Nevertheless, as he sat there under the rain, he made up his mind with a clearness that certainly had in it nothing of that muddiness of mind of which he had often accused himself. Indeed, the intellect of this man was essentially clear. It was simply his memory that would play him tricks—his memory as to things which at the moment were not important to him. The fact that the dean had given him money was very important, and he remembered it well. But the amount of the money, and its form, at a moment in which he had flattered himself that he might have strength to leave it unused, had not been important to him. Now, he resolved that he would go to Dr. Tempest, and that he would tell Dr. Tempest that there was no occasion for any further inquiry. He would submit to the bishop, let the bishop’s decision be what it might. Things were different since the day on which he had refused Mr. Thumble admission to his pulpit. At that time people believed him to be innocent, and he so believed of himself. Now, people believed him to be guilty, and it could not be right that a man held in such slight esteem could exercise the functions of a parish priest, let his own opinion of himself be what it might. He would submit himself, and go anywhere—to the galleys or the workhouse, if they wished it. As for his wife and children, they would, he said to himself, be better without him than with him. The world would never be so hard to a woman or to children as it had been to him.
He was sitting saturated with rain—saturated also with thinking—and quite unobservant of anything around him, when he was accosted by an old man from Hoggle End, with whom he was well acquainted. “Thee be wat, Master Crawley,” said the old man.
“Wet!” said Crawley, recalled suddenly back to the realities of life. “Well—yes. I am wet. That’s because it’s raining.”
“Thee be teeming o’ wat. Hadn’t thee better go whome?”
“And are you not wet also?” said Mr. Crawley, looking at the old man, who had been at work in the brickfield, and who was soaked with mire, and from whom there seemed to come a steam of muddy mist.
“Is it me, yer reverence? I’m wat in course. The loikes of us is always wat—that is barring the insides of us. It comes to us natural to have the rheumatics. How is one of us to help hisself against having on ‘em? But there ain’t no call for the loikes of you to have the rheumatics.”
“My friend,” said Crawley, who was now standing on the road—and as he spoke he put out his arm and took the brickmaker by the hand, “there is a worse complaint than rheumatism—there is, indeed.”
“There’s what they calls the collerer,” said Giles Hoggett, looking up into Mr. Crawley’s face. “That ain’t a-got hold of yer?”
“Ay, and worse than the cholera. A man is killed all over when he is struck in his pride—and yet he lives.”
“Maybe that’s bad enough too,” said Giles, with his hand still held by the other.
“It is bad enough,” said Mr. Crawley, striking his breast with his left hand. “It is bad enough.”
“Tell ‘ee what, Master Crawley—and yer reverence mustn’t think as I means to be preaching; there ain’t nowt a man can’t bear if he’ll only be dogged. You go whome, Master Crawley, and think o’ that, and maybe it’ll do ye a good yet. It’s dogged as does it. It ain’t thinking about it.” Then Giles Hoggett withdrew his hand from the clergyman’s, and walked away towards his home at Hoggle End. Mr. Crawley also turned away homewards, and as he made his way through the lanes, he repeated to himself Giles Hoggett’s words. “It’s dogged as does it. It’s not thinking about it.”
He did not say a word to his wife on that afternoon about Dr. Tempest; and she was so much taken up with his outward condition when he returned, as almost to have forgotten the letter. He allowed himself, but barely allowed himself, to be made dry, and then for the remainder of the day applied himself to learn the lesson which Hoggett had endeavoured to teach him. But the learning of it was not easy, and hardly became more easy when he had worked the problem out in his own mind, and discovered that the brickmaker’s doggedness simply meant self-abnegation—that a man should force himself to endure anything that might be sent upon him, not only without outward grumbling, but also without grumbling inwardly.
Early on the next morning, he told his wife that he was going into Silverbridge. “It is that letter—the letter which I got yesterday that calls me,” he said. And then he handed her the letter as to which he had refused to speak to her on the preceding day.
