“I should like to give her a kiss,” said Mr. Harding.
“So you shall, papa, and I’ll bring her here on purpose. As soon as ever the thing is settled, we mean to ask her to Plumstead.”
“Do you, though? How nice! How happy Henry will be!”
“And if she comes—and of course she will—I’ll lose no time in bringing her over to you. Nelly must see her, of course.”
As they were leaving the room Mr. Harding called the archdeacon back, and taking him by the hand, spoke one word to him in a whisper. “I don’t like to interfere,” he said; “but might not Mr. Crawley have St. Ewold’s?” The archdeacon took up the old man’s hand and kissed it. Then he followed his wife out of the room, without making any answer to Mr. Harding’s question.
Three days after this Mrs. Arabin reached the deanery, and the joy at her return was very great. “My dear, I have been sick for you,” said Mr. Harding.
“Oh, papa, I ought not to have gone.”
“Nay, my dear; do not say that. Would it make me happy that you should be a prisoner here for ever? It was only when I seemed to get so weak that I thought about it. I felt that it must be near when they bade me not to go to the cathedral any more.”
“If I had been here, I could have gone with you, papa.”
“It is better as it is. I know now that I was not fit for it. When your sister came to me, I never thought of remonstrating. I knew then that I had seen it for the last time.”
“We need not say that yet, papa.”
“I did think that when you came home we might crawl there together some warm morning. I did think of that for a time. But it will never be so, dear. I shall never see anything now that I do not see from here—and not that for long. Do not cry, Nelly. I have nothing to regret, nothing to make me unhappy. I know how poor and weak has been my life; but I know how rich and strong is that other life. Do not cry, Nelly—not till I am gone; and then not beyond measure. Why should anyone weep for those who go away full of years—and full of hope?”
On the day but one following the dean also reached his home. The final arrangements of his tour, as well as those of his wife, had been made to depend on Mr. Crawley’s trial; for he also had been hurried back by John Eames’s visit to Florence. “I should have come back at once,” he said to his wife, “when they wrote to ask me whether Crawley had taken the cheque from me, had anybody then told me that he was in actual trouble; but I had no idea then that they were charging him with theft.”
“As far as I can learn, they never really suspected him until after your answer had come. They had been quite sure that your answer would be in the affirmative.”
“What he must have endured it is impossible to conceive. I shall go out to him to-morrow.”
“Would he not come to us?” said Mrs. Arabin.
“I doubt it. I will ask him, of course. I will ask them all here. This about Henry and the girl may make a difference. He has resigned the living, and some of the palace people are doing the duty.”
“But he can have it again?”
“Oh, yes; he can have it again. For the matter of that, I need simply give him back his letter. Only he is so odd—so unlike other people! And he has tried to live there, and has failed; and is now in debt. I wonder whether Grantly would give him St. Ewold’s?”
“I wish he would. But you must ask him. I should not dare.”
As to the matter of the cheque, the dean acknowledged to his wife at last that he had some recollection of her having told him that she had made the sum of money up to seventy pounds. “I don’t feel certain of it now; but I think you may have done so.” “I am quite sure I could not have done it without telling you,” she replied. “At any rate you said nothing of the cheque,” pleaded the dean. “I don’t suppose I did,” said Mrs. Arabin. “I thought that cheques were like any other money; but I shall know better for the future.”
On the following morning the dean rode over to Hogglestock, and as he drew near to the house of his old friend, his spirits flagged—for to tell the truth, he dreaded the meeting. Since the day on which he had brought Mr. Crawley from a curacy in Cornwall into the diocese of Barchester, his friend had been a trouble to him rather than a joy. The trouble had been a trouble of spirit altogether—not at all of pocket. He would willingly have picked the Crawleys out from the pecuniary mud into which they were ever falling, time after time, had it been possible. For, though the dean was hardly to be called a rich man, his lines had fallen to him not only in pleasant places, but in easy circumstances—and Mr. Crawley’s embarrassments, though overwhelming to him, were not so great as to have been heavy to the dean. But in striving to do this he had always failed, had always suffered, and had generally been rebuked. Crawley would attempt to argue with him as to the improper allotment of Church endowments—declaring that he did not do so with any reference to his own circumstances, but simply because the subject was one naturally interesting to clergymen. And this he would do, as he was waving off with his hand offers of immediate assistance which were indispensable. Then there had been scenes between the dean and Mrs. Crawley—terribly painful—and which had taken place in direct disobedience to the husband’s positive injunctions. “Sir,” he had once said to the dean, “I request that nothing may pass from your hands to the hands of my wife.” “Tush, tush,” the dean had answered. “I will have no tushing or pshawing on such a matter. A man’s wife is his very own, the breath of his nostril, the blood of his heart, the rib from his body. It is for me to rule my wife, and I tell you that I will not have it.” After that the gifts had come from the hands of Mrs. Arabin—and then again, after that, in the direst hour of his need, Crawley had himself come and taken money from the dean’s hands! The interview had been so painful that Arabin would hardly have been able to count the money or to know of what it had consisted, had he taken the notes and cheque out of the envelope in which his wife had put them. Since that day the two had not met each other, and since that day these new troubles had come. Arabin as yet knew but little of the manner in which they had been borne, except that Crawley had felt himself compelled to resign the living of Hogglestock. He knew nothing of Mrs. Proudie’s persecution, except what he gathered from the fact of the clerical commission of which he had been informed; but he could imagine that Mrs. Proudie would not lie easy on her bed while a clergyman was doing duty almost under her nose, who was guilty of the double offence of being accused of a theft, and of having been put into his living by the dean. The dean, therefore, as he rode on, pictured to himself his old friend in a terrible condition. And it might be that even now that condition would hardly have been improved. He was no longer suspected of being a thief; but he could have no money in his pocket; and it might well be that his sufferings would have made him almost mad.
