“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; 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 the 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 at the dean with a 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 restitution. 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 we will 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.”
“By 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 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—
MY DEAR SIR,
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.
I shall be glad to have your reply with as little delay as may suit your convenience, and in the event of your accepting the offer—which I sincerely trust that you may be enabled to do—I shall hope to have an early opportunity of seeing you, with reference to your institution to the parish.
Allow me also to say to you and Mrs. Crawley that, if we have been correctly informed as to that other event to which I have alluded, we both hope that we may have an early opportunity of making ourselves personally acquainted with the parents of a young lady who is to be so dear to us. As I have met your daughter, I may perhaps be allowed to send her my kindest love. If, as my daughter-in-law, she comes up to the impression which she gave me at our first meeting, I, at any rate, shall be satisfied.
I have the honour to be, my dear sir,
Your most faithful servant,
THEOPHILUS GRANTLY.
This letter the archdeacon had shown to his wife, by whom it had not been very warmly approved. Nothing, Mrs. Grantly had said, could be prettier than what the archdeacon had said about Grace. Mrs. Crawley, no doubt, would be satisfied with that. But Mr. Crawley was such a strange man! “He will be stranger than I take him to be if he does not accept St. Ewold’s,” said the archdeacon. “But in offering it,” said Mrs. Grantly, “you have not a said a word of your own high opinion of his merits.” “I have not a very high opinion of them,” said the archdeacon. “Your father had, and I have said so. And as I have the most profound respect for your father’s opinion in such a matter, I have permitted that to overcome my own hesitation.” This was pretty from the husband to the wife as it regarded her father, who had now gone from them; and, therefore, Mrs. Grantly accepted it without further argument. The reader may probably feel assured that the archdeacon had never, during their joint lives, acted in any church matter upon the advice given to him by Mr. Harding; and it was probably the case also that the living would have been offered to Mr. Crawley, if nothing had been said by Mr. Harding on the subject; but it did not become Mrs. Grantly even to think of all this. The archdeacon, having made this gracious speech about her father, was not again asked to alter his letter. “I suppose he will accept it,” said Mrs. Grantly. “I should think that he probably may,” said the archdeacon.
So Grace, knowing what was the purport of the letter, sat with it between her fingers, while her lover sat beside her, full of various plans for the future. This was his first lover’s present to her—and what a present it was! Comfort, and happiness, and a pleasant home for all her family. “St. Ewold’s isn’t the best house in the world,” said the major, “because it is old, and what I call piecemeal; but it is very pretty, and certainly nice.” “That is just the sort of parsonage that I dream about,” said Jane. “And the garden is pleasant with old trees,” said the major. “I always dream about old trees,” said Jane, “only I’m afraid I’m too old myself to be let to climb up them now.” Mrs. Crawley said very little, but sat with her eyes full of tears. Was it possible that, at last, before the world had closed upon her, she was to enjoy something again of the comforts which she had known in her early years, and to be again surrounded by those decencies of life which of late had been almost banished from her home by poverty!
Their various plans for the future—for the immediate future—were very startling. Grace was to go over at once to Plumstead, whither Edith had been already transferred from Cosby Lodge. That was all very well; there was nothing very startling or impracticable in that. The Framley ladies, having none of those doubts as to what was coming which had for a while perplexed Grace herself, had taken little liberties with her wardrobe, which enabled such a visit to be made without overwhelming difficulties. But the major was equally eager—or at any rate equally imperious—in his requisition for a visit from Mr. and Mrs. Crawley themselves to Plumstead rectory. Mrs. Crawley did not dare to put forward the plain unadorned reasons against it, as Mr. Crawley had done when discussing the subject of a visit to the deanery. Nor could she quite venture to explain that she feared that the archdeacon and her husband would hardly mix well together in society. With whom, indeed, was it possible that her husband should mix well, after his long and hardly-tried seclusion? She could only plead that both her husband and herself were so little used to going out that she feared—she feared—she feared she knew not what. “We’ll get over all that,” said the major, almost contemptuously. “It is only the first plunge that is disagreeable.” Perhaps the major did not know how very disagreeable a first plunge may be!
At two o’clock Henry Grantly got up to go. “I should very much like to have seen him, but I fear I cannot wait longer. As it is, the patience of my horse has been surprising.” Then Grace walked out with him to the gate and put her hand upon his bridle as he mounted, and thought how wonderful was the power of Fortune, that the goddess sh
ould have sent so gallant a gentleman to be her lord and her lover. “I declare I don’t quite believe it even yet,” she said, in the letter which she wrote to Lily Dale that night.
It was four before Mr. Crawley returned to his house, and then he was very weary. There were many sick in these days at Hoggle End, and he had gone from cottage to cottage through the day. Giles Hoggett was almost unable to work from rheumatism, but still was of opinion that doggedness might carry him on. “It’s been a deal o’ service to you, Muster Crawley,” he said. “We hears about it all. If you hadn’t a been dogged, where’d you a been now?” With Giles Hoggett and others he had remained all the day, and now he came home weary and beaten. “You’ll tell him first,” Grace had said, “and then I’ll give him the letter.” The wife was the first to tell him of the good fortune that was coming.
He flung himself into the old chair as soon as he entered, and asked for some bread and tea. “Jane has already gone for it, dear,” said his wife. “We have had a visitor here, Josiah.”
“A visitor—what visitor?”
“Grace’s own friend—Henry Grantly.”
“Grace, come here, that I may kiss you and bless you,” he said, very solemnly. “It would seem that the world is going to be very good to you.”
“Papa, you must read this letter first.”
“Before I kiss my own darling?” Then she knelt at his feet. “I see,” he said, taking the letter; “it is from your lover’s father. Peradventure he signifies his consent, which would be surely needful before such a marriage would be seemly.”
“It isn’t about me, papa, at all.”
“Not about you? If so, that would be most unpromising. But, in any case, you are my best darling.” Then he kissed her and blessed her, and slowly opened the letter. His wife had now come close to him, and was standing over him, touching him, so that she also could read the archdeacon’s letter. Grace, who was still in front of him, could see the working of his face as he read it; but even she could not tell whether he was gratified, or offended, or dismayed. When he had got as far as the first offer of the presentation, he ceased reading for a while, and looked round about the room as though lost in thought. “Let me see what further he writes to me,” he then said; and after that he continued the letter slowly to the end. “Nay, my child, you were in error in saying that he wrote not about you. ‘Tis in the writing of you he has put some real heart into his words. He writes as though his home would be welcome to you.”
The Chronicles of Barsetshire Page 374