The Last Chronicle of Barset (29 page)

‘Well, Mr Thumble!' she said.

Mr Thumble did not answer at once, thinking, probably, that the bishop might choose to explain the circumstances. But, neither did the bishop say anything.

‘Well, Mr Thumble?' she said again; and then she stood looking at the man who had failed so disastrously.

‘I have explained to the bishop,' said he. ‘Mr Crawley has been contumacious – very contumacious indeed.'

‘But you preached at Hogglestock?'

‘No, indeed, Mrs Proudie. Nor would it have been possible, unless I had had the police to assist me.'

‘Then you should have had the police. I never heard of anything so mismanaged in all my life – never in all my life.' And she put her books down on the study table, and turned herself round from Mr Thumble towards the bishop. ‘If things go on like this, my lord,' she said, ‘your authority in the diocese will very soon be worth nothing at all.' It was not often that Mrs Proudie called her husband my lord, but when she did do so, it was a sign that terrible times had come – times so terrible that the bishop would know that he must either fight or fly. He would almost endure anything rather than descend into the arena for the purpose of doing battle with his wife, but occasions would come now and again when even the alternative of flight was hardly left to him.

‘But, my dear –' began the bishop.

‘Am I to understand that this man has professed himself to be altogether indifferent to the bishop's prohibition?' said Mrs Proudie, interrupting her husband and addressing Mr Thumble.

‘Quite so. He seemed to think that the bishop had no lawful power in the matter at all,' said Mr Thumble.

‘Do you hear that, my lord?' said Mrs Proudie.

‘Nor have I any,' said the bishop, almost weeping as he spoke.

‘No authority in your own diocese!'

‘None to silence a man merely by my own judgment. I thought, and still think, that it was for this gentleman's own interest, as well as for the credit of the Church, that some provision should be made for his duties during his present – present – difficulties.'

‘Difficulties indeed! Everybody knows that the man has been a thief.'

‘No, my dear; I do not know it.'

‘You never know anything, bishop.'

‘I mean to say that I do not know it officially. Of course I have heard the sad story; and, though I hope it may not be the –'

‘There is no doubt about its truth. All the world knows it. He has stolen twenty pounds, and yet he is to be allowed to desecrate the Church, and imperil the souls of the people!' The bishop got up from his chair and began to walk backwards and forwards through the room with short quick steps. ‘It only wants five days to Christmas Day,' continued Mrs Proudie, ‘and something must be done at once. I say nothing as to the propriety or impropriety of his being out on bail, as it is no affair of ours. When I heard that he had been bailed by a beneficed clergyman of this diocese, of course I knew where to look for the man who would act with so much impropriety. Of course I was not surprised when I found that the person belonged to Framley. But, as I have said before, that is no business of ours. I hope, Mr Thumble, that the bishop will never be found interfering with the ordinary laws of the land. I am very sure that he will never do so by my advice. But when there comes a question of inhibiting a clergyman who has committed himself as this clergyman unfortunately has done, then I say that that clergyman ought to be inhibited.' The bishop walked up and down the room throughout the whole of this speech, but gradually his steps became quicker, and his turns became shorter. ‘And now here is Christmas Day upon us, and what is to be done?' With these words Mrs Proudie finished her speech.

‘Mr Thumble,' said the bishop, ‘perhaps you had better now retire. I am very sorry that you should have had so thankless and so disagreeable a task.'

‘Why should Mr Thumble retire?' asked Mrs Proudie.

‘I think it better,' said the bishop. ‘Mr Thumble, good-night.' Then Mr Thumble did retire, and Mrs Proudie stood forth in her full panoply of armour, silent and awful, with her helmet erect, and vouchsafed no recognition whatever of the parting salutation with which Mr Thumble greeted her. ‘My dear, the truth is, you do not understand the matter,' said the bishop as soon as the door was closed. ‘You do not know how limited is my power.'

‘Bishop, I understand it a great deal better than some people; and I understand also what is due to myself and the manner in which I ought to be treated by you in the presence of the subordinate clergy of the diocese. I shall not, however, remain here to be insulted either in the presence or in the absence of anyone.' Then the conquered amazon collected together the weapons which she had laid upon the table, and took her departure with majestic step, and not without the clang of arms. The bishop, when he was left alone, enjoyed for a few moments the triumph of his victory.

