, he had forgotten to say a word about Jael and Sisera.
CHAPTER XLVII
Dr. Tempest at the Palace
Intimation had been sent from the palace to Dr. Tempest of Silverbridge of the bishop’s intention that a commission should be held by him, as rural dean, with other neighbouring clergymen, as assessors with him, that inquiry might be made on the part of the Church into the question of Mr. Crawley’s guilt. It must be understood that by this time the opinion had become very general that Mr. Crawley had been guilty—that he had found the cheque in his house, and that he had, after holding it for many months, succumbed to temptation, and applied it to his own purposes. But various excuses were made for him by those who so believed. In the first place it was felt by all who really knew anything of the man’s character, that the very fact of his committing such a crime proved him to be hardly responsible for his actions. He must have known, had not all judgment in such matters been taken from him, that the cheque would certainly be traced back to his hands. No attempt had been made in the disposing of it to dispose of it in such a way that the trace should be obliterated. He had simply given it to a neighbour with a direction to have it cashed, and had written his own name on the back of it. And therefore, though there could be no doubt as to the theft in the mind of those who supposed that he had found the cheque in his own house, yet the guilt of the theft seemed to be almost annihilated by the folly of the thief. And then his poverty, and his struggles, and the sufferings of his wife, were remembered; and stories were told from mouth to mouth of his industry in his profession, of his great zeal among the brickmakers of Hoggle End, of acts of charity done by him which startled the people of the district into admiration—how he had worked with his own hands for the sick poor to whom he could not give relief in money, turning a woman’s mangle for a couple of hours, and carrying a boy’s load along the lanes. Dr. Tempest and others declared that he had derogated from the dignity of his position as an English parish clergyman by such acts; but, nevertheless, the stories of these deeds acted strongly on the minds of both men and women, creating an admiration for Mr. Crawley which was much stronger than the condemnation of his guilt.
Even Mrs. Walker and her daughter, and the Miss Prettymans, had so far given way that they had ceased to asseverate their belief in Mr. Crawley’s innocence. They contented themselves now with simply expressing a hope that he would be acquitted by a jury, and that when he should be so acquitted the thing might be allowed to rest. If he had sinned, no doubt he had repented. And then there were serious debates whether he might not have stolen the money without much sin, being mad or half-mad—touched with madness when he took it; and whether he might not, in spite of such temporary touch of madness, be well fitted for his parish duties. Sorrow had afflicted him grievously; but that sorrow, though it had incapacitated him for the management of his own affairs, had not rendered him unfit for the ministrations of his parish. Such were the arguments now used in his favour by the women around him; and the men were not keen to contradict them. The wish that he should be acquitted and allowed to remain in his parsonage was very general.
When therefore it became known that the bishop had decided to put on foot another investigation, with the view of bringing Mr. Crawley’s conduct under ecclesiastical condemnation, almost everybody accused the bishop of persecution. The world of the diocese declared that Mrs. Proudie was at work, and that the bishop himself was no better than a puppet. It was in vain that certain clear-headed men among the clergy, of whom Dr. Tempest himself was one, pointed out that the bishop after all might perhaps be right—that if Mr. Crawley were guilty, and if he should be found to have been so by a jury, it might be absolutely necessary that an ecclesiastical court should take some cognizance of the crime beyond that taken by the civil law. “The jury,” said Dr. Tempest, discussing the case with Mr. Robarts and other clerical neighbours—”the jury may probably find him guilty and recommend him to mercy. The judge will have heard his character, and will have been made acquainted with his manner of life, and will deal as lightly with the case as the law will allow him. For aught I know he may be imprisoned for a month. I wish it might be for no more than a day—or an hour. But when he comes out from this month’s imprisonment—how then? Surely it should be a case for ecclesiastical inquiry, whether a clergyman who has committed a theft should be allowed to go into his pulpit directly he comes out of prison?” But the answer to this was that Mr. Crawley always had been a good clergyman, was a good clergyman at this moment, and would be a good clergyman when he did come out of prison.