“But this speaks of your going next Monday, Josiah,” said Mrs. Crawley.
“I find it more suitable that I should go to-day,” said he. “Some duty I do owe in this matter, both to the bishop, and to Dr. Tempest, who, after a fashion, is, as regards my present business, the bishop’s representative. But I do not perceive that I owe it as a duty to either to obey implicitly their injunctions, and I will not submit myself to the cross-questionings of the man Thumble. As I am purposed at present I shall express my willingness to give up the parish.”
“Give up the parish altogether?”
“Yes, altogether.” As he spoke he clasped both his hands together, and having held them for a moment on high, allowed them to fall thus clasped before him. “I cannot give it up in part; I cannot abandon the duties and reserve the honorarium. Nor would I if I could.”
“I did not mean that, Josiah. But pray think of it before you speak.”
“I have thought of it, and I will think of it. Farewell, my dear.” Then he came up to her and kissed her, and started on his journey on foot to Silverbridge.
It was about noon when he reached Silverbridge, and he was told that Doctor Tempest was at home. The servant asked him for a card. “I have no card,” said Mr. Crawley, “but I will write my name for your behoof if your master’s hospitality will allow me paper and pencil.” The name was written, and as Crawley waited in the drawing-room he spent his time in hating Dr. Tempest because the door had been opened by a man-servant dressed in black. Had the man been in livery he would have hated Dr. Tempest all the same. And he would have hated him a little had the door been opened even by a smart maid.
“Your letter came to hand yesterday morning, Dr. Tempest,” said Mr. Crawley, still standing, though the doctor had pointed to a chair for him after shaking hands with him; “and having given yesterday to the consideration of it, with what judgment I have been able to exercise, I have felt it to be incumbent upon me to wait upon you without further delay, as by doing so I may perhaps assist your views and save labour to those gentlemen who are joined with you in this commission of which you have spoken. To some of them it may possibly be troublesome that they should be brought here on next Monday.”
Dr. Tempest had been looking at him during this speech, and could see by his shoes and trousers that he had walked from Hogglestock to Silverbridge. “Mr. Crawley, will you not sit down?” said he, and then he rang his bell. Mr. Crawley sat down, not on the chair indicated, but on one further removed and at the other side of the table. When the servant came—the objectionable butler in black clothes that were so much smarter than Mr. Crawley’s own—his master’s orders were communicated without any audible word, and the man returned with a decanter and wine-glasses.
“After your walk, Mr. Crawley,” said Dr. Tempest, getting up from his seat to pour out the wine.
“None, I thank you.”
“Pray let me persuade you. I know the length of the miles so well.”
“I will take none if you please, sir,” said Mr. Crawley.
“Now, Mr. Crawley,” said Dr. Tempest, “do let me speak to you as a friend. You have walked eight miles, and are going to talk to me on a subject which is of vital importance to yourself. I won’t discuss it unless you’ll take a glass of wine and a biscuit.”
“Dr. Tempest!”
“I’m quite in earnest. I won’t. If you do as I ask, you shall talk to me till dinner-time, if you like. There. Now you may begin.”
Mr. Crawley did eat the biscuit and did drink the wine, and as he did so, he acknowledged to himself that Dr. Tempest was right. He felt that the wine had made him stronger to speak. “I hardly know why you have preferred to-day to next Monday,” said Dr. Tempest; “but if anything can be done by your presence here to-day, your time shall not be thrown away.”
“I have preferred to-day to Monday,” said Crawley, “partly because I would sooner talk to one man than to five.”
“There is something in that, certainly,” said Dr. Tempest.
“And as I have made up my mind as to the course of action which it is my duty to take in the matter to which your letter of the 9th of this month refers, there can be no reason why I should postpone the declaration of my purpose. Dr. Tempest, I have determined to resign my preferment at Hogglestock, and shall write to-day to the Dean of Barchester, who is the patron, acquainting him of my purpose.”