But then he was left so very much alone! When he looked round about him upon his solitude after the departure of his wife, and remembered that he should not see her again till he should encounter her on ground that was all her own, he regretted his own success, and was tempted to follow her and to apologise. He was unable to do anything alone. He would not even know how to get his tea, as the very servants would ask questions, if he were to do so unaccustomed a thing as to order it to be brought up to him in his solitude. They would tell him that Mrs Proudie was having tea in her little sitting-room upstairs, or else that the things were laid in the drawing-room. He did wander forth to the latter apartment, hoping that he might find his wife there; but the drawing-room was dark and deserted, and so he wandered back again. It was a grand thing certainly to have triumphed over his wife, and there was a crumb of comfort in the thought that he had vindicated himself before Mr Thumble; but the general result was not comforting, and he knew from of old how short-lived his triumph would be.

But wretched as he was during that evening he did employ himself with some energy. After much thought he resolved that he would again write to Mr Crawley, and summon him to appear at the palace.
In doing this he would at any rate be doing something. There would be action. And though Mr Crawley would, as he thought, decline to obey the order, something would be gained even by that disobedience. So he wrote his summons – sitting very comfortless and all alone on that Sunday evening – dating his letter, however, for the following day:–

‘Palace, December 20, 186–

‘R
EVEREND
S
IR
,

‘I have just heard from Mr Thumble that you have declined to accede to the advice which I thought it my duty to tender to you as the bishop who has been set over you by the Church, and that you yesterday insisted on what you believed to be your right, to administer the services in the parish church of Hogglestock. This has occasioned me the deepest regret. It is, I think, unavailing that I should further write to you my mind upon the subject, as I possess such strong evidence that my written word will not be respected by you. I have, therefore, no alternative now but to invite you to come to me here; and this I do, hoping that I may induce you to listen to that authority which I cannot but suppose you acknowledge to be vested in the office which I hold.

‘I shall be glad to see you on tomorrow, Tuesday, as near the hour of two as you can make it convenient to yourself to be here, and I will take care to order that refreshment shall be provided for yourself and your horse.

‘I am, Reverend Sir,                          
‘&c. &c. &c.,                
‘T
HOS
. B
ARNUM.
'

‘My dear,' he said, when he did again encounter his wife that night, ‘I have written to Mr Crawley, and I thought I might as well bring up a copy of my letter.'

‘I wash my hands of the whole affair,' said Mrs Proudie – ‘of the whole affair!'

‘But you will look at the letter?'

‘Certainly not. Why should I look at the letter? My word goes for nothing. I have done what I could, but in vain. Now let us see how you will manage it yourself.'

The bishop did not pass a comfortable night; but in the morning his wife did read his letter, and after that things went a little smoother with him. She was pleased to say that, considering all things; seeing, as she could not help seeing, that the matter had been dreadfully mismanaged, and that great weakness had been displayed – seeing that these faults had already been committed, perhaps no better step could now be taken than that proposed in the letter.

‘I suppose he will not come,' said the bishop.

‘I think he will,' said Mrs Proudie, ‘and I trust that we may be able to convince him that obedience will be his best course. He will be more humble-minded here than at Hogglestock.' In saying this the lady showed some knowledge of the general nature of clergymen and of the world at large. She understood how much louder a cock can crow in its own farmyard than elsewhere, and knew that episcopal authority, backed by all the solemn awe of palatial grandeur, goes much further than it will do when sent under the folds of an ordinary envelope. But though she understood ordinary human nature, it may be that she did not understand Mr Crawley's nature.

But she was at any rate right in her idea as to Mr Crawley's immediate reply. The palace groom who rode over to Hogglestock returned with an immediate answer.

‘MY LORD ' – said Mr Crawley,

‘I will obey your lordship's summons, and, unless impediments should arise, I will wait upon your lordship at the hour you name tomorrow. I will not trespass on your hospitality. For myself, I rarely break bread in any house but my own; and as to the horse, I have none.

‘I have the honour to be,                
‘My lord, &c. &c.,           
‘
JOSIAH CRAWLEY
'.

‘Of course I shall go,' he had said to his wife as soon as he had had time to read the letter, and make known to her the contents. ‘I shall go if it be possible for me to get there. I think that I am bound to comply with the bishop's wishes in so much as that.'

‘But how will you get there, Josiah?'

‘I will walk – with the Lord's aid.'