But Dr. Tempest, though he had argued in this way, was by no means eager for the commencement of the commission over which he was to be called upon to preside. In spite of such arguments as the above, which came from the man’s head when his head was brought to bear upon the matter, there was a thorough desire within his heart to oppose the bishop. He had no strong sympathy with Mr. Crawley, as had others. He would have had Mr. Crawley silenced without regret, presuming Mr. Crawley to have been guilty. But he had a much stronger feeling with regard to the bishop. Had there been any question of silencing the bishop—could it have been possible to take any steps in that direction—he would have been very active. It may therefore be understood that in spite of his defence of the bishop’s present proceedings as to the commission, he was anxious that the bishop should fail, and anxious to put impediments in the bishop’s way, should it appear to him that he could do so with justice. Dr. Tempest was well known among his parishioners to be hard and unsympathetic, some said unfeeling also, and cruel; but it was admitted by those who disliked him the most that he was both practical and just, and that he cared for the welfare of many, though he was rarely touched by the misery of one. Such was the man who was rector of Silverbridge and rural dean in the district, and who was now called upon by the bishop to assist him in making further inquiry as to this wretched cheque for twenty pounds.
Once at this period Archdeacon Grantly and Dr. Tempest met each other and discussed the question of Mr. Crawley’s guilt. Both these men were inimical to the present bishop of the diocese, and both had perhaps respected the old bishop beyond all other men. But they were different in this, that the archdeacon hated Dr. Proudie as a partisan—whereas Dr. Tempest opposed the bishop on certain principles which he endeavoured to make clear, at any rate to himself. “Wrong!” said the archdeacon, speaking of the bishop’s intention of issuing a commission—”of course he is wrong. How could anything right come from him or from her? I should be sorry to have to do his bidding.”
“I think you are a little hard upon Bishop Proudie,” said Dr. Tempest.
“One cannot be hard upon him,” said the archdeacon. “He is so scandalously weak, and she is so radically vicious, that they cannot but be wrong together. The very fact that such a man should be a bishop among us is to me terribly strong evidence of evil days coming.”
“You are more impulsive than I am,” said Dr. Tempest. “In this case I am sorry for the poor man, who is, I am sure, honest in the main. But I believe that in such a case your father would have done just what the present bishop is doing—that he could have done nothing else; and as I think that Dr. Proudie is right I shall do all that I can to assist him in the commission.”
The bishop’s secretary had written to Dr. Tempest, telling him of the bishop’s purpose; and now, in one of the last days of March, the bishop himself wrote to Dr. Tempest, asking him to come over to the palace. The letter was worded most courteously, and expressed very feelingly the great regret which the writer felt at being obliged to take these proceedings against a clergyman in his diocese. Bishop Proudie knew how to write such a letter. By the writing of such letters, and by the making of speeches in the same strain, he had become Bishop of Barchester. Now, in this letter, he begged Dr. Tempest to come over to him, saying how delighted Mrs. Proudie would be to see him at the palace. Then he went on to explain the great difficulty which he felt, and great sorrow also, in dealing with this matter of Mr. Crawley. He looked, therefore, confidently for Dr. Tempest’s assistance. Thinking to do the best for Mr. Crawley, and anxious to enable Mr. Crawley to remain in quiet retirement till the trial should be over, he had sent a clergyman over to Hogglestock, who would have relieved Mr. Crawley from the burden of the church-services—but Mr. Crawley would have none of this relief. Mr. Crawley had been obstinate and overbearing, and had persisted in claiming his right to his own pulpit. Therefore was he the bishop obliged to interfere legally, and therefore was he under the necessity of asking Dr. Tempest to assist him. Would Dr. Tempest come over on the Monday, and stay till the Wednesday?
