“That is as Major Grantly pleases to look at it,” said Mr. Thumble.
“I am sorry to say that it is quite out of my power,” said the major.
“You can surely walk, leading the beast, if you fear to mount him,” said Mr. Crawley.
“I shall do as I please about that,” said Mr. Thumble. “And, Mr. Crawley, if you will have the kindness to leave things in the parish just as they are—just as they are, I will be obliged to you. It is the bishop’s wish that you should touch nothing.” Mr. Thumble was by this time on the step, and Mr. Crawley instantly slammed the door. “The gentleman is a clergyman from Barchester,” said Mr. Crawley, modestly folding his hands upon his breast, “whom the bishop has sent over here to take upon himself temporarily the services of the church, and, as it appears, the duties also of the parish. I refrain from animadverting upon his lordship’s choice.”
“And you are leaving Hogglestock?”
“When I have found a shelter for my wife and children I shall do so; nay, peradventure, I must do so before any such shelter can be found. I shall proceed in that matter as I am bid. I am one who can regard myself as no longer possessing the privilege of free action in anything. But while I have a room at your service, permit me to ask you to enter it.” Then Mr. Crawley motioned him in with his hand, and Major Grantly found himself in the presence of Mrs. Crawley and her younger daughter.
He looked at them both for a moment, and could trace much of the lines of that face which he loved so well. But the troubles of life had almost robbed the elder lady of her beauty; and with the younger, the awkward thinness of the last years of feminine childhood had not yet given place to the fulfilment of feminine grace. But the likeness in each was quite enough to make him feel that he ought to be at home in that room. He thought that he could love the woman as his mother, and the girl as his sister. He found it very difficult to begin any conversation in their presence, and yet it seemed to be his duty to begin. Mr. Crawley had marshalled him into the room, and having done so, stood aside near the door. Mrs. Crawley had received him very graciously, and having done so, seemed to be ashamed of her own hospitality. Poor Jane had shrunk back into a distant corner, near the open standing desk at which she was accustomed to read Greek to her father, and, of course, could not be expected to speak. If Major Grantly could have found himself alone with any one of the three—nay, if he could have been there with any two, he could have opened his budget at once; but, before all the family, he felt the difficulty of his situation. “Mrs. Crawley,” said he, “I have been most anxious to make your acquaintance, and I trust you will excuse the liberty I have taken in calling.”
“I feel grateful to you, as I am sure does also my husband.” So much she said, and then felt angry with herself for saying so much. Was she not expressing the strong hope that he might stand fast by her child, whereby the whole Crawley family would gain so much—and the Grantly family lose much, in the same proportion?
“Sir,” said Mr. Crawley, “I owe you thanks, still unexpressed, in that you came forward together with Mr. Robarts of Framley, to satisfy the not unnatural requisition of the magistrates before whom I was called upon to appear in the early winter. I know not why anyone should have ventured into such jeopardy on my account.”
“There was no jeopardy, Mr. Crawley. Anyone in the county would have done it.”
“I know not that; nor can I see that there was no jeopardy. I trust that I may assure you that there is no danger—none, I mean, to you. The danger to myself and those belonging to me, is, alas, very urgent. The facts of my position are pressing close upon me. Methinks I suffer more from the visit of the gentleman who has just departed from me than anything that has yet happened to me. And yet he is in his right—he is altogether in his right.”
“No, papa; he is not,” said Jane, from her standing ground near the upright desk.
“My dear,” said her father, “you should be silent on such a subject. It is a matter hard to be understood in all its bearings—even by those who are most conversant with them. But as to this we need not trouble Major Grantly.”
After that there was silence among them, and for a while it seemed as though there could be no approach to the subject on which Grantly had come hither to express himself. Mrs. Crawley, in her despair, said something about the weather; and the major, trying to draw near the special subject, became bold enough to remark “that he had had the pleasure of seeing Miss Crawley at Framley.” “Mrs. Robarts has been very kind,” said Mrs. Crawley, “very kind indeed. You can understand, Major Grantly, that this must be a very sad house for any young person.” “I don’t think it is at all sad,” said Jane, still standing in the corner by the upright desk.