“You mean in the event—in the event—”
“I mean, sir, to do this without reference to any event that is future. The bishop, Dr. Tempest, when I shall have been proved to be a thief, shall have no trouble either in causing my suspension or my deprivation. The name and fame of a parish clergyman should be unstained. Mine have become foul with infamy. I will not wait to be deprived by any court, by any bishop, or by any commission. I will bow my head to that public opinion which has reached me, and I will deprive myself.”
He had got up from his chair, and was standing as he pronounced the final sentence against himself. Dr. Tempest still remained seated in his chair, looking at him, and for a few moments there was silence. “You must not do that, Mr. Crawley,” said Dr. Tempest at last.
“But I shall do it.”
“Then the dean must not take your resignation. Speaking to you frankly, I tell you that there is no prevailing opinion as to the verdict which the jury may give.”
“My decision has nothing to do with the jury’s verdict. My decision—”
“Stop a moment, Mr. Crawley. It is possible that you might say that which should not be said.”
“There is nothing to be said—nothing which I could say, which I would not say at the town cross if it were possible. As to this money, I do not know whether I stole it or whether I did not.”
“That is just what I have thought.”
“It is so.”
“Then you did not steal it. There can be no doubt about that.”
“Thank you, Dr. Tempest. I thank you heartily for saying so much. But, sir, you are not the jury. Nor, if you were, could you whitewash me from the infamy which has been cast upon me. Against the opinion expressed at the beginning of these proceedings by the bishop of the diocese—or rather against that expressed by his wife—I did venture to make a stand. Neither the opinion which came from the palace, nor the vehicle by which it was expressed, commanded my respect. Since that, others have spoken to whom I feel myself bound to yield—yourself not the least among them, Dr. Tempest—and to them I shall yield. You may tell the Bishop of Barchester that I shall at once resign the perpetual curacy of Hogglestock into the hands of the Dean of Barchester, by whom I was appointed.”
“No, Mr. Crawley; I shall not do that. I cannot control you, but thinking you to be wrong, I shall not make that communication to the bishop.”
“Then I shall do it myself.”
“And your wife, Mr. Crawley, and your children?”
At that moment Mr. Crawley called to mind the advice of his friend Giles Hoggett. “It’d dogged as does it.” He certainly wanted something very strong to sustain him in this difficulty. He found that this reference to his wife and children required him to be dogged in a very marked manner. “I can only trust that the wind may be tempered to them,” he said. “They will, indeed, be shorn lambs.”
Dr. Tempest got up from his chair, and took a couple of turns about the room before he spoke again. “Man,” he said, addressing Mr. Crawley with all his energy, “if you do this thing, you will then at least be very wicked. If the jury find a verdict in your favour you are safe, and the chances are that the verdict will be in your favour.”
“I care nothing now for the verdict,” said Mr. Crawley.
“And you will turn your wife into the poorhouse for an idea!”
“It’s dogged as does it,” said Mr. Crawley to himself. “I have thought of that,” he said aloud. “That my wife is dear to me, and that my children are dear, I will not deny. She was softly nurtured, Dr. Tempest, and came from a house in which want was never known. Since she has shared my board she has had some experience of that nature. That I should have brought her to all this is very terrible to me—so terrible, that I often wonder how it is that I live. But, sir, you will agree with me, that my duty as a clergyman is above everything. I do not dare, even for their sake, to remain in the parish. Good morning, Dr. Tempest.” Dr. Tempest, finding that he could not prevail with him, bade him adieu, feeling that any service to the Crawleys within in his power might be best done by intercession with the bishop and with the dean.
Then Mr. Crawley walked back to Hogglestock, repeating to himself Giles Hoggett’s words, “It’s dogged as does it.”