The letter was a very good letter, and Dr. Tempest was obliged to do as he was asked. He so far modified the bishop’s proposition that he reduced the sojourn at the palace by one night. He wrote to say that he would have the pleasure of dining with the bishop and Mrs. Proudie on the Monday, but would return home on the Tuesday, as soon as the business in hand would permit him. “I shall get on very well with him,” he said to his wife before he started; “but I am afraid of the woman. If she interferes there will be a row.” “Then, my dear,” said his wife, “there will be a row, for I am told that she always interferes.” On reaching the palace half-an-hour before dinner-time, Dr. Tempest found that other guests were expected, and on descending to the great yellow drawing-room, which was used only on state occasions, he encountered Mrs. Proudie and two of her daughters arrayed in a full panoply of female armour. She received him with her sweetest smiles, and if there had been any former enmity between Silverbridge and the palace, it was now all forgotten. She regretted greatly that Mrs. Tempest had not accompanied the doctor—for Mrs. Tempest also had been invited. But Mrs. Tempest was not quite as well as she might have been, the doctor had said, and very rarely slept away from home. And then the bishop came in and greeted his guest with his pleasantest good humour. It was quite a sorrow to him that Silverbridge was so distant, and that he saw so little of Dr. Tempest; but he hoped that that might be somewhat mended now, and that leisure might be found for social delights—to all which Dr. Tempest said but little, bowing to the bishop at each separate expression of his lordship’s kindness.
There were guests there that evening who did not often sit at the bishop’s table. The archdeacon and Mrs. Grantly had been summoned from Plumstead, and had obeyed the summons. Great as was the enmity between the bishop and the archdeacon, it had never quite taken the form of open palpable hostility. Each, therefore, asked the other to dinner perhaps once every year; and each went to the other, perhaps, once in two years. And Dr. Thorne from Chaldicotes was there, but without his wife, who in these days was up in London. Mrs. Proudie always expressed a warm friendship for Mrs. Thorne, and on this occasion loudly regretted her absence. “You must tell her, Dr. Thorne, how exceedingly much we miss her.” Dr. Thorne, who was accustomed to hear his wife speak of her dear friend Mrs. Proudie with almost unmeasured ridicule, promised that he would do so. “We are sorry the Lufton’s couldn’t come to us,” said Mrs. Proudie—not alluding to the dowager, of whom it was well known that no earthly inducement would have sufficed to make her put her foot within Mrs. Proudie’s room—”but one of the children is ill, and she could not leave him.” But the Greshams were there from Boxall Hill, and the Thornes from Ullathorne, and, with the exception of a single chaplain, who pretended to carve, Dr. Tempest and the archdeacon were the only clerical guests at the table. From all which Dr. Tempest knew that the bishop was anxious to treat him with special consideration on the present occasion.
The dinner was rather long and ponderous, and occasionally almost dull. The archdeacon talked a good deal, but a bystander with an acute ear might have understood from the tone of his voice that he was not talking as he would have talked among friends. Mrs. Proudie felt this, and understood it, and was angry. She could never find herself in the presence of the archdeacon without becoming angry. Her accurate ear would always appreciate the defiance of episcopal authority, as now existing in Barchester, which was concealed, or only half concealed, by all the archdeacon’s words. But the bishop was not so keen, nor so easily roused to wrath; and though the presence of his enemy did to a certain degree cow him, he strove to fight against the feeling with renewed good-humour.
“You have improved so upon the old days,” said the archdeacon, speaking of some small matter with reference to the cathedral, “that one hardly knows the old place.”
“I hope we have not fallen off,” said the bishop, with a smile.
“We have improved, Dr. Grantly,” said Mrs. Proudie, with great emphasis on her words. “What you say is true. We have improved.”
“Not a doubt about that,” said the archdeacon. Then Mrs. Grantly interposed, strove to change the subject, and threw oil upon the waters.
“Talking of improvements,” said Mrs. Grantly, “what an excellent row of houses they have built at the bottom of High Street. I wonder who is to live in them?”
“I remember when that was the very worst part of the town,” said Dr. Thorne.
“And now they’re asking seventy pounds apiece for houses which did not cost above six hundred each to build,” said Mr. Thorne of Ullathorne, with that seeming dislike of modern success which is evinced by most of the elders of the world.
“And who is to live in them?” asked Mrs. Grantly.
“Two of them have been already taken by clergymen,” said the bishop, in a tone of triumph.
“Yes,” said the archdeacon, “and the houses in the Close which used to be the residences of the prebendaries have been leased out to tallow-chandlers and retired brewers. That comes of the working of the Ecclesiastical Commission.”
“And why not?” demanded Mrs. Proudie.
“Why not, indeed, if you like to have tallow-chandlers next door to you?” said the archdeacon. “In the old days, we would sooner have had our brethren near to us.”