The Last Chronicle of Barset (128 page)

After that, the dean went to the palace. There had never been any quarrelling between the bishop and the dean, either direct or indirect – nor, indeed, had the dean ever quarrelled even with Mrs Proudie. But he had belonged to the anti-Proudie faction. He had been brought into the diocese by the Grantly interest; and therefore, during Mrs Proudie's lifetime, he had always been accounted among the enemies. There had never been any real intimacy between the houses. Each house had been always asked to dine with the other house once a year; but it had been understood that such dinings were ecclesiasticoofficial, and not friendly. There had been the same outside diocesan civility between even the palace and Plumstead. But now, when the great chieftain of the palace was no more, and the strength of the palace faction was gone, peace or perhaps something more than peace – amity, perhaps, might be more easily arranged with the dean than with the archdeacon. In preparation for such arrangements the bishop had gone to Mr Harding's funeral.

And now the dean went to the palace at the bishop's behest. He found his lordship alone, and was received with almost reverential courtesy. He thought that the bishop was looking wonderfully aged since he last saw him, but he did not perhaps take into account the absence of clerical sleekness which was incidental to the bishop's private life in his private room, and perhaps in a certain measure to his recent great affliction. The dean had been in the habit of regarding
Dr Proudie as a man almost young for his age – having been in the habit of seeing him at his best, clothed in authority, redolent of the throne, conspicuous as regarded his apron and outward signs of episcopality. Much of all this was now absent. The bishop, as he rose to greet the dean, shuffled with his old slippers, and his hair was not brushed so becomingly as used to be the case when Mrs Proudie was always near him.

It was necessary that a word should be said by each as to the loss which the other had suffered. ‘Mr Dean,' said his lordship, ‘allow me to offer you my condolements in regard to the death of that very excellent clergyman and most worthy gentleman, your father-in-law.'

‘Thank you, my lord. He was excellent and worthy. I do not suppose that I shall live to see any man who was more so. You also have a great – a terrible loss.'

‘Oh, Mr Dean, yes; yes, indeed, Mr Dean. That was a loss.'

‘And hardly past the prime of life!'

‘Ah, yes – just fifty-six – and so strong! Was she not? At least everybody thought so. And yet she was gone in a minute – gone in a minute. I haven't held up my head since, Mr Dean.'

‘It was a great loss, my lord; but you must struggle to bear it.'

‘I do struggle. I am struggling. But it makes one feel so lonely in this great house. Ah, me! I often wish, Mr Dean, that it had pleased Providence to have left me in some humble parsonage, where duty would have been easier than it is here. But I will not trouble you with all that. What are we to do, Mr Dean, about this poor Mr Crawley?'

‘Mr Crawley is a very old friend of mine, and a very dear friend.'

‘Is he? Ah! A very worthy man, I am sure, and one who has been much tried by undeserved adversities.'

‘Most severely tried, my lord.'

‘Sitting among the potsherds, like Job,
¹
has he not, Mr Dean? Well; let us hope that all that is over. When this accusation about the robbery was brought against him, I found myself bound to interfere.'

‘He has no complaint to make on that score.'

‘I hope not. I have not wished to be harsh, but what could I do, Mr Dean? They told me that the civil authorities found the evidence so strong against him that it could not be withstood.'

‘It was very strong.'

‘And we thought that he should at least be relieved, and we sent for Dr Tempest, who is his rural dean.' Then the bishop, remembering all the circumstances of that interview with Dr Tempest – as to which he had ever felt assured that one of the results of it was the death of his wife, whereby there was no longer any ‘we' left in the palace of Barchester – sighed piteously, looking up at the dean with hopeless face.

‘Nobody doubts, my lord, that you acted for the best.'

‘I hope we did. I think we did. And now what shall we do? He has resigned his living, both to you and to me, as I hear – you being the patron. It will simply be necessary, I think, that he should ask to have the letters cancelled. Then, as I take it, there need be no reinstitution. You cannot think, Mr Dean, how much I have thought about it all.'