Then Major Grantly rose from his seat and walked across to the girl and took her hand. “You are so like your sister,” said he. “Your sister is a great friend of mine. She has often spoken to me of you. I hope we shall be friends some day.” But Jane could make no answer to this, although she had been able to vindicate the general character of the house while she was left in her corner by herself. “I wonder whether you would be angry with me,” continued the major, “if I told you that I wanted to speak a word to your father and mother alone?” To this Jane made no reply, but was out of the room almost before the words had reached the ears of her father and mother. Though she was only sixteen, and had as yet read nothing but Latin and Greek—unless we are to count the twelve books of Euclid and Wood’s Algebra, and sundry smaller exercises of the same description—she understood, as well as anyone then present, the reason why her absence was required.
As she closed the door the major paused for a moment, expecting, or perhaps hoping, that the father or the mother would say a word. But neither of them had a word to say. They sat silent, and as though conscience-stricken. Here was a rich man come, of whom they had heard that he might probably wish to wed their daughter. It was manifest enough to both of them that no man could marry into their family without subjecting himself to a heavy portion of that reproach and disgrace which was attached to them. But how was it possible that they should not care more for their daughter—for their own flesh and blood, than for the incidental welfare of this rich man? As regarded the man himself they had heard everything that was good. Such a marriage was like the opening of paradise to their child. “Nil conscire sibi,” said the father to himself, as he buckled on his armour for the fight.
When he had waited for a moment or two the major began. “Mrs. Crawley,” he said, addressing himself to the mother, “I do not quite know how far you may be aware that I—that I have for some time been—been acquainted with your eldest daughter.”
“I have heard from her that she is acquainted with you,” said Mrs. Crawley, almost panting with anxiety.
“I may as well make a clean breast of it at once,” said the major, smiling, “and say outright that I have come here to request your permission and her father’s to ask her to be my wife.” Then he was silent, and for a few moments neither Mr. nor Mrs. Crawley replied to him. She looked at her husband, and he gazed at the fire, and the smile died away from the major’s face, as he watched the solemnity of them both. There was something almost forbidding in the peculiar gravity of Mr. Crawley’s countenance when, as at present, something operated within him to cause him to express dissent from any proposition that was made to him. “I do not know how far this may be altogether new to you, Mrs. Crawley,” said the major, waiting for a reply.
“It is not new to us,” said Mrs. Crawley.
“May I hope, then, that you will not disapprove?”
“Sir,” said Mr. Crawley, “I am so placed by the untoward circumstances of my life that I can hardly claim to exercise over my own daughter that authority which should belong to a parent.”
“My dear, do not say that,” exclaimed Mrs. Crawley.
“But I do say it. Within three weeks of this time I may be a prisoner, subject to the criminal laws of my country. At this moment I am without the power of earning bread for myself, or for my wife, or for my children. Major Grantly, you have even now seen the departure of the gentleman who has been sent here to take my place in the parish. I am, as it were, an outlaw here, and entitled neither to obedience nor respect from those who under other circumstances would be bound to give me both.”
“Major Grantly,” said the poor woman, “no husband or father in the county is more closely obeyed or more thoroughly respected and loved.”
“I am sure of it,” said the major.
“All this, however, matters nothing,” said Mr. Crawley, “and all speech on such homely matters would amount to an impertinence before you, sir, were it not that you have hinted at a purpose of connecting yourself at some future time with this unfortunate family.”
“I meant to be plain-spoken, Mr. Crawley.”
“I did not mean to insinuate, sir, that there was aught of reticence in your words, so contrived that you might fall back upon the vagueness of your expression for protection, should you hereafter see fit to change your purpose. I should have wronged you much by such a suggestion. I rather was minded to make known to you that I—or, I should rather say, we,” and Mr. Crawley pointed to his wife—”shall not accept your plainness of speech as betokening aught beyond a conceived idea of furtherance of which you have thought it expedient to make certain inquiries.”
“I don’t quite follow you,” said the major. “But what I want you to do is to give me your consent to visit your daughter; and I want Mrs. Crawley to write to Grace and tell her that it’s all right.” Mrs. Crawley was quite sure that it was all right, and was ready to sit down and write the letter that moment, if her husband would permit her to do so.