The dean also got down and left his horse at a farmyard—as Grantly had done with his carriage; and walked on first to the school. He heard voices inside, but could not distinguish from them whether Mr. Crawley was there or not. Slowly he opened the door, and looking round saw that Jane Crawley was in the ascendant. Jane did not know him at once, but told him when he had introduced himself that her father had gone down to Hoggle End. He had started two hours ago, but it was impossible to say when he might be back. “He sometimes stays all day long with the brickmakers,” said Jane. Her mother was at home, and she would take the dean into the house. As she said this she told him that her father was sometimes better and sometimes worse. “But he has never been so very, very bad, since Henry Grantly and mamma’s cousin came and told us about the cheque.” That word Henry Grantly made the dean understand that there might yet be a ray of sunshine among the Crawleys.
“There is papa,” said Jane, as they got to the gate. Then they waited for a few minutes till Mr. Crawley came up, very hot, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
“Crawley,” said the dean, “I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you, and how rejoiced I am that this accusation has fallen off from you.”
“Verily the news came in time, Arabin,” said the other, “but it was a narrow pinch—a narrow pinch. Will you enter, and see my wife?”
CHAPTER LXXIX
Mr. Crawley Speaks of his Coat
At this time Grace had returned home from Framley. As long as the terrible tragedy of the forthcoming trial was dragging itself on she had been content to stay away, at her mother’s bidding. It has not been possible in these pages to tell of all the advice that had been given to the ladies of the Crawley family in their great difficulty, and of all the assistance that had been offered. The elder Lady Lufton and the younger, and Mrs. Robarts had continually been in consultation on the subject; Mrs. Grantly’s opinion had been asked and given; and even the Miss Prettymans and Mrs. Walker had found means of expressing themselves. The communications to Mrs. Crawley had been very frequent—though they had not of course been allowed to reach the ears of Mr. Crawley. What was to be done when the living should be gone and Mr. Crawley should be in prison? Some said that he might be there for six weeks, and some for two years. Old Lady Lufton made anxious inquiries about Judge Medlicote, before whom it was said that the trial would be taken. Judge Medlicote was a Dissenter, and old Lady Lufton was in despair. When she was assured by some liberally-disposed friend that this would certainly make no difference, she shook her head woefully. “I don’t know why we are to have Dissenters at all,” she said, “to try people who belong to the Established Church.” When she heard that Judge Medlicote would certainly be the judge, she made up her mind that two years would be the least of it. She would not have minded it, she said, if he had been a Roman Catholic. And whether the punishment might be for six weeks or for two years, what should be done with the family? Where should they be housed? How should they be fed? What should be done with the poor man when he came out of prison? It was a case in which the generous, soft-hearted old Lady Lufton was almost beside herself. “As for Grace,” said young Lady Lufton, “it will be a great deal better that we should keep her amongst us. Of course she will become Mrs. Grantly, and it will be nicer for her that it should be so.” In those days the posters had been seen, and the flitting to Pau had been talked of, and the Framley opinion was that Grace had better remain at Framley till she should be carried off to Pau. There were schemes, too, about Jane. But what was to be done for the wife? And what was to be done for Mr. Crawley? Then came the news from Mrs. Arabin, and all interest in Judge Medlicote was at an end.