CHAPTER LXII
Mr. Crawley’s Letter to the Dean
Mr. Crawley, when he got home after his walk to Silverbridge, denied that he was at all tired. “The man at Silverbridge, whom I went to see, administered refreshment to me—nay, he administered it with salutary violence,” he said, affecting even to laugh. “And I am bound to speak well of him on behalf of mercies over and beyond that exhibited by the persistent tender of some wine. That I should find him judicious I had expected. What little I have known of him taught me so to think of him. But I found with him also a softness of heart for which I had not looked.”
“And you will not give up the living, Josiah?”
“Most certainly I will. A duty, when it is clear before a man, should never be made less so by any tenderness in others.” He was still thinking of Giles Hoggett. “It’s dogged as does it.” The poor woman could not answer him. She knew well that it was vain to argue with him. She could only hope that in the event of his being acquitted at the trial, the dean, whose friendship she did not doubt, might re-endow him with the small benefice which was their only source of bread.
On the following morning there came by post a short note from Dr. Tempest. “My dear Mr. Crawley,” the note ran, “I implore you, if there be yet time, to do nothing rashly. And even although you should have written to the bishop or to the dean, your letters need have no effect, if you will allow me to make them inoperative. Permit me to say that I am a man much older than you, and one who has mixed much both with clergymen and with the world at large. I tell you with absolute confidence, that it is not your duty in your present position to give up your living. Should your conduct ever be called in question on this matter you will be at perfect liberty to say that you were guided by my advice. You should take no step till after the trial. Then, if the verdict be against you, you should submit to the bishop’s judgment. If the verdict be in your favour, the bishop’s interference will be over.
“And you must remember that if it is not your duty as a clergyman to give up your living, you can have no right, seeing that you have a wife and family, to throw it away as an indulgence to your pride. Consult any other friend you please—Mr. Robarts, or the dean himself. I am quite sure that any friend who knows as many of the circumstances as I know will advise you to hold the living, at any rate till after the trial. You can refer any such friend to me.
“Believe me, to be yours very truly,
“MORTIMER TEMPEST.”
Mr. Crawley walked about again with this letter in his pocket, but on this occasion he did not go in the direction of Hoggle End. From Hoggle End he could hardly hope to pick up further lessons of wisdom. What could any Giles Hoggett say to him beyond what he had said to him already? If he were to read the doctor’s letter to Hoggett, and to succeed in making Hoggett understand it, Hoggett could only caution him to be dogged. But it seemed to him that Hoggett and his new friend at Silverbridge did not agree in their doctrines, and it might be well that he should endeavour to find out which of them had most of justice on his side. He was quite sure that Hoggett would advise him to adhere to his project of giving up the living—if only Hoggett could be made to understand the circumstances.
He had written, but had not as yet sent away his letter to the dean.
His letter to the bishop would be but a note, and he had postponed the writing of that till the other should be copied and made complete.
He had sat up late into the night composing and altering his letter to his old friend, and now that the composition was finished he was loth to throw it away. Early in this morning, before the postman had brought to him Dr. Tempest’s urgent remonstrance, he had shown to his wife the draft of his letter to the dean. “I cannot say that it is not true,” she had said.
“It is certainly true.”
“But I wish, dear, you would not send it. Why should you take any step till the trial be over?”
“I shall assuredly send it,” he had replied. “If you will peruse it again, you will see that the epistle would be futile were it kept till I shall have been proved to be a thief.”
“Oh, Josiah, such words kill me.”
“They are not pleasant, but it will be well that you should become used to them. As for the letter, I have taken some trouble to express myself with perspicuity, and I trust that I may have succeeded.” At that time Hoggett was altogether in the ascendant; but now, as he started on his walk, his mind was somewhat perturbed by the contrary advice of one, who after all, might be as wise as Hoggett. There would be nothing dogged in the conduct recommended to him by Dr. Tempest. Were he to follow the doctor’s advice, he would be trimming his sails, so as to catch any slant of a breeze that might be favourable to him. There could be no doggedness in a character that would submit to such trimming.