Then the dean unfolded his budget, and explained to the bishop how he hoped that the living of St Ewold's, which was, after some ecclesiastical fashion, attached to the rectory of Plumstead, and which was now vacant by the demise of Mr Harding, might be conferred by the archdeacon upon Mr Crawley. It was necessary to explain also that this could not be done quite immediately, and in doing this, the dean encountered some little difficulty. The archdeacon, he said, wished to be allowed another week to think about it; and therefore perhaps provision for the duties at Hogglestock might yet be made for a few Sundays. The bishop, the dean said, might easily understand that, after what had occurred, Mr Crawley would hardly wish to go again into that pulpit, unless he did so as resuming duties which would necessarily be permanent with him. To all this the bishop assented, but he was apparently struck with much wonder at the choice made by the archdeacon. ‘I should have thought, Mr Dean,' he said, ‘that Mr Crawley was the last man to have suited the archdeacon's choice.'

‘The archdeacon and I married sisters, my lord.'

‘Oh, ah! yes. And he puts the nomination of St Ewold's at your disposition. I am sure I shall be delighted to institute so worthy a gentleman as Mr Crawley.' Then the dean took his leave of the bishop – as will we also. Poor dear bishop! I am inclined to think that he was
right in his regrets as to the little parsonage. Not that his failure at Barchester, and his present consciousness of lonely incompetence, were mainly due to any positive inefficiency on his own part. He might have been a sufficiently good bishop, had it not been that Mrs Proudie was so much more than a sufficiently good bishop's wife. We will now say farewell to him, with a hope that the lopped tree may yet become green again, and to some extent fruitful, although all its beautiful head and richness of waving foliage have been taken from it.

About a week after this Henry Grantly rode over from Cosby Lodge to Hogglestock. It has been just said that though the assizes had passed by and though all question of Mr Crawley's guilt was now set aside, no visitor had of late made his way over to Hogglestock. I fancy that Grace Crawley forgot, in the fullness of her memory as to other things, that Mr Harding, of whose death she heard, had been her lover's grandfather – and that therefore there might possibly be some delay. Had there been much said between the mother and the daughter about the lover, no doubt all this would have been explained; but Grace was very reticent, and there were other matters in the Hogglestock household which in those days occupied Mrs Crawley's mind. How were they again to begin life? for, in very truth, life as it had existed with them before, had been brought to an end. But Grace remembered well the sort of compact which existed between her and her lover – the compact which had been made in very words between herself and her lover's father. Complete in her estimation as had been the heaven opened to her by Henry Grantly's offer, she had refused it all – lest she should bring disgrace upon him. But the disgrace was not certain; and if her father should be made free from it, then – then – then Henry Grantly ought to come to her and be at her feet with all the expedition possible to him. That was her reading of the compact. She had once declared, when speaking of the possible disgrace which might attach itself to her family and to her name, that her poverty did not ‘signify a bit.' She was not ashamed of her father – only of the accusation against her father. Therefore she had hurried home when that accusation was withdrawn, desirous that her lover should tell her of his love – if he chose to repeat such telling – amidst
all the poor things of Hogglestock, and not among the chairs and tables and good dinners of luxurious Framley. Mrs Robarts had given a true interpretation to Lady Lufton of the haste which Grace had displayed. But she need not have been in so great a hurry. She had been at home already above a fortnight, and as yet he had made no sign. At last she said a word to her mother. ‘Might I not ask to go back to Miss Prettyman's now, mamma?' ‘I think, dear, you had better wait till things are a little settled. Papa is to hear again from the dean very soon. You see they are all in a great sorrow at Barchester about poor Mr Harding's death.' ‘Grace!' said Jane, rushing into the house almost speechless, at that moment, ‘here he is! – on horseback.' I do not know why Jane should have talked about Major Grantly as simply ‘he.' There had been no conversation among the sisters to justify her in such a mode of speech. Grace had not a moment to put two and two together, so that she might realise the meaning of what her mother had said; but, nevertheless, she felt at the moment that the man, coming as he had done now, had come with all commendable speed. How foolish had she been with her wretched impatience!