But even now, after this great escape, what was to be done? As to Grace, she had felt the absolute necessity of being obedient to her friends—with the consent of course of her mother—during the great tribulation of her family. Things were so bad that she had not the heart to make them worse by giving any unnecessary trouble as to herself. Having resolved—and having made her mother so understand—that on one point she would guide herself by her own feelings, she was contented to go hither and thither as she was told, and to do as she was bid. Her hope was that Miss Prettyman would allow her to go back to her teaching, but it had come to be understood among them all that nothing was to be said on that subject till the trial should be over. Till that time she would be passive. But then, as I have said, had come the news from Mrs. Arabin, and Grace, with all the others, understood that there would be no trial. When this was known and acknowledged, she declared her purpose of going back to Hogglestock. She would go back at once. When asked both by Lady Lufton and by Mrs. Robarts why she was in so great a haste, she merely said that it must be so. She was, as it were, absolved from her passive obedience to Framley authorities by the diminution of the family misfortunes.
Mrs. Robarts understood the feeling by which Grace was hurried away. “Do you know why she is so obstinate?” Lady Lufton asked.
“I think I do,” said Mrs. Robarts.
“And what is it?”
“Should Major Grantly renew his offer to her she is under a pledge to accept him now.”
“Of course he will renew it, and of course she will accept him.”
“Just so. But she prefers that he should come for her to her own house—because of its poverty. If he chooses to seek her there, I don’t think she will make much difficulty.” Lady Lufton demurred to this, not however with anger, and expressed a certain amount of mild displeasure. She did not quite see why Major Grantly should not be allowed to come and do his love-making comfortably, where there was a decent dinner for him to eat, and chairs and tables and sofas and carpets. She said that she thought that something was due to Major Grantly. She was in truth a little disappointed that she was not allowed to have her own way, and to arrange the marriage at Framley under her own eye. But, through it all, she appreciated Grace; and they who knew her well and heard what she said upon the occasion, understood that her favour was not to be withdrawn. All young women were divided by old Lady Lufton into sheep and goats—very white sheep and very black goats—and Grace was to be a sheep. Thus it came to pass that Grace Crawley was at home when the dean visited Hogglestock. “Mamma,” she said, looking out of the window, “there is the dean with papa at the gate.”
“It was a narrow squeak—a very narrow squeak,” Mr. Crawley had said when his friend had congratulated him on his escape. The dean felt at the moment that not for many years had he heard the incumbent of Hogglestock speak either of himself or of anything else with so manifest an attempt at jocularity. Arabin had expected to find the man broken down by the weight of his sorrows, and lo! at the first moment of their first interview he himself began to ridicule them! Crawley having thus alluded to the narrow squeak had asked his visitor to enter the house and see his wife.
“Of course I will,” said Arabin, “but I will speak just a word to you first.” Jane, who had accompanied the dean from the school, now left them, and went into the house to her mother. “My wife cannot forgive herself about the cheque,” continued he.
“There is nothing to be forgiven,” said Mr. Crawley; “nothing.”
“She feels that what she did was awkward and foolish. She ought never to have paid a cheque away in such a manner. She knows that now.”
“It was given—not paid,” said Crawley; and as he spoke something of the black cloud came back on his face. “And I am well aware how hard Mrs. Arabin strove to take away from the alms she bestowed the bitterness of the sting of eleemosynary aid. If you please, Arabin, we will not talk any more of that. I can never forget that I have been a beggar, but I need not make my beggary the matter of conversation. I hope the Holy Land has fulfilled your expectation?”
“It has more than done so,” said the dean, bewildered by the sudden change.
“For myself, it is, of course, impossible that I should ever visit any scenes except those to which my immediate work may call me—never in this world. The new Jerusalem is still within my reach—if it be not forfeited by pride and obstinacy; but the old Jerusalem I can never behold. Methinks, because it is so, I would sooner stand with my foot on Mount Olivet, or drink a cup of water in the village of Bethany, than visit any other spot within the traveller’s compass. The sources of the Nile, of which men now talk so much—I see it in the papers and reviews which the ladies at Framley are so good as to send to my wife—do not interest me much. I have no ambition to climb Mont Blanc or the Matterhorn; Rome makes my mouth water but little, nor even Athens much. I can realise without seeing all that Athens could show me, and can fancy that the existing truth would destroy more than it would build up. But to have stood on Calvary!”
“We don’t know where Calvary was,” said the dean.
“I fancy that I should know—should know enough,” said the illogical and unreasonable Mr. Crawley. “Is it true that you can look over from the spot on which He stood as He came across the brow of the hill, and see the huge stones of the temple placed there by Solomon’s men—as He saw them—right across the brook Cedron, is it not?”
“It is all there, Crawley—just as your knowledge of it tells you.”
“In the privilege of seeing those places I can almost envy a man his—money.” The last words he uttered after a pause. He had been about to say that under such temptation he could almost envy a man his promotion; but he bethought himself that on such an occasion as this it would be better that he should spare the dean. “And now, if you wish it, we will go in. I fancy that I see my wife at the window, as though she were waiting for us.” So saying, he strode on along the little path, and the dean was fain to follow him, even though he had said so little of all that he had intended to say.