The postman came to Hogglestock but once a day, so that he could not despatch his letter till the next morning—unless, indeed, he chose to send it a distance of four miles to the nearest post-office. As there was nothing to justify this, there was another night for the copying of his letter—should he at last determine to send it. He had declared to Dr. Tempest that he would send it. He had sworn to his wife that it should go. He had taken much trouble with it. He believed in Hoggett. But, nevertheless, this incumbency of Hogglestock was his all in the world. It might be that he could still hold it, and have bread at least for his wife to eat. Dr. Tempest had told him that he would be probably acquitted. Dr. Tempest knew as much of all the circumstances as he did himself, and had told him that he was not guilty. After all, Dr. Tempest knew more about it than Hoggett knew.
If he resigned the living, what would become of him—of him—of him and of his wife? Whither would they first go when they turned their back upon the door inside which there had at any rate been shelter for them for so many years? He calculated everything that he had, and found that at the end of April, even when he should have received his rentcharge, there would not be five pounds in hand among them. As for his furniture, he still owed enough to make it impossible that he should get anything out of that. And these thoughts all had reference to his position if he should be acquitted. What would become of his wife if he should be convicted? And as for himself, whither should he go when he came out of prison?
He had completely realised the idea that Hoggett’s counsel was opposed to that given to him by Dr. Tempest; but then it might certainly be the case that Hoggett had not known all the facts. A man should, no doubt, be dogged when the evils of life are insuperable; but need he be so when the evils can be overcome? Would not Hoggett himself undergo any treatment which he believed to be specific for rheumatism? Yes; Hoggett would undergo any treatment that was not in itself opposed to his duty. The best treatment for rheumatism might be to stay away from the brickfield on a rainy day; but if so, there would be no money to keep the pot boiling, and Hoggett would certainly go to the brickfield, rheumatism and all, as long as his limbs would carry him there. Yes; he would send his letter. It was his duty, and he would do it. Men looked askance at him, and pointed at him as a thief. He would send the letter, in spite of Dr. Tempest. Let justice be done, though the heaven may fall.
He had heard of Lady Lufton’s offer to his wife. The offers of the Lady Luftons of the world had been sorely distressing to his spirit, since it had first come to pass that such offers had reached him in consequence of his poverty. But now there was something almost of relief to him in the thought that the Lady Luftons would, after some fashion, save his wife and children from starvation—would save his wife from the poorhouse, and enable his children to have a start in the world. For one of his children a brilliant marriage might be provided—if only he himself were out of the way. How could he take himself out of the way? It had been whispered to him that he might be imprisoned for two months—or for two years. Would it not be a grand thing if the judge would condemn him to be imprisoned for life? Was there ever a man whose existence was so purposeless, so useless, so deleterious, as his own? And yet he knew Hebrew well, whereas the dean knew but very little Hebrew. He could make Greek iambics, and doubted whether the bishop knew the difference between an iambus and a trochee. He could disport himself with trigonometry, feeling confident that Dr. Tempest had forgotten his way over the asses’ bridge. He knew “Lycidas” by heart; and as for Thumble, he felt quite sure that Thumble was incompetent of understanding a single allusion in that divine poem. Nevertheless, though all this wealth of acquirement was his, it would be better for himself, better for those who belonged to him, better for the world at large, that he should be put an end to. A sentence of penal servitude for life, without any trial, would be of all things the most desirable. Then there would be ample room for the practice of that virtue which Hoggett had taught him.
When he returned home the Hoggethan doctrine prevailed, and he prepared to copy his letter. But before he commenced his task, he sat down with his youngest daughter, and read—or made her read to him—a passage out of a Greek poem, in which are described the troubles and agonies of a blind giant. No giant would have been more powerful—only that he was blind, and could not see to avenge himself on those who had injured him. “The same story is always coming up,” he said, stopping the girl in her reading. “We have it in various versions, because it is so true to life.