There he was certainly, tying his horse up to the railing. ‘Mamma, what am I to say to him?'

‘Nay, dear; he is your own friend – of your own making. You must say what you think fit.'

‘You are not going?'

‘I think we had better, dear.' Then she went, and Jane with her, and Jane opened the door for Major Grantly. Mr Crawley himself was away, at Hoggle End, and did not return till after Major Grantly had left the parsonage. Jane, as she greeted the grand gentleman, whom she had seen and no more than seen, hardly knew what to say to him. When, after a minute's hesitation, she told him that Grace was in there – pointing to the sitting-room door, she felt that she had been very awkward. Henry Grantly, however, did not, I think, feel her awkwardness, being conscious of some small difficulties of his own. When, however, he found that Grace was alone, the task before him at once lost half its difficulties. ‘Grace,' he said, ‘am I right to come to you now?'

‘I do not know,' she said. ‘I cannot tell.'

‘Dearest Grace, there is no reason on earth now why you should not be my wife.'

‘Is there not?'

‘I know of none – if you can love me. You saw my father?'

‘Yes, I saw him.'

‘And you heard what he said?'

‘I hardly remember what he said – but he kissed me, and I thought he was very kind.'

What little attempt Henry Grantly then made, thinking that he could not do better than follow closely the example of so excellent a father, need not be explained with minuteness. But I think that his first effort was not successful. Grace was embarrassed and retreated, and it was not till she had been compelled to give a direct answer to a direct question that she submitted to allow his arm round her waist. But when she had answered that question she was almost more humble than becomes a maiden who has just been wooed and won. A maiden who has been wooed and won, generally thinks that it is she who has conquered, and chooses to be triumphant accordingly. But Grace was even mean enough to thank her lover. ‘I do not know why you should be so good to me,' she said.

‘Because I love you,' said he, ‘better than all the world.'

‘But why should you be so good to me as that? Why should you love me? I am such a poor thing for a man like you to love.'

‘I have had the wit to see that you are not a poor thing, Grace; and it is thus that I have earned my treasure. Some girls are poor things, and some are rich treasures.'

‘If love can make me a treasure, I will be your treasure. And if love can make me rich, I will be rich for you.' After that I think he had no difficulty in following in his father's footsteps.

After a while Mrs Crawley came in, and there was much pleasant talking among them, while Henry Grantly sat happily with his love, as though waiting for Mr Crawley's return. But though he was there nearly all the morning Mr Crawley did not return. ‘I think he likes the brickmakers better than anybody in all the world, except ourselves,' said Grace. ‘I don't know how he will manage to get on without his friends.' Before Grace had said this, Major Grantly had
told all his story, and had produced a letter from his father, addressed to Mr Crawley, of which the reader shall have a copy, although at this time the letter had not been opened. The letter was as follows:–

‘Plumstead Rectory, May, 186–

‘M
Y DEAR
S
IR
,

‘You will no doubt have heard that Mr Harding, the vicar of St Ewold's, who was the father of my wife and of Mrs Arabin, has been taken from us. The loss to us of so excellent and so dear a man has been very great. I have conferred with my friend the Dean of Barchester as to a new nomination, and I venture to request your acceptance of the preferment, if it should suit you to move from Hogglestock to St Ewold's. It may be as well that I should state plainly my reasons for making this offer to a gentleman with whom I am not personally acquainted. Mr Harding, on his death-bed, himself suggested it, moved thereto by what he had heard of the cruel and undeserved persecution to which you have lately been subjected; as also – on which point he was very urgent in what he said – by the character which you bear in the diocese for zeal and piety. I may also add, that the close connexion which, as I understand, is likely to take place between your family and mine has been an additional reason for my taking this step, and the long friendship which has existed between you and my wife's brother-in-law, the Dean of Barchester, is a third.

‘St Ewold's is worth £350 per annum, besides the house, which is sufficiently commodious for a moderate family. The population is about twelve hundred, of which more than a half consists of persons dwelling in an outskirt of the city – for the parish runs almost into Barchester.