As soon as he was with Mrs. Crawley he repeated his apology about the cheque, and found himself better able to explain himself than he could do when he was alone with her husband. “Of course, it has been our fault,” he said.
“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Crawley, “how can you have been in fault when your only object was to do us good?” But, nevertheless, the dean took the blame upon his own shoulders, or, rather upon those of his wife, and declared himself to be responsible for all the trouble about the cheque.
“Let it go,” said Crawley, after sitting a while in silence; “let it pass.”
“You cannot wonder, Crawley,” said the dean, “that I should have felt myself obliged to speak of it.”
“For the future it will be well that it should be forgotten,” said Crawley; “or, if not forgotten, treated as though forgotten. And now, dean, what must I do about the living?”
“Just resume it, as though nothing happened.”
“But that may hardly be done without the bishop’s authority. I speak, of course, with deference to your higher and better information on such subjects. My experience in the taking up and laying down of livings has not been extended. But it seemeth to me that though it may certainly be in your power to nominate me again to the perpetual curacy of this parish—presuming your patronage to be unlimited and not to reach you in rotation only—yet the bishop may demand to institute again, and must so demand, unless he pleases to permit that my letter to him shall be revoked and cancelled.”
“Of course he will not do anything of that kind. He must know the circumstances as well as you and I do.”
“At present they tell me he is much afflicted by the death of his wife, and, therefore, can hardly be expected to take immediate action. There came here on the last Sunday one Mr. Snapper, his lordship’s chaplain.”
“We all know Snapper,” said the dean. “Snapper is not a bad little fellow.”
“I say nothing of his being bad, my friend, but merely mention the fact that on Sunday morning last he performed the service in our church. On the Sunday previous, one Mr. Thumble was here.”
“We all know Thumble, too,” said the dean; “or, at least, know something about him.”
“He has been a thorn in our sides,” said Mrs. Crawley, unable to restrain the expression of her dislike when Mr. Thumble’s name was mentioned.
“Nay, my dear, nay—do not allow yourself the use of language so strong against a brother. Our flesh at that time was somewhat prone to fester, and little thorns made us very sore.”
“He is a horrible man,” said Jane, almost in a whisper; but the words were distinctly audible by the dean.
“They need not come any more,” said Arabin.
“That is where I fear we differ. I think they must come—or some others in their place—till the bishop shall have expressed his pleasure to the contrary. I have submitted myself to his lordship, and, having done so, I feel that I cannot again go up into my pulpit till he shall have authorised me to do so. For a time, Arabin, I combatted the bishop, believing—then and now—that he put forth his hand against me after a fashion which the law had not sanctioned. And I made bold to stand in his presence and to tell him that I would not obey him, except in things legal. But afterwards, when he proceeded formally, through the action of a commission, I submitted myself. And I regard myself still as being under submission.”
It was impossible to shake him. Arabin remained there for more than an hour, trying to pass on to another subject, but being constantly brought back by Mr. Crawley himself to the fact of his own dependent position. Nor would he condescend to supplicate the bishop. It was, he surmised, the duty of Dr. Tempest, together with the other four clergymen, to report to the bishop on the question of the alleged theft; and then doubtless the bishop, when he had duly considered the report, and—as Mr. Crawley seemed to think was essentially necessary—had sufficiently recovered from the grief of his wife’s death, would, at his leisure, communicate his decision to Mr. Crawley. Nothing could be more complete than Mr. Crawley’s humility in reference to the bishop; and he never seemed to be tired of declaring that he had submitted himself!
And then the dean, finding it to be vain to expect to be left alone with Mr. Crawley for a moment—in vain also to wait for a proper opening for that which he had to say—rushed violently at his other subject. “And now, Mrs. Crawley,” he said. “Mrs. Arabin wishes you all to come over to the deanery for a while and stay with us.”
“Mrs. Arabin is too kind,” said Mrs. Crawley, looking across at her husband.
“We should like it of all things,” said the dean, with perhaps more of good nature than of truth. “Of course you must have been knocked about a good deal.”
“Indeed we have,” said Mrs. Crawley.
“And till you are somewhat settled again, I think that the change of scene would be good for all of you. Come, Crawley, I’ll talk to you every evening about Jerusalem for as long as you please—and then there will perhaps come back to us something of the pleasantness of old days.” As she heard this Mrs. Crawley’s eyes became full of tears, and she could not altogether hide them. What she had endured during the last four months had almost broken her spirit. The burden had at last been too heavy for her strength. “You cannot fancy, Crawley, how often I have thought of the old days and wished that they might return. I have found it very hard to get an opportunity of saying so much to you; but I will say it now.”
“It may hardly be as you say,” said Crawley, grimly.
“You mean that the old days can never be brought back?”