Ask for this great deliverer now, and find him
Eyeless in Gaza, at the mill with slaves.
It is the same story. Great power reduced to impotence, great glory to misery, by the hand of Fate—Necessity, as the Greeks called her; the goddess that will not be shunned! At the mill with slaves! People, when they read it, do not appreciate the horror of the picture. Go on my dear. It may be a question whether Polyphemus had mind enough to suffer; but, from the description of his power, I should think that he had. ‘At the mill with slaves!’ Can any picture be more dreadful than that? Go on, my dear. Of course you remember Milton’s Samson Agonistes. Agonistes indeed!” His wife was sitting stitching at the other side of the room; but she heard his words—heard and understood them; and before Jane could again get herself into the swing of the Greek verse, she was over at her husband’s side, with her arms round his neck. “My love!” she said. “My love!”
He turned to her, and smiled as he spoke to her. “These are old thoughts with me. Polyphemus and Belisarius, and Samson and Milton, have always been pets of mine. The mind of the strong blind creature must be so sensible of the injury that has been done to him! The impotency, combined with his strength, or rather the impotency with the memory of former strength and former aspirations, is so essentially tragic!”
She looked into his eyes as he spoke, and there was something of the flash of old days, when the world was young to them, and when he would tell her of his hopes, and repeat to her long passages of poetry, and would criticise for her advantage the works of old writers. “Thank God,” she said, “that you are not blind. It may yet be all right with you.”
“Yes—it may be,” he said.
“And you shall not be at the mill with slaves.”
“Or, at any rate, not eyeless in Gaza, if the Lord is good to me. Come, Jane, we will go on.” Then he took up the passage himself, and read it on with clear, sonorous voice, every now and then explaining some passage or expressing his own ideas upon it, as though he were really happy with his poetry.
It was late in the evening before he got out his small stock of best letter-paper, and sat down to work at his letter. He first addressed himself to the bishop; and what he wrote to the bishop was as follows—
Hogglestock Parsonage, April 11, 186—
MY LORD BISHOP,
I have been in communication with Dr. Tempest, of Silverbridge, from whom I have learned that your lordship has been pleased to appoint a commission of inquiry—of which commission he is the chairman—with reference to the proceedings which it may be necessary that you should take, as bishop of the diocese, after my forthcoming trial at the approaching Barchester assizes. My lord, I think it right to inform you, partly with a view to the comfort of the gentlemen named on that commission, and partly with the purport of giving you that information which I think that a bishop should possess in regard to the clerical affairs of his own diocese, that I have by this post resigned my preferment at Hogglestock into the hands of the Dean of Barchester, by whom it was given to me. In these circumstances, it will, I suppose, be unnecessary for you to continue the commission which you have set in force; but as to that, your lordship will, of course, be the only judge.
I have the honour to be, my Lord Bishop,
Your most obedient and very humble servant,
JOSIAH CRAWLEY,
Perpetual Curate of Hogglestock.
The Right Reverend
The Bishop of Barchester,
&c, &c, &c
The Palace, Barchester.
But the letter which was of real importance—which was intended to say something—was that to the dean, and that also shall be given to the reader. Mr. Crawley had been for a while in doubt how he should address his old friend in commencing this letter, understanding that its tone throughout must, in a great degree, be made conformable with its first words. He would fain, in his pride, have begun “Sir”. The question was between that and “My dear Arabin”. It had once between them always been “Dear Frank,” and “Dear Joe”; but the occasions for “Dear Frank” and “Dear Joe” between them had long been past. Crawley would have been very angry had he now been called Joe by the dean, and would have bitten his tongue out before he would have called the dean Frank. His better nature, however, now prevailed, and he began his letter, and completed it as follows:—
MY DEAR ARABIN,
Circumstances, of which you have probably heard something, compel me to write to you, as I fear, at some length. I am sorry that the trouble of such a letter should be forced upon you during your holidays—