“I am sorry that I have not been explicit,” said Mr. Crawley, “but I will endeavour to make myself more plainly intelligible. My daughter, sir, is so circumstanced in reference to her father, that I, as her father and as a gentleman, cannot encourage any man to make a tender to her of his hand.”
“But I have made up my mind about all that.”
“And I, sir, have made up mine. I dare not tell my girl that I think she will do well to place her hand in yours. A lady, when she does that, should feel at least that her hand is clean.”
“It is the cleanest and the sweetest and the fairest hand in Barsetshire,” said the major. Mrs. Crawley could not restrain herself, but running up to him, took his hand in hers and kissed it.
“There is unfortunately a stain, which is vicarial,” began Mr. Crawley, sustaining up to that point his voice with Roman fortitude—with a fortitude which would have been Roman had it not at that moment broken down under the pressure of human feeling. He could keep it up no longer, but continued his speech with broken sobs, and with a voice altogether changed in its tone—rapid now, whereas it had before been slow—natural, whereas it had hitherto been affected—human, whereas it had hitherto been Roman. “Major Grantly,” he said, “I am sore beset; but what can I say to you? My darling is as pure as the light of day—only that she is soiled with my impurity. She is fit to grace the house of the best gentleman in England, had I not made her unfit.”
“She shall grace mine,” said the major. “By God she shall!—to-morrow, if she’ll have me.” Mrs. Crawley, who was standing beside him, again raised his hand and kissed it.
“It may not be so. As I began by saying—or rather strove to say, for I have been overtaken by weakness, and cannot speak my mind—I cannot claim authority over my child as would another man. How can I exercise authority from between a prison’s bars?”
“She would obey your slightest wish,” said Mrs. Crawley.
“I could express no wish,” said he. “But I know my girl, and I am sure that she will not consent to take infamy with her into the house of the man who loves her.”
“There will be no infamy,” said the major. “Infamy! I tell you that I shall be proud of the connexion.”
“You, sir, are generous in your prosperity. We will strive to be at least just in our adversity. My wife and children are to be pitied—because of the husband and the father.”
“No!” said Mrs. Crawley. “I will not hear that said without denying it.”
“But they must take their lot as it has been given to them,” continued he. “Such a position in life as that which you have proposed to bestow upon my child would be to her, as regards human affairs, great elevation. And from what I have heard—I may be permitted to add also from what I now learn by personal experience—such a marriage would be laden with fair promise of future happiness. But if you ask my mind, I think that my child is not free to make it. You, sir, have many relatives, who are not in love, as you are, all of whom would be affected by the stain of my disgrace. You have a daughter, to whom all your solicitude is due. No one should go to your house as your second wife who cannot feel that she will serve your child. My daughter would feel that she was bringing injury upon the babe. I cannot bid her do this—and I will not. Nor do I believe that she would do so if I bade her.” Then he turned his chair round, and sat with his face to the wall, wiping away the tears with a tattered handkerchief.
Mrs. Crawley led the major away to the further window, and there stood looking up into his face. It need hardly be said that they also were crying. Whose eyes could have been dry after such a scene—upon hearing such words? “You had better go,” said Mrs. Crawley. “I know him so well. You had better go.”
“Mrs. Crawley,” he said whispering to her, “if I ever desert her, may all that I love desert me! But will you help me?”
“You would want no help, were it not for this trouble.”
“But you will help me?”
Then she paused for a moment, “I can do nothing,” she said, “but what he bids me.”
“You will trust me, at any rate?” said the major.
“I do trust you,” she replied. Then he went without saying a word further to Mr. Crawley. As soon as he was gone, the wife went over to her husband, and put her arm gently round his neck as he was sitting. For a while the husband took no notice of his wife’s caress, but sat motionless, with his face still turned to the wall. Then she spoke to him a word or two, telling him that their visitor was gone. “My child!” he said. “My poor child! my darling! She has found grace in this man’s sight; but even of that has her father robbed her! The Lord has visited upon the children the sins of the father, and will do so to the third and fourth generation.”