Now Hogglestock was fifteen miles from Barchester, and Mr Crawley was, as his wife well knew, by no means fitted in his present state for great physical exertion. But from the tone in which he had replied to her, she well knew that it would not avail for her to remonstrate at the moment. He had walked more than thirty miles in a day since they had been living at Hogglestock, and she did not doubt but that it might be possible for him to do it again. Any scheme, which she might be able to devise for saving him from so terrible a journey in the middle of winter, must be pondered over silently, and brought to bear, if not slyly, at least deftly, and without discussion. She made no reply therefore when he declared that on the following day he would walk to Barchester and back – with the Lord's aid; nor did she see, or ask to see the note which he sent to the bishop. When the messenger was gone, Mr Crawley was all alert, looking forward with evident glee to the encounter with the bishop – snorting like a racehorse at the expected triumph of the coming struggle. And he read much Greek with Jane on that afternoon, pouring into her young ears, almost with joyous rapture, his appreciation of the glory and the pathos and the humanity, as also of the awful tragedy, of the story of Œdipus. His very soul was on fire at the idea of clutching the weak bishop in his hand, and crushing him with his strong grasp.

In the afternoon Mrs Crawley slipped out to a neighbouring farmer's wife, and returned in an hour's time with a little story which she did not tell with any appearance of eager satisfaction. She had learned well what were the little tricks necessary to the carrying of such a matter as that which she had now in hand. Mr Mangle, the farmer, as it happened, was going tomorrow morning in his tax-cart as far as Framley Mill, and would be delighted if Mr Crawley would take a seat. He must remain at Framley the best part of the afternoon, and hoped that Mr Crawley would take a seat back again. Now Framley Mill was only half a mile off the direct road to Barchester, and was almost half way from Hogglestock parsonage to the city. This would, at any rate, bring the walk within a practicable distance. Mr Crawley was instantly placed upon his guard, like an animal that sees the bait and suspects the trap. Had he been told that farmer Mangle
was going all the way to Barchester, nothing would have induced him to get into the cart. He would have felt sure that farmer Mangle had been persuaded to pity him in his poverty and his strait, and he would sooner have started to walk to London than have put a foot upon the step of the cart. But this lift half way did look to him as though it were really fortuitous. His wife could hardly have been cunning enough to persuade the farmer to go to Framley, conscious that the trap would have been suspected had the bait been made more full. But I fear – I fear the dear good woman had been thus cunning – had understood how far the trap might be baited, and had thus succeeded in catching her prey.

On the following morning he consented to get into farmer Mangle's cart, and was driven as far as Framley Mill. ‘I wouldn't think now, your reverence, of running you over into Barchester – that I wouldn't. The powny is so mortial good,' said farmer Mangle in his foolish good-nature.

‘And how about your business here?' said Mr Crawley. The farmer scratched his head, remembering all Mrs Crawley's injunctions, and awkwardly acknowledged that to be sure his own business with the miller was very pressing. Then Mr Crawley descended, terribly suspicious, and went on his journey.

‘Anyways, your reverence will call for me coming back?' said farmer Mangle. But Mr Crawley would make no promise. He bade the farmer not wait for him. If they chanced to meet together on the road he might get up again. If the man really had business at Framley, how could he have offered to go on to Barchester? Were they deceiving him? The wife of his bosom had deceived him in such matters before now. But his trouble in this respect was soon dissipated by the pride of his anticipated triumph over the bishop. He took great glory from the thought that he would go before the bishop with dirty boots – with boots necessarily dirty – with rusty pantaloons, that he would be hot and mud-stained with his walk, hungry, and an object to be wondered at by all who should see him, because of the misfortunes which had been unworthily heaped upon his head; whereas the bishop would be sleek and clean and well-fed – pretty with all the prettinesses that are becoming to a bishop's outward man. And he,
Mr Crawley, would be humble, whereas the bishop would be very proud. And the bishop would be in his own arm-chair – the cock in his own farmyard, while he, Mr Crawley, would be seated afar off, in the cold extremity of the room, with nothing of outward circumstances to assist him – a man called thither to undergo censure. And yet he would take the bishop in his grasp and crush him – crush him – crush him! As he thought of this he walked quickly through the mud, and put out his long arm and his great hand, far before him out into the air, and, there and then, he crushed the bishop in his imagination. Yes, indeed! He thought it very doubtful whether the bishop would ever send for him a second time. As all this passed through his mind, he forgot his wife's cunning, and farmer Mangle's sin, and for the moment he